Below are two paragraphs that originally opened a story called "tender things" that I just started revising. As often happens, I had to cut/significantly change the two paragraphs to align with where the story ended up going. But there is something very pure and very raw in these two paragraphs as they originally were that I can't let go like I do with most of what ends up on the cutting room floor. So here they are, awkward and honest.
They spoke of tender things. Her mouth was filled with honey, his with flies. The jagged light filtered by the cracked window created shadows to hide each of their eternities. They had worked on this for so very long, and now that their work was nearly complete, the space between them had grown warmer than since before the work had begun. They could almost remember that time, now.
Just kids on their own. Orphans in an uncaring world, a world as cold as the universe is dark. Ninety-six percent of the universe is dark, and the rest doesn't exist except for a brief moment. Inside that moment enough beauty exists to justify the darkness. And in that moment you get all of the beauty. The rest of the time you get all of the darkness. Unless you believe you can freeze that moment. They believed. Just kids and they believed because only kids can believe. In time, the darkness takes away that ability to believe and leaves only the ability to sacrifice.
No comments:
Post a Comment