Theme Week 9: The Meaning Beneath
The brakes fail. I see myself careening toward the edge but I'm helpless to stop it. Somehow I know that there are only seconds before it happens but I'm lost in the minutes that come just before. He whispers something. I'm looking at his mouth move but the words aren't registering in my mind. I'm begging him to stop, pleading that he find the brake and apply it before the inevitable happens.
It's too late. Through my window I watch as the earth falls away into the sky and they spiral together into the hard thud of bottom. The sound of shattering glass and breaking bones fills the silence of the words that I lack. I look down at my broken body and can't recognize anymore my limbs. Pieces of me are strewn all about and I wonder at the complexity of the puzzle that is me. I can't see him anymore. That must have been what he was whispering, that he was going to bail out. Thrown clear, without a scratch is what they'll say of him.
What I'll remember is that the sun burned brighter and the air was too warm for a late October day. I'll remember the vague sound of voices trying to reach me and the rush of adrenaline as I tried to pull myself, bent and bleeding from the burning heap. I'll remember the pounding of my chest just before it ceased and the heaviness of my eyelids against my attempts to hold them open.
And just before the end, I'll fold the letter, put it in my pocket and take my broken body to bed.
It's too late. Through my window I watch as the earth falls away into the sky and they spiral together into the hard thud of bottom. The sound of shattering glass and breaking bones fills the silence of the words that I lack. I look down at my broken body and can't recognize anymore my limbs. Pieces of me are strewn all about and I wonder at the complexity of the puzzle that is me. I can't see him anymore. That must have been what he was whispering, that he was going to bail out. Thrown clear, without a scratch is what they'll say of him.
What I'll remember is that the sun burned brighter and the air was too warm for a late October day. I'll remember the vague sound of voices trying to reach me and the rush of adrenaline as I tried to pull myself, bent and bleeding from the burning heap. I'll remember the pounding of my chest just before it ceased and the heaviness of my eyelids against my attempts to hold them open.
And just before the end, I'll fold the letter, put it in my pocket and take my broken body to bed.
posted by millay | 10/30/2005 06:57:00 PM
2 Comments:
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I must have read a hundred pieces in the last 18 years trying to do what you pull off here--hell, in my fiction days I even wrote one.
It's powerful, effective, frightening, morbid even. But it avoids the pitfalls of the eternal Halloween piece--overreaching, gratuitous violence, revolting detail, self-pity, bizarre I-am-dead-yet-speak approaches to the reader.
Actually, it turns the old then-I-woke-up on its head: Awake is the nightmare, thank god there is sleep.
The last line does exactly what the assignment pushes towards--it offers an image a bit mysterious, yet laden with something, something. It makes the sympathetic reader a partner in the writing, and the writer to be effective has to want the reader along as an apprentice.
I think I'll link to this on my 101 blog.
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