Her hand shook violently, almost as violently as her heart was beating in her chest. Her fingers had cramped and frozen in ready position. She needed to do it, wanted to do so so badly that she had broken out in a cold sweat. She felt her arm descending, her hand trembling closer to the sands.
In her hand was nothing more than a stick but even that was dangerous for someone like her. “If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off.” The words fluttered like feathers within her mind and somehow managed to settle against her conscious like a milestone. She had been holding back for so long that her palms had begun to bleed from the hours…days of piercing them with her fingernails, hoping to God that the urges would pass.
They had not.
She heard a whimper escape her throat and it brought such pain. Her tongue and mouth were already as cotton, not just from the fear of need, but from the hours in the heat that had parched her, rung her dry. Now it was late in the evening and a chill had blanketed her and pulled her breath in grey wisp across the wind. The sky was a deep indigo and the stars were as millions of pep holes, beings in the heavens watching her fatal move.
“No, please,” She spoke only to herself. She grabbed at her own wrist and tried to yank it away from the desert floor but the urge was too great, the need had already turned to flames within her and now it was a raging fire.
Her locked hand pulled free of the other and stabbed deep into the sand. A tiny wave of sand rippled up and around her like a pulse or water droplet erupting still waters. It was like a judges gavel the way it came down with finality stabbing in rebellion, now free to create pure chaos.
She gasped as if chocking as each angry drag of stick against the sand pushed and pulled, twirled and dipped creating words and form that pulled against the shadows like dry earth drank of fresh water. Every shadow was absorbed within her every move.
Within seconds, the pattern and words were finished. The deed was done and now the life had begun to take form. Horrified she throw the stick far away from her and pushed herself to her feet, her legs pounding hard as she ran from her creation through the sands. Her dry skin traced with tears and blurred her vision. She fell.
She turned around only once, just long enough to see the shadow of the figure, now yards away from her, standing upon the womb of what had once been her words, staring in the dark, back at her.
She had given it life, a life with some kind of purpose. She knew not whether it was for good or wickedness. She had no idea what “it” was.
Scripturient, according to Websters Dictionary, means a strong desire to write. I know that this urge, this gift sometimes plays the part of addiction to which I need an immediate fix. Sometimes 15min just isn’t enough and sleep becomes a pastime that I am willing to neglect in place of writing. A while ago a posted a blog entry that likened this gift of creativity to a bunch of screaming children. We have to know when each “child” really needs immediate attention and when its just being…well bratty.
In the case of this short story/freewrite, I feel like there is much more going on here. I actually feel like there maybe the makings of a longer novel length story here. Who is this girl who is afraid to write and what in the WORLD is causing her words to take life? Who knows but the creativity inside of me. I will just have to give it the needed time to find out what it has to say.
The other part of this story is the underlining message that we as writers and creative beings seem to be ignorant of or simply ignore and take for granted, and that is the act of taking care in what we put into words for others to glean from. Words give life, they can be uplifting or they can simply be wicked and the seeds to ugly things. Let’s be good stewards of our gifts and not prostitute them in ways that we will later regret…
I hoped you like what you have read so far. And please leave any comments below. They are most helpful.
Cheers Soup Seekers!