We wrote one during the workshops. I've since written two more. The workshop one is a little longer than the other two.
Bite-sized stories, all three though. Buon appetito.
He writes all his letters to her in pencil; just in case, he says. He hopes she reads them, eraser and pen in hand, sculpting his thoughts until they look like him. The him she sees. The him she claims to love. In ink, to boot.
He reaches for that letter again. Right at the top of a fat pile of letters in his bedside drawer. There are the words.
I Love You.
He runs a finger across them. They’re engraved into the paper. If he feels along the back, he can feel the words. The braille of the heart. He flips it over again then rubs a little. But the letters won’t budge. He reaches for his eraser, which he employs often during his letter writing sessions. He rubs. All that does is smudge the words, a little. Just a little. Like the first stroke of the bleeding process that characterises his paintings. Or so they say.
He rubs again, hoping, praying that this motion, in the opposite direction, will make the letters perfect again. It doesn’t work. He feels like he’s defiled something precious. How to fix it?
I love you, he writes.
He signs his name and slips the letter into the envelope, and seals it. Before his eraser gets to it.
Word Count:217 Words excluding title
You read to her your story about how she stayed with you because she believed she would change you. About how every time you broke her lip or closed her eye or found yourself with a handful of her hair in your hands, you said you were sorry and she forgave you. Because she loved you. She says it’s a cliché, this idea. It’s been done to death. You smile, say thank you. And wonder if she’d also beg you to stop when you do her to near-death like they all did. Whether she too, would be a cliché.
Word Count: 99 words, excluding title
If you can talk about the thing that broke you and be whole while doing so, you know, that even the scars, they’re fading. If you find that you no longer hate his lie. Hate her lie. Rather, you understand that you and he, you weren’t connecting. Not properly. And they, oh yeah, they connected all right. Right until that moment when she found him with her sister and she went for a kitchen knife and they found him naked, the knife between his ribs, in her sister’s bed. And no one was really sorry. Except her sister.
Word Count: 98 words, excluding title