Short Story Writing: Figment of her Imagination

Here’s the thing, I’ve been working on this short story. It talks about memory and how that’s like sometimes like a fig off the branch. The fruit is there, only to be eaten, sometimes too early: a tart flavour, or too late: a smarmy sugary mess. Sometimes just right, confirming everything, tasty and enjoyable. Or sometimes a fig is hucked at your head like from a far by an enemy, smashing it’s guts everywhere. Memory is unreliable at best, and some come back to haunt you. They ARE like figs. Inside each a belly of seeds, with textures that crunch when you chew on them (the colour of the walls on that particular day, the clouds in the sky, the feel of leaves underneath), popping and gritting into your teeth like “did I really do that,” or “could it have just been something I made up.” I think the story is almost done, but to tell that I need resonance, time. When it will come to be what the missing ingredient is, if there is any, who knows, maybe chèvre cheese crumbled on top is what it needs. But writing is like that, eh. Just is.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s