I've spent the morning writing a short story that was totally unexpected. I can’t explain what happened, but every time I thought I was at an end, I wrote another paragraph. I started at “I was preoccupied with death at ten. I shot a rabbit in my grandmother’s backyard. The shot only wounded him. Although his eyes were exactly the same as moments before, I noticed a thin, white border around his chocolate brown iris that betrayed the calm of his wounded body. When I killed him, his eyes died before his body and he seemed at peace. I wounded him because I wanted to know what it was like to kill something. I killed him to end his suffering. The wounding sickened me, the killing empowered me. I’ve spent the rest of my life in pursuit of reconciliation.”
I developed those opening lines into the darkest and most extraordinary story I’ve ever written.
I've made no secret that I've worked steadily on a book for months now. The process has been fun because I can pretend to be an evil, sadistic bastard without actually becoming one.
Stay tuned.
Trialdawg.
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