Um...Untitled??

Okay, so, I'm not going to lie, I'm a little wary about posting this. I actually wrote it last night and considering that it was 1:30 in the morning when I finished I doubt it even comes together right. I'm especially not sure it if makes any sense or if it's going to come across like I want it to...So I'm warning you now. I like feed back, even if it's pretty harsh. But I will definately understand if it kind of confuses some. I did try to make it semi-understandable. Anyways...tear me a new one :)


My Short? Short story.



A woman in a white flowing dress called for her daughter but received no response. She frantically wandered about calling, repeatedly. She ran to the big tree, with the tire swing, which hung from an old oak tree by an old tearing rope. Her thoughts shortly drifted to the day that her daughter fell from the swing and broke her wrist. The pain in her baby’s sweet dark eyes haunted her.

Her baby! Where was her baby?

She regained focus and began searching again. She looked through the green abundant forest of bushes, the white old cabin behind her house, and the decaying brown tree house. She recalled the day her daughter and her sweet little friend from school spent the day in the tree house throwing rocks at the boys who would tease them. Her child defended her fort as if it was a castle and she was its queen.

Her child! Where was her child?

She fought to regain focus and get back to her search. An old white picket fence that had stretched along the property line of the house since she was a child seemed to guide her and haunt her at the same time. She could not believe her daughter was missing, she had only just seen her. Her girl had even known the rules stay within hearing range.

The white fence was ending.

Green trees seemed to laugh in the breeze, the birds sang their mocking song, and the squirrels played as if nothing was wrong.

Hear heart beat faster. Faster. FASTER.

Thumping!

Pounding!

She was yelling, louder. Louder. LOUDER.

Still her daughter did not respond. Though she could see the end of the fence, it was as if the yard was still trying to take her into another country.

Where was her girl!

Racing. Searching. The intensity was causing her breath to shorten, her legs to tire, her body to ache. She would not stop though. She would find her daughter. A little girl of six should not be able to run the property lines, especially not this far.

Again, she called. The only answer was the swaying of the leaves in the breeze, the birds’ songs and the noises of nature.

There! There!

It was only a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, but she saw her, there, floating, in the brown, murky, water.

Her lungs would not gasp for air, her heart almost stopped. Dead silence surrounded. The leaves, birds and all of nature stopped. There was not breeze. There was nothing but dead air. Everything ceased to exist but that floating body, still, unmoving.

No! She broke from her trance, ran to, and trudged through the water. At waist high water, she grabbed her daughter’s body and pulled her from the brown pool of death.

On solid ground, she sunk to her knees. Dark hair was strewn about the arm of her dress; her knees were gathering dirt and mud upon them, surely going to stain the white lace. The body hung limp in her arms. She brushed the hair from her sweet, angels face. Her porcelain skin no longer held the rose-colored cheeks she once had before. She was cold. Heavy. White.

No tears fell. Too much water. Too much water. Too much water.

When the four-letter word came to mind, that forever, terrifying word, she slapped her daughter, attempting to give her back life. It did not work. She the lay her on the ground and pressed on her chest. One. Two. Three. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Breathe. one.two.three.breathe. onetwothree.breathe. onetwothreebreatheonetwothreebreathe. Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!

Again, she slapped her, trying to bring her back, the slap should have stung her hand, but she was numb to any pain.

“MAYA!” Came her choked cry. “Maya, Maya, Maya, Maya! MAYA! MAYA! MAYA! MA-”

“Mrs. Harrison! Mrs. Harrison!” Nurses rushed to the old woman with snow-white hair and a skeleton looking body. She kicked her sheets and blanket from her bed to the floor.

“Maya! Maya! Maya!”

“Somebody hold her down and go get Dr. Anders!” She was thrashing, kicking, and screaming Maya’s name. Nurses were fighting to keep her down when a doctor came in and injected her with a sedative.

“Maya, Maya.” Her voice came down to a whisper. “Maya. May-” She fell silent.

Her baby was in a brown, glistening casket. It was even smaller than most, a casket for a child, the most cruel and cold of things. The mother shed no tears. Too much water. Her face was white as a snowflake. As the casket was lowered into the ground, and people began to head to her house for food that they brought, she threw down a single, white rose. She shed no tears, not even as the dirt fell upon the dark wooden box; the thud from the noise rang in her hear. Even her beautiful white flower was lost to the dirt.

No pain could compare to what she felt now. The iron boot, the iron maiden, the guillotine, the rack, the noose; none could hurt her more than she hurt now.

As the dirt covered the last of her daughter, her heart found a tear and tore in two.

Later that day, when people left the house she was numb to any emotion except pain and anger. She was angry that after they walked out that door, they would forget. She felt jealous that they could not feel as she felt. How could they just go on, living their lives as if nothing this day has happened? How could they just go on as if her daughter would be back tomorrow? How could they live with themselves?

But, she let her daughter go out. She let her out of her sight. She made her go outside and leave the house.

How would she go on?

How could she live with herself?

It was her fault. Bless her soul.

“Too much water! Too much water! Too much water! Too much water!” Her voice started to fade as her heart monitor showed her heart, fighting to hang on. She grabbed the arm of the young nurse next to her and gripped her hand tightly. She took a moment to look into her haunting brown eyes. “Too. Much. Water.” A single tear slipped down her cheek.







I feel I left the ending too open but really I didn't know how to end it. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn't. I'm not sure. Now, looking back at it, I think that the end of it kind of sucks....hmmm....Any body have any ideas? I love finding ways to improve my work. It also seems to be an overreaction of searching for a child, I mean, I tried to make it seem as if it was a large area that she was searching, like she wasn't just running out of breath and running and going crazy for no reason...

I think this story's emotional impact works just fine, the reader gets a 100% feel of the narrator's grief and desperation. The story is correct how women can be desperate and grief-stricken like this with a child's death.

Things to consider: Give the narrator a name. It's weird to always see "she" and "her". It feels really common, but it's correct, too.

The ending could be something like: She took a moment to look into her haunting brown eyes. “Too. Much. Water.” A single tear slipped down her cheek. The nurse gave a look of sympathy, but then turned and left, leaving *name* alone, lost in her tumultous emotions.