novella
Active Member
Further practice. Can someone give a decent, broad definition of the horror genre, by the way?
Wonder
Why are scabs so irresistible? There's something about a scab that invites you to touch it, to wonder at its formation, to examine its strange surface again and again, to obsess about the secret activity underneath and whether it has done its job yet. To peel back an edge and peek. It hurts to dislodge a scab, but somehow its worth it.
Kelly had a great big lumpy scab on the heel of her palm. She'd fallen over onto the pavement a week before, scraping about a square inch of skin off on the rough cement. Her platform sandal had caught the edge of a paving stone, and she'd put her hand out to break the fall. Better the hand than the face, she'd thought at the time. It was just a scrape, but it was a bad one. It took three days to lose its moist, raw pinkness and even think about healing. She went two days without washing her hair, just hoping it would start going in the right direction.
Now the scab was formed. It was a triumph, in a way. The magic of the body doing its quiet work. It looked like corned beef on toast. Worse than that, really. Dried chipped beef with melted fat in the crevices. The lady in the post office had noticed it when she was writing out an address. She had to hold the pen awkwardly. She caught the woman staring at it. The wound wasn't large, but it was exceptionally ugly. Kelly found it fascinating.
She found herself touching it with her fingertips every few minutes, as if to reassure herself that it was really there. She crunkled her hand to see how flexible it was. The topography changed every day, and she examined it under bright lights, in direct sunlight against the steering wheel while she was driving.
She resisted the urge to turn up an edge. It wouldn't be good. It was too early. Two more days maybe. She sat at the kitchen table watching the scab for two hours one night, sipping a strong scotch and ginger ale from a tumbler. Having a scab like that was like looking at life and death as it happened. Touching it, considering whether to peel it back, was a confrontation with pain and the fear of pain.
Why couldn't she leave it alone?, she wondered as she lay in bed, her torn palm facing upward, her fourth finger extending down to touch it. It was a stigmata, proof of something. Proof of the vulnerability of the flesh, the miracle of life.
The next day it had tightened at the edges and flattened. The red rim had lightened to a pale pink. She felt it less. It was going to disappear soon. The surface was brown and cracked like Texas earth in a dry season, like the top of a cobbler brown and hot from the oven. Burned pizza cheese in bubbly lumps.
She kept her mind on it all that day, but she did not pick at it. She wanted to see if she could outlast the big scab and let nature do its job without interference. A voice in her head told her to run her nail along the edge, but she didn't do it.
Two days later, she woke and found that the scab was gone. In its place was clean, pink skin, tender and soft like baby's skin. The ugliness had fallen away, the newness had taken its place. She kissed it and knew it was a miracle, an ordinary miracle.
Wonder
Why are scabs so irresistible? There's something about a scab that invites you to touch it, to wonder at its formation, to examine its strange surface again and again, to obsess about the secret activity underneath and whether it has done its job yet. To peel back an edge and peek. It hurts to dislodge a scab, but somehow its worth it.
Kelly had a great big lumpy scab on the heel of her palm. She'd fallen over onto the pavement a week before, scraping about a square inch of skin off on the rough cement. Her platform sandal had caught the edge of a paving stone, and she'd put her hand out to break the fall. Better the hand than the face, she'd thought at the time. It was just a scrape, but it was a bad one. It took three days to lose its moist, raw pinkness and even think about healing. She went two days without washing her hair, just hoping it would start going in the right direction.
Now the scab was formed. It was a triumph, in a way. The magic of the body doing its quiet work. It looked like corned beef on toast. Worse than that, really. Dried chipped beef with melted fat in the crevices. The lady in the post office had noticed it when she was writing out an address. She had to hold the pen awkwardly. She caught the woman staring at it. The wound wasn't large, but it was exceptionally ugly. Kelly found it fascinating.
She found herself touching it with her fingertips every few minutes, as if to reassure herself that it was really there. She crunkled her hand to see how flexible it was. The topography changed every day, and she examined it under bright lights, in direct sunlight against the steering wheel while she was driving.
She resisted the urge to turn up an edge. It wouldn't be good. It was too early. Two more days maybe. She sat at the kitchen table watching the scab for two hours one night, sipping a strong scotch and ginger ale from a tumbler. Having a scab like that was like looking at life and death as it happened. Touching it, considering whether to peel it back, was a confrontation with pain and the fear of pain.
Why couldn't she leave it alone?, she wondered as she lay in bed, her torn palm facing upward, her fourth finger extending down to touch it. It was a stigmata, proof of something. Proof of the vulnerability of the flesh, the miracle of life.
The next day it had tightened at the edges and flattened. The red rim had lightened to a pale pink. She felt it less. It was going to disappear soon. The surface was brown and cracked like Texas earth in a dry season, like the top of a cobbler brown and hot from the oven. Burned pizza cheese in bubbly lumps.
She kept her mind on it all that day, but she did not pick at it. She wanted to see if she could outlast the big scab and let nature do its job without interference. A voice in her head told her to run her nail along the edge, but she didn't do it.
Two days later, she woke and found that the scab was gone. In its place was clean, pink skin, tender and soft like baby's skin. The ugliness had fallen away, the newness had taken its place. She kissed it and knew it was a miracle, an ordinary miracle.
