I was going to write something about cinema. But I haven’t. I was going to write it last week. But I didn’t. My mind has been wrapped up in creating short stories and flash fiction for the past few weeks. I am in a make-believe world and have forgotten how to write a newsletter. I’m being dramatic.
I have not been carving out the time to properly sit with and craft a piece of writing for Drafting. Writing always takes longer than you think. Sure, I wrote 800 words in the space of minutes yesterday when I was transcribing a stream of consciousness. It’s muddled, raw, and easy to put on the page as long as I’m not resistant. It’s not the same as writing something you plan for others to read. Yes, this is Drafting, where words on the page are more important than perfection but but but I have an excuse, just come back to me.
If I’m struggling to keep the two streams separate (I am) in terms of fiction and creative writing versus my intended form for newsletters, perhaps it’s best to combine the two. To show you things I’ve been working on, the iceberg under the surface, the behind-the-scenes. The real Drafting.
Here’s a first draft of a piece of micro fiction. Let me know - did you enjoy it? Do you want to see more fiction? More drafts of pieces of work? Would really love the feedback.
On The Run
She was racing as fast as her legs could carry her to evade capture.
In the dead of night, she charged down the open road heading towards the forest. She could hear the men behind her, calling out her name with venom in their voices. They were used to getting what they wanted and exerting ownership over things that didn’t belong to them.
She took her chance when she could, as their backs were turned, preparing to load her into the van. The terror of what they were planning to do with her fueled her pursuit to safety. A slick sheen of sweat formed over her body as she bounded along the road, inching closer to the anonymity of dense trees and foliage.
An engine turned over, she daredn’t look back. With the men now in a car, she feared she wouldn’t outpace them. She couldn’t see a single other person, house or light in her periphery. It was just her and the men. If she was going to survive, she had to muster all her strength and keep going, deeper into the night.
At last, when she felt safe and certain she was out of the men’s reach, she tossed her head back, neck jolting back and forth with fear. She flicked her tousled mane as her tail swished with adrenaline, both filled with forest debris from her haste. She finally gave out a long, deep whinny for the hunt was over.
