The writer
Lenutsa’s right hand moved smoothly in a small arc, its shadow – pale and indistinct in the light of a solitary oil lamp – gliding over the surface of the dark, ugly thing grasped lightly in her other hand. She sighed, laid the object on the cloth which covered the small table at which she was sitting and, turning to the eastern corner of the room, with thumb and first two fingers of her right hand together, touched them to her forehead, then her lower breast, then her right shoulder, then her left. She repeated the movements twice more.
She had written the final line. It was perfect.
Turning to the table again, she gently took the wart-covered thing between finger and thumb and placed it carefully in a small cup, half full with a potion, black, evil-looking, emanating an acrid, nauseating smell. Plucking a small stick from the table, she turned the object in the liquid, carefully pushing it down as she turned.
Again and again she plunged the object into the murky depths, till the object itself, covered in raised lines like old scars left by the razor of a precise maniac, was completely black.
Grasping it lightly between thumb and forefinger, she lifted the thing from the black liquid, lightly wiped it with a stained piece of cloth and placed it on a small clay tile on the table. She dried her thumb and finger with the same cloth and looked with distaste at the stains left there.
Never mind, she was almost done.
The first rays of dawn were creeping through the window. She blew out the lamp and a golden ray from the rising sun lit on the dark thing, now becoming a dull black as the evil liquid evaporated.
Lenutsa looked at the thing through drooping eyelids. Should she complete her task now, or sleep a little? She had just time for a short nap before the ducks began their morning gabble crying for food. If she completed her task she would not be able to sleep until all the daily chores demanded by her small piece of land and its few living creatures were completed.
She’d finish the thing.
She lit the oil lamp again. Reaching out her left hand, she took up the thing and, while holding it way above the flame of the lamp, took again the old rag in her right hand and began gently to wipe the black scars, now warm from the flame.
A red slash, bright as newly drawn blood, spilled out of the black where the rag had touched. The scars dissolved in the wake of the caressing rag. Another stroke, and golden yellow leapt out to reflect the increasingly strong rays of the sun. Another red slash, another burst of yellow; as the rag swept over the thing’s surface the colours began to coalesce into recognisable forms.
A diamond, a triangle, a star, a cross. Each delineated by a fine, shiny line, black or white. Each formed with sweeping, precise curves on the surface of the fragile creation.
Lenutsa absorbed the beauty with pride, crossed herself again and placed it at the end of a row of similar things on the nearby dresser.
She’d feed the ducks who had given her the beginning of each of those wonderful things now standing proudly in line. Then she’d walk to the local monastery, carefully carrying her creations in a plastic bag.
If she was lucky, today the tourists would come. The dozen duck egg shells she had written would each translate into one Euro, maybe more. And she would have money for the sugar, the coffee and the other things that her small plot could not provide and, of course, for the beeswax she would buy from her neighbour to write more eggs, and the chemical dyes which came from across the border, from the Ukraine.
Lenutsa crossed herself again as her lips moved silently to thank God. And then she smiled.
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This is my first attempt to write more than the few words of a haiku or a limerick as I’ve posted before. I’d welcome any feedback from all you more experienced writers out there, or from those who simply read. (A word of explanation, the egg decorators of the Bucovina in northern Romania say they ‘write’ the eggs, not ‘decorate’ or ‘paint’ them).
August 13, 2012 at 7:02 pm
Lovely writing – I can’t believe this is ssomething you haven’t done more of. I agree with Cristian somewhat about the repetition of ‘thing’, but I like the weaving of something special out of an everyday event in someone’s life. The colours and the local knowledge come over very well too. 🙂
August 13, 2012 at 9:04 pm
Many thanks for these comments – they’re very encouraging, especially as from the little I’ve had time to read so far your writing is lovely. I think I did write one short story before, when I was about 10 years old – that’s several decades ago. As I’m off to Cornwall tomorrow for a holiday – in Lofty (see gravatar) – maybe I’ll have time to work on the edits you and Cristian suggest.
July 29, 2012 at 1:33 pm
This is lovely.
July 29, 2012 at 2:56 pm
Thanks a lot. I’ll be keeping in touch.
July 18, 2012 at 7:30 am
You have a great story here. I never thought of writing a story about one of our most ancient of traditions. But you’ve done it well.
For such a short piece, it surely delivers a certain message. You build a certain tone, a certain tension, and you maintain it very well.
You use the word “thing” too many times. It gets a bit jarring. You might want to find some synonyms for it. Also, at parts it feels that this whole mystery thing you’re doing is forced — as if you’re just trying to make the reader feel there’s something there that shouldn’t be. Basically, when I reached the end, I got this impression that you stretched the whole mystery as to what Lenutsa is doing exactly way beyond its natural lifespan just so you could have a sort of twist ending. Or any ending at all.
But I do have to admit that without the ambiguity this wouldn’t be a story.
Anyway, great job.
July 18, 2012 at 10:24 am
Thanks Cristian. I did wonder about the ‘thing’ thing. I did, in fact, begin the story intending a different ending (and making a different point) and I might anyway do that as ‘The writer 2’. But I’ll have a closer look at the ‘mystery’ in this one in the light of your comments. Many thanks again.
July 17, 2012 at 3:41 pm
I was completely drawn into this story…I loved the unfolding mystery, the slightly ominous tone, the detail: “A red slash, bright as newly drawn blood, spilled out of the black where the rag had touched. The scars dissolved in the wake of the caressing rag. Another stroke, and golden yellow leapt out to reflect the increasingly strong rays of the sun.” Beautiful! Thanks for sharing – hoping it leads to many more longer form writing!
July 17, 2012 at 4:00 pm
Thanks so much Willemien, I’m really glad you liked it and your response certainly motivates me to try more. By the way, your site is great; I’ll be finding time to explore it.
July 17, 2012 at 4:27 pm
Great. Also wanted to mention how much I love the fact that egg decorators of northern Romania ‘write’ eggs…linguistically speaking, the world is a fascinating place!