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"Your Wrists Are Small," by Sara Habein - No. 9 from Little (Flash) Fiction (read by Xe Sands)

Xe Sands on December 01, 2012 00:03

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    GOING PUBLIC 11.30.12: "Your Wrists Are Small," by Sara Habein
    Story No. 9 from the Little (flash) Fiction Collection
    http://glorifiedloveletters.blogspot.com/
    http://littlefiction.com/beta/Flash.html

    Continuing with the awesome flash fiction collection from Little Fiction...with a bit of remembrance - an unwelcome reminder perhaps, from Sara Habein.

    So this week's piece, one I've liked for quite a while, was almost an enigma to record. Considering it's dark and messy subject matter, I thought it would be one of the easier to narrate.

    I did not expect it to keep slipping away from me. I did not expect to feel nothing while narrating and then to find that I'd gotten to the end of it without being entirely present...like a horse dutifully plodding home after it's rider has fallen asleep, which makes for a wholly unsatisfying listening experience.

    But it's a truly affecting piece! In discussing it with a friend, I could not seem to get through any of the lines without being struck by them like a physical slap (can you be "struck" by a slap? Hmm). It's not the piece...in narration, it's almost never the writing.

    I recorded this piece many times...and each time, I was speaking to a different friend/loved one who has struggled and tried to move on without truly moving on.

    It was all crap. There is, in fact, a snippet of me actually saying aloud, "Arghugh - it's all CRAP!" No, you don't get to hear that part - sorry.

    And then I recorded it again, to myself, as myself. I changed all pronouns to "I." Then it hit me like a train. It was me. I was talking about myself. I was talking to myself. No, I haven't tried to commit suicide, but work with the metaphor here, people...the literal is immaterial at the moment.

    There is something about the frailty, the smallness of wrists...I have them. I have broken them. I have been broken. Sometimes I still am broken. Sometimes I think the scars don't show. And sometimes...sometimes there is a voice that reminds me they do, they should show...like my ears show, or my left shin shows. Sometimes I tell that voice to shut the hell up.

    So when I went back to record this one last time, it was with the full knowledge that I was speaking to myself, and I was speaking to my oldest/dearest friends who have struggled and continue to wade through an inner landscape akin to a septic tank. And some of them have tried suicide on like a cocktail dress, and some just have metaphorical scars. And we are, all of us, each other's scars, each other's reminders that there was a before, and there is an after, and there is even a bridge.

    I say: be the bridge.

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