By Cheryl Powell
She opens her chest with a kitchen knife, reaching behind her breastbone, easing out her heart: such a valiant little heart. How it gasps, shocked by the freezing air.
She holds it in her palm and, under the bright light, surveys the damage: calcified scars blackened by grief, deep cracks, utterly irreparable.
Once there were only tiny fissures, like shattered china diligently glued. She had tried so hard to heal. To accept.
Into the dark hollow, she returns her heart and stitches up her chest with twine. It won’t be long now.
And, for the first time in years, she smiles.
Loved it. “How it gasps, shocked by the freezing air” stopped my breath for a second.
Deliciously creepy. And makes you question who she is and where she’s going.
loved this. A whole story set in some other time told in so few words Brilliantly done
I pictured an aging grandmother, who was perhaps a surgeon, and her stuffed Raggedy Ann doll from childhood.
It made me think of my black heart and how I wish that I could take it out to cleanse it to heal the injures caused by my own actions and the wounds created by others. Thanks for a very moving and thought provoing story.
Beautifully written, there’s so much in there to interpret. One of the best 101s I’ve read.
A story darkly—stunning—those hundred words could paint a thousand pictures.
Absolutely perfect.
Deliciously intriguing provocative and philosophically engaging. A masterpiece.