First Born

I clutched it to me, loving it. It was perfect, well, as perfect as I could make it. It was my very first. My very first short story competition entry.
It had been edited, edited and edited again. I had changed so much that it now bore no resemblance to the original story; but there was still something. What was it? Mmmmm
the Mother didn’t have much to say did she? but what could she say? I know, I’ll add the word shyly then everyone will know why she doesn’t say much.
And the exuberant daughters with their amusing chatter. Amusing? Amusing? I’m sure I have used that somewhere before in the text. Yes! there it is. Now what instead? Evocative, that’s a lovely word, conjures up all sorts of things. Not sure what it conjures up exactly, lets look at the Dictionary.
There it is: Evocative: tending to evoke feelings etc., Well they do that alright. That will do nicely.
What was it I said about the Vicar’s face?I couldn’t quite get the description right. He’s a miserable old sod would describe him beautifully, but I cannot put that can I? ‘His lantern jawed austere face with cynical eyes, pinched mouth and laconic speech’ Yes, that just about describes him, and what did I say about his hat? ‘His funny small black hat perched precariously on his head caused the girls to suppress and smother fits of giggling’ that’s better.
I’ think I’ll change the description of that tree hanging over the Porch while I am on. ‘Light glinting off its gently swaying leaves, its hanging branches casting curious shadows onto the path’ How about that?That’ll do nicely. I’d better just check my commas again. I have a bad habit of putting commas where no commas are necessary.
I think it is ready. Like any first new born this short story has had its nappy changed so often it hasn’t had time to get damp, and its bits of sweaty fluff removed from its clenched fists before they have had time to form.
I do believe it is now ready. Reprint it, and so my little love back into your envelope with your SAE for your safe return, and onto the hall table.
Time to make the tea. The meat is almost cooked, the vegetables are boiling, just the cauliflower to turn the heat under.
I’ve thought of something. The ending. It’s not right. I’ll have to change it, now.
Where is it? It’s not on the hall table where I left it. Someone has kidnapped my baby. Who would do such a thing? Why would anyone do it? Why would anyone want to?
I hear my own anguished voice in my ears crying out loud. ’Where’s my short story?’
A cheery voice answers from the stairs. ‘Don;t worry Mum. I caught the last post.’

First Born

hilarydougill

Co Durham, United Kingdom

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