One of the things I love about writing is the process of finding my way to the finished product. At times it’s as hard as trying to bend iron with my bare hands. (Nope probably will never master that.) It’s a wrestling match with words. 

May 18,2012. when I was one of the new Friday Fictioneers on the block, I wrote my 6th flash fiction, MIRACLE. I was still pretty green when it came to writing a short-short with a beginning, middle and end.  Some of you may remember this picture and have your own stories to go with it.

MIRACLE 

Merciless rain pelted the Conestoga’s canvas roof. Tildy’s stomach swelled and roiled with each pitch and sway.

Three-year-old Jonas whimpered in her arms. Like periwinkle marbles, his eyes rolled in aimless delirium. She almost welcomed his fevered warmth in the penetrating damp.

The wagon lurched and stopped. Smelling of horses, leather and wet denim Noel slipped through the narrow opening. In silence, his vigilant eyes on his son, he nestled under the blanket beside her.

Tildy woke to hushed sunlight. Her baby was gone.

Outside, naked as dawn, Jonas hopped and pointed at the rainbow. “Ma! Pa! Angels came!”

**************

Why rewrite?

Most of the comments were favorable and polite. But some of them have niggled at me for months:

“Dear Rochelle,

This was hard to work out and being the first to comment (I think) I don’t have the crutch of other’s opinions to help me out. When Jonas says the angels have come, was it that they’d come for anyone specific? Or just touched the earth and left their heavenly colored trails as a sign. Did Jonas’ fever break? No one died, did they?A lovely story, full of imagination and pathos. I loved the ‘Periwinkle marbles’. Great stuff.

Aloha,Doug”

And this one:

“Am I so wrong in hoping that he was actually still alive and just telling them excitedly of his fever-induced dream? My fingers are crossed.Poignant and sad.”

And another:

“I honestly thought that her baby had died (“gone”) and that he was dancing with the angels.”

By the end of the comment thread I’d recapped and explained at least five times. So to my obsessive perfectionist’s mind this is unacceptable. 

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MIRACLE

Merciless rain pelted the Conestoga’s canvas roof. Tildy’s stomach roiled with each pitch and sway.  

Three-year-old Jonas whimpered in her arms. Like periwinkle marbles, his eyes rolled in aimless delirium. She almost welcomed his fevered warmth in the penetrating damp.

The wagon lurched and stopped. Smelling of horses, leather and wet denim Noel slipped through the narrow opening. His vigilant eyes on his son, he nestled under the blanket beside her.

…….

Tildy woke to hushed sunlight and empty arms. She bolted upright and searched.

Outside, naked as dawn, Jonas skipped and pointed at a rainbow.  “Ma! Pa! Angels came!”