Cat. SUV. Collision course. I identify the elements of the precipitating tragedy precisely and instantly.
“No, no, no, no—NO! NO! NO!—N-N-N-N-NOOOOO!!!”
Question: what happens to a cat when it’s run over by a Ford Escape?
(The surprising) Answer: less than you might think.
I expected gore and viscera; there were none. Just a crumpled, motionless form; a jumble of angles, all wrong. And then, the unexpected: signs of life.
How… ?
A still greater shock remained when I approached.
Question: how much of a cat’s spinal column does it need to outrun you?
Answer: less than you might think.
Since experimenting with flash fiction in a recent post, I’ve begun to dabble in drabbles.
“What the hell is a drabble?” you ask.
“Good question,” I reply. “Tell me if you find out; I’m not sure I have much an idea, myself.”
According to the internet (all hail its infallible wisdom), a drabble is simply a short story of 100 words or less. Now, if you’re thinking that the teeny-weeny word count makes them a cinch to produce, then bless you my sweet summer child, for your innocence is to be sheltered from the cold dark of the world—because producing a coherent story with just 100 words is about as tricky as fiction writing gets. (The story above is exactly 100 words—we’ll save trying to tackle a sub-100 word story for another day!)
I had the first draft of the story you just read finished about five days ago. I’ve been constantly tweaking and revising it ever since. Only the third line has survived the editing process untouched, everything else has been reworked at some point (often multiple times).
What I enjoyed most about the drabble writing process were the difficult decisions I was forced to make. I’m used to working without restrictions, so holding myself to a firm word count was a fascinating challenge that required me to approach composition from a new angle. I imagine it’s not unlike trying to paint a full landscape with just two colours. All of a sudden, you’re forced to think laterally and consider how you might achieve the desired effect. Every brush stroke—in my case, every word choice—suddenly takes on a new and outsized significance. Every move requires a countermove. Balance must be maintained.
A further complicating factor is the fact that the incident described above really happened. I witnessed the event described first-hand. There was so much more that I could have said, so many images and thoughts and feelings from my memory banks that I didn’t have the space or time to convey...
I wasn’t sure if I could be happy with such a “restricted” version of the story but, all in all, I’m surprisingly proud of what I’ve produced.
I titled the story after the infamous quote from Stephen King’s, Pet Sematary. I won’t spoil the novel because it’s worth experiencing for yourself (the film adaptation from the eighties is pretty good, if the novel doesn’t appeal, but I’d stay far away from the 2019 remake if I were you. Brutal!), but Constant Readers will understand the connection. Witnessing that cat dash in front of that SUV, and watching that sweet little tabby’s beautiful body get bowled over by both sets of tires… the horrid, awful truth of Jud Crandall’s words have never been more evident. Sometimes the tragedy you most fear turns out to be preferable to the tragedy you never thought possible.
Until next time, friends!
c.d.
This was (and im lacking a better word) gnarly
Self-imposed word counts or restrictive genres like flash fiction can really help us focus our purpose with a piece of writing, what we want it to be and do (as you describe here). This is also why I loved assigning flash fiction to my students because it encouraged them to think about each word choice and, in doing so, help them develop their ability to analyze literature (in theory, anyway—I hope it helped). Revising a small piece can be an exhausting, laborious experience, though, so I applaud your effort here. It shows in the final draft!