Praise and Rejection

When I first started putting my writing out there in the big wide world, I got a mixture of praise and rejection. And it continues. Now, the praise is easy to take, like a spoon full of ice cream (the traditional 'spoon full of sugar' makes my teeth ache. Sorry Ms. Poppins), but the rejection can be soul destroying. Especially when you think your story is the most amazing thing since the Bible. 

Sometimes, the critic is right, and what you've written is a pile of dung. Sometimes, the rejection helps to sculpt your work into something far greater. Sometimes, it's just one opinion and another reader may love it. And sometimes, it's more about the process and enjoyment you had while writing that pile of dung than how good it actually is. 

That said, I have been writing some flash fiction for The Standard Lit Magazine, an amazing new venture that prints its first copy in January. The following piece is one that wasn't right for them, but gosh darn it, did I have fun writing it! So here it is in all its glory, be it stinky dung or worthy of readers - 

A Winter Moment

The young sun chills the scene in a blue haze. The world is hibernating, but his breaths are even and assured as he sits in his truck. The radio crackles with static in a place too distant for the voices of men. Snow drifts and dusts the windshield, never seeming to settle. The heavy boughs of the birch would beg to differ.

With a lifetime of routine, he sees clearly through the mist.  

Coils of a rich dark roast attempt to drag his eyes to the cup holder. But he cannot be distracted; he has the best seat in the house.

The show begins with the creak of snow under hooves, the clack of horn against horn, and the shifting of air as shaggy boulders roll from the mist.

The grumble of his truck sputters and dies. He waits until the very last second, fingers gripped around the wheel.

When he hears that first gentle low, a grin releases the boy that once pressed his nose against the window of his father’s truck. With the nimbleness of his younger self, he gets to work.

Warm breath adds to the mist as several bold heads lock over the sides of the trailer. He cradles a soft nose and allows it to restore feeling in his fingers. Then, with the warmth still lingering, he pinches tight twine and snips the haylage free. Steam rushes from the core, and the air is filled with the sweet sour smell of fermentation.

He drops mounds in the snow, the strands barely touching the ground before they are caught and chewed and cured into cud.

He lays the last morsel and returns to his cab satisfied. He sits a while longer, making the most of a historic winter moment and marveling at the resilience of his highland herd.