I love writing fiction – crave it.

One of the reasons it so absolutely captures my attention is that no matter how much I learn, there’s always more to consider, more to master.  What could be more satisfying: knowing that no matter your appetite – consumption and digestion are encouraged!  Aah…

An assignment in one of my fiction classes was to write two short pieces.  Show the same scene from two different points-of-view.

Listen… you can hear two distinct voices speaking.

This scene is told in first person voice:

My Granny

It happened when I was littler, but I remember the Sunday quiet of the waiting room – Granny and I were the only ones making any noise.  She always made me laugh right out loud.  Only a couple other people were there – they were pretty quiet.

We were checked in.  They said the doctor would see us soon about my knuckle.  Granny told me we had to have it taken care of right away; cat bites can cause serious infections.

All of a sudden, double swinging doors banged open.  A bunch of  people around a rolling stretcher rushed by us.  The man on the stretcher was covered in blood.  He looked asleep.  My memory tells me that he had a big hole in his gut and parts seemed to be splashing about.

To this day, I don’t know what had happened to him.  I feel sure my mouth was hanging open at the sight of so much blood.  I sat there staring for a while after the whole group left the room.  I couldn’t shift my eyes – I guess I thought I might miss something. I asked just above a whisper, “Granny, what happened to him?”

No answer.  I thought she might not have heard me.  I looked at her.  She was slumped sideways.  Her chin was on her chest.  Her mouth was open with one hand just hanging there outside the arm of the chair.  She wasn’t snoring.  She didn’t even seem to be breathing.  I was scared out of my wits.

I ran to the admission window.  “There’s something wrong with my Granny.  I think she’s sick.”

The lady at the desk looked across the room and grabbed the phone never taking her eyes off Granny.  Real quick, a stretcher came out.  They picked her up gentle.  I remember that – Granny deserved to be handled with care.

I never saw her alive again.

– debi

The next piece is written in second person.  Enjoy.

Granny

Two females sit side-by-side in the waiting area of the emergency room. Their ages are separated by two generations, but you can tell they couldn’t be closer. Their conversation is lively, all smiles and giggles. Their shoulders lean toward each other, hands touching every few seconds. You wonder if the makeshift bandage wrapped around the little girl’s finger is the cause of their visit.

Swinging doors bang open rudely to admit paramedics and the stretcher they push through the room.  You see that its passenger is drenched in blood.  His abdomen is a flesh walled pool that can scarcely contain the sloshing waves of dark red liquid.  He’s unconscious.

The young girl stares in fascination; conversation forgotten.  Even after the entourage exits the room she appears to be spellbound.  You hear her whisper to her elderly companion without turning her head, “Granny, what happened to that man?”

The grandmother is slumped in her chair, immobilized. She’s not breathing.  The little girl runs to the admissions area in a plea for help.  A stretcher is dispatched immediately, but you know it’s too late.

– debi