The Woodcarver

Was she really gone? I stand here, alone, at the foot of the stairs, staring in disbelief. I feel a cold gust of wind. Then, suddenly, my whole body feels freezing. I notice that I'm just in my nightgown. The door in front of me is ajar. I'll have to close that door before any more of the snow blows in.

I'm terrified to find that I can't move. How long had I been standing here? Had my bones frozen? "Elizabeth!" I cry out. My throat aches and my voice sounds strained. "Elizabeth, please close the door. I'm cold." I barely manage to get these words out. Cold tears roll down my cheeks. What had happened?

Where is Elizabeth? Finally, I gain control of my right leg and drag my right feet forward, making a start towards the door. In spite of the numbness I can feel my toes run up against something on the ground. Something brown-ish? My eyes aren't what they used to be. I must have left my glasses on the nightstand upstairs. Why had I been in such a rush to come downstairs?

Ever since my precious Laureen, God bless her, had been trampled by that horse I've been having these 'episodes,' as Elizabeth calls them. Moments in time where something else takes control. And afterwards I find myself standing—often in front of something broken—with no recollection of what happened. It's gotten so bad that I've needed Elizabeth to deal with clients and take their orders to me. I'm scared of what might happen if I had such an episode in front of one of the townspeople.

My right leg gives way and I fall to the ground sideways. A sharp pain runs through my hip. I still can't move. My strength has left me. Sixteen hours in the wood shop will do that to an old man. "Elizabeth," I sob. The wind whips snow down the back of my nightgown as if to taunt me.

I feel something soft and warm against my face. It's a . . . a gingerbread cookie? The realization shoots an electric jolt through my body. And with it the memories come flooding back. I had been awoken by some strange sound. I had come down the stairs to investigate and I'd found Elizabeth, my dearest, ready to leave. Yes! She was going to leave me—leave me for good! I had wanted to stop her, but she just . . . left?

Tears are again streaming down my face and are soaked up by the cookie. How could my sweet, sweet angel leave me? I need her here. I need her to help with the orders, I need her to care for me. "Eli—" my voice cracks and the cold travels deep down into my lungs.

I need her right now. I can't move. I can't close the door.

So cold.

Elizabeth.

On "The Woodcarver" | 2023-11-05

I was willing to give the woodcarver another chance to redeem himself after yesterdays transgressions. I had gotten feedback that he didn't deserve the ending he'd gotten. Rather, he should've been more developed as a character, or gotten a lighter punishment or ambiguous ending. I do partly share the criticism and think the last few lines were the weakest part of yesterdays entry.

Today I tried to try out another style of narration; First person, present tense. It gave me more room to explore the inner life of the old woodcarver. I really enjoyed finding his backstory and exploring his perspective on that same event. Painting him to be more sympathetic also inevitably made him incredibly weak and frail. Suddenly, a cracked skull didn't seem an appropriate end anymore.

It was fun to deviate from the plot and change that ending. I'll definitely have to revisit the idea of retelling stories from different perspectives or different plots. Reminds me of Yasmina Reza's "Trois versions de la vie" which I recently saw.

Thoughts? Reach out via Mastodon @Optional@dice.camp or shoot me an email.