limb from limb
the story behind the story
in 2021 i issued myself a writing challenge: write it shorter. now, if you know me, you know that writing short is not, in itself, a challenge for me. in fact, for years i couldn’t write more than a thousand words or so per story.
but this was different. if i had an idea that might be novel-sized, i wrote it as a short story. an idea for a short story? that’s flash fiction now. flash? it’s a poem. (that is how i ended up writing i’m basically helen of troy and how a xenomorph knows!)
then i wrote a flash story, about 700 words, that i loved…and thought needed to be longer. like, it might be a whole novella’s worth of an idea. so i started over. it wasn’t a novella after all, but it was a hefty 5,200 words. i sent it out several times and kept getting rejections, which is normal but something still felt off. so i decided i would try to cut 200 words so i could sub to magazines with a 5k upper limit.
it worked! limb from limb sold fairly quickly to trollbreath, a new magazine that’s been delightful to work with. you can read the final version here, for free!
and here is the original flash story. you can read either one first!
Limb from Limb
Limb Removal Services
discreet removal of trees
and other unwanted organic matter
S. Lowell, Proprietor
Most of the calls I get are for trees. Sometimes a hedge or a fence. Once a bear that was terrorizing a beekeeper’s hives. That job paid in honey. I love honey.
I try to only schedule work for the days around the new moon, when I am the most steady, and the days around the full moon, when I am the strongest. But work is work, and some jobs can be done with a spade at any time of the month.
And the fact is, I’m an unpredictable mess most of the time, regardless of the moon cycle.
I wake up hungover. When I sit up, I realize no: I am still drunk. I slowly piece together the events of the day before.
I was called in to remove some honeysuckle vines. Most people don’t realize honeysuckle is an invasive species. I pulled up what I could, but the only real way to control its spread is with fire.
I like fire.
Unfortunately, fire and the full moon are not a good mix. Things quickly spiraled out of hand. In the end, the honeysuckle was gone but so was the regular crop. I did not take payment for this job.
I lay low for months; hibernate. My phone does not ring. Most days I am hungover or drunk. Sometimes both at the same time.
When it does ring, the sound is so jarring that I throw it across the room. The call goes to voicemail. I look at the automatically generated text, unable to stand the sound of human voice.
“Hello, this is Bob Smith calling. I’m looking to get a tree removed. Please call me at your earliest convenience. Discretion is of the utmost importance, and I will pay top dollar for it.”
Bob Smith? Hmm. I don’t think so. I use reverse look-up on the phone number. His name isn’t Bob Smith.
I take the job anyway. Privacy is important to me, so why wouldn’t it be important to my customers?
Mr. Smith does not want me to make any effort to save the tree. He wants it gone, doesn’t care that it’s in relatively good health.
I say I can start the next day.
In the morning, I sit by the tree for an hour before I begin. Sometimes it is beneficial to get to know the trees first.
This tree is healthy but in anguish. I can practically hear it crying out. This is new to me. I don’t know what to do.
I tell Mr. Smith I cannot take the job after all. He offers me more money than I have ever had in my life. I am weak.
So I go back to the tree. It’s a bay laurel. I wonder if it is so sad because it wants to be near the water.
I feel out the roots, trying to convince myself I can relocate the tree. Of course I cannot.
It is almost impossible to relocate a tree. Their roots take purchase and become part of the land. You might as well try to relocate the heart elsewhere in the body.
I sit under the tree for nine days, willing my body to transform so that I can understand the tree. Eventually it is the new moon; my mind becomes clear and I understand the problem.
Mr. Smith comes out to check on my progress.
“Thought you’d have her gone by now,” he says, and I see him for who he really is. The tree is not the organic matter I am here to deal with. Money be damned.
I tear him to shreds.
The tree shimmers on the breeze. Her bark seems to melt away. She is tall. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in waves. She does not seem embarrassed to be naked in front of a stranger.
She glances over at her husband’s remains. Then looks at me as though noticing for the first time that I am there.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“I am every monster that men fear. I am the wife in the attic. I am the wolf in the woods. I am Grendel’s mother.” She does not look afraid. “You can call me Selene.”
“Oh,” she says, and she smiles at me. “I’m Rose.”
as you can see, it is both exactly the same and totally different. i borrowed a few lines and some imagery from the flash, but mostly wrote the longer story from scratch.
i’ve reused old ideas before, but never like this! i think it went well.
p.s. i also have a story in the february issue of worlds of possibility! you can buy the issue here. more on this one later!