When I was six, my older sister taught me how to carve into trees.
She snuck Dad’s pocket knife off the grimy counter and brought it into the sparse woods at the edge of our property. “Follow me,” she said. The morning sun hung in the sky, painting it a delicate gray-blue. She flipped it open, digging the sharp blade into the tree’s fleshy bark. The first thing she engraved was a K, mangled and lopsided. My mouth hung open. “For Katrina,” she said. My name. I beamed, honored that she would leave my namesake before hers.
“Look around,” she said, gesturing at the expanse of thin pines around us. “There are many more things I’ve left over the years.”
Although eventually I looked around, that wasn’t my desire then. I wanted to carve, eager for the chance to leave my mark. But she wouldn’t give it to me. She said it was dangerous; she said I was too young, that I would hurt myself. Even when I cried. Even when I screamed.
Even when I tried to grab it myself, and experienced the worst kind of pain, steel jaws biting into my hand. Even when there was red on my hand and stars in my eyes. Even when I passed out and my sister ran to get help.
The next day, with fresh stitches and stiff bandages, I returned to the tree. It took me a while to find the one from the day before, but I found it.
And I finished carving my name.
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Vanishing Girls Writing Challenge
Short StoryI loved the stories I read this month. You guys are getting better and better with every writing challenge! This challenge was especially fun because of the variety in the entries. There were poems, fiction, non-fiction… I loved them all! Below are...
