Pieces | Letters of Rejection

Pieces is a new feature here on Infinity Reads where I share some fictional pieces of writing I have done over the year. Happy Blogmas Day Two!

The first installment is a monologue I had to write for my English class. It portrays the internal battle writers experience in a field where rejection becomes second nature. The monologue was inspired by Slyvia Plath’s poem ‘Words’


My tears transform into blood and submerge amongst the words imprinted upon the ominous letter. Each line of criticism is like the blow of an “axe” to my already fragile mind. Self-doubt courses through my body in a series of waves like those of an ocean filled with restless energy. There is an air of anticipation, specifically the gnawing sensation that this might be the time I won’t emerge from the depths of this ceaseless darkness that remains deeply ingrained in my existence.

The monster hides in the darkest crevices of my mind, bearing hot pincers and razor-sharp teeth, to whisper devious encouragements in the dead of the night. A false sense of purpose overpowers me until the words: like a galloping “horse” in an open field, begin to flood the pages, and I am left drowning and devoid of energy. Days and nights blur into the meaningless expanse of time, where my mind recognises only the cravings of the monster, and I subject myself to its will just to keep writing. My writing becomes my life.

Then the letters arrive. Each like a knife searing through my brittle existence, annihilating through my writing, through my life. The monster punishes me by digging its pincers into my brain, persisting with reckless abandon that I am to blame for the demise of my art, somewhere in my heart I believe it to be the truth. My state of being is defined by the food left untouched on the table, as well as the refusal to confront the plethora of unread messages on my phone. The “sap” of “tears” that floods not only from my eyes, but from my art, is a failed journey towards healing. Most prominently it is a reminder of the rejection that I ascertain will define the deterioration of my soul.

The monster, now seemingly satisfied with the depth of suffering I’ve endured, instructs me to fight back. It reassures me that rejection is part of my cosmic existence, and in order to relieve the pain, I must simply embrace it. There is a voice of reason in my mind that despises the idea of my art fading into oblivion, and it knows that fighting back will simply mean I further lose myself in this labyrinth of suffering. This voice knows that to preserve the remainder of my sanity, I must hide in the recesses of my mind. I decide to “submerge” myself in the mundane, like a stone hiding under the water in blissful ignorance. My art becomes an echo of a past lifetime: the words disappear under the weight of this world, replaced by a “weedy green” life of celebrating another’s success while my life-work resides in oblivion.

“Years later I encounter” my art in the crevices of moving boxes where dust has settled onto the pages, and the words have become “dry and riderless”. There remains nothing to give them life, as the spark inside me extinguished long ago. The memories of the monster and its encouragements are now but a distant echo. Yet, as I light fire to the pages, the words “govern a life” of their own: they dance among the ashes, away from this world that never saw their beauty, travelling into a realm that has the ability to cherish the power they possess.

As I turn away, I feel pincers clawing in the back of my mind. Blood, axes, horses, tears, my art, and a voice with razor-sharp teeth whispers into my consciousness.

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