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One trick story
Short piece is easy to write, but quite difficult to make it work. Short stories often get gimmicky, tricky or angsty emotional. Or maybe that is just me.
This Emma story was written for X-Men Flash Fic -community that had weekly challenges. Good community that fizzled when the X-men writers moved on to other fandoms. This was challenge 21, Poetry. 1000 words, PG. Set in comics universe, storyline "Murder at the Mansion" by G. Morrison (Emma is shot in her diamond form and her body is blown to pieces. Hank attempts to save her by putting her back together).
“The mind never touches its own kind.
Still, no one is allowed to detach a single piece from your body:
to cut off a finger or pull out a tooth,
for you are spread evenly all over your body.
One and undivided, omnipresent.
Just like a whole amounts to more than its parts,
also a whole from which a part has been removed
lacks more than just the missing part.” Anni Sumari
They kept telling him that it was an impossible task. Every time he heard that he just worked harder. Hank didn't appreciate the limits of his task being pointed out. He was a doctor first and foremost and if there was a doctor who could mend this body, he was the one to do it. Besides, Hank was probably also the only one who cared if she lived or died.
She lay on the table of the laboratory. Every single piece of her shone with its own kind of light. It was if the moon itself had shattered there solely for Hank's scrutiny. The feline in him basked in the silvery glow, while the scientist in him arranged, systematized, categorized. The man in him tried to remember the woman within the rubble: the sound of her voice, witty remarks, how she moved, or how she held a cup of coffee. The person, Emma Frost.
“The eight carpal bones in two rows...Navicular, lunate, triangular and pisiform. All here. Greater and lesser multangular, capitate and... Oh dear.” There was a gentle 'clink!' – a sound that Hank had learned to dread. A piece had dropped from the table. He pushed his chair back very, very slowly, crouched down, and sighed in relief as he spotted the curved bone straight away. The last time he had dropped a small chip it had taken half an hour to locate it from the floor’s shiny surface. Gently picking the part up, Hank carefully adjusted the bone to its rightful place.
“The hamate. There we go, Emma. The right wrist is completed and slender as ever.” Hank tended to speak to her at times but it was mostly for his own benefit. There was no concrete proof that there was anything left of Emma that heard him. Even when every piece was finally in its place, it didn't mean that the end result would be something more than a mere corpse. It was possible that he was just assembling a woman-shaped statue.
Hank squashed the thought and scolded himself for overlooking the evidence apparent on the table. She was there. Something shone amongst the empty gaps of missing pieces. Something glimmered at the surface of the united parts. The cracks didn't heal but Emma was shaping up.
“No one can blame you for not keeping yourself together.” He eyed the wrist resting on the table and very carefully closed the two inch distance between it and the previously reconstructed part of her arm. The position of the completed wrist was correct considering the position of the arm, but there were few troubling gaps.
“Yes, that was a pretty obvious word play but at least I have upgraded from the jokes about Kibbles'n Bits?” There was no answer of course but Hank didn't take it personally. The jokes had been rather clumsy. He sorted a few loose pieces into another pile, which was labeled in his mind as ‘Hard-To-Tell’. They weren’t parts of right wrist that much was certain, which left only a thousand other possibilities. But at least he was getting somewhere.
“But on another note, what really tickles me is the flaw. You never admit having one.” He placed a loupe on his eye and closely studied the spot where the hand seemed to be the most off balance. After careful consideration Hank chose the surgical dissecting tweezers and picked a speck of a diamond, which had broken into an almost a perfect octagon. With precise movements he placed the octagon on the chink. “My educated guess is either head or the heart.”
“The bullet itself is the crucial clue, you see. One doesn’t trip over bullets made of diamond everyday. I should know. I had a whole CSI marathon last week.” Hank mulled over his line of thinking as he inspected the result. The wrist and the arm fit together correctly, leaving no dark spots inside to indicate any pieces were missing. Hank nodded approvingly. The puzzle was coming together.
He chose a diamond the size of a pebble. Hank had set it aside two hours earlier when it became evident that something was missing from the bone structure of Emma’s right hand. That had been a slight setback.
“Diamonds are fragile things if there’s a flaw inside, as you well know. So, there was one bullet and therefore just one shot. For a mess of this magnitude you’d have to aim for the weakest spot, and then...The Domino Effect.” Hank rotated the pebble around the gap several ways before he found the precise fit, leaving behind a hint of a white line. Like a translucent scar. “Was the flaw in your heart Emma? Or maybe in your head? You can trust me. I won't tell anyone.”
Light bounced and fluttered in its own mysterious ways inside the pile of rubble that had once been her face. Hank sighed. “I didn't think you would tell me. Ladies have their secrets. And prerogative to keep them, of course.”
He carefully twisted the slender wrist. There was screeching sound, like a fingernails being dragged across a chalkboard, and then a silent snap. The wrist finally joined the arm without any gaps. From her shoulder to her wrist bone, Emma was complete. Hank turned his attention to the right hand itself.
“Personally, I’d bet my money on the heart but then you know what a hopeless romantic I am.” Hank put some tools away in exchange for a set of new ones. “I do hope that your mind is still whole, dear Emma. We could use some of that brightness of yours.” He pulled a tray in front of him from the side table. On the tray were two whole fingers and one lower half of a thumb. The pale glow ebbed inside the fingers. Maybe she was trying to move her hand. Maybe it was a trick of light.
“A French manicure. A very classic choice.” Hank noted, moving into lighter subjects. He brought a loose piece of fingernail closer to the tip of the half finished finger. “I will endeavor to try and not to ruin it.” He concentrated before locating the part that clearly showed the metacarpal bone of her index finger. “Now, stop me if any of this sounds familiar. Once there was this guy, let's call him Humpty Dumpty, who sat on the wall...”
This Emma story was written for X-Men Flash Fic -community that had weekly challenges. Good community that fizzled when the X-men writers moved on to other fandoms. This was challenge 21, Poetry. 1000 words, PG. Set in comics universe, storyline "Murder at the Mansion" by G. Morrison (Emma is shot in her diamond form and her body is blown to pieces. Hank attempts to save her by putting her back together).
“The mind never touches its own kind.
Still, no one is allowed to detach a single piece from your body:
to cut off a finger or pull out a tooth,
for you are spread evenly all over your body.
One and undivided, omnipresent.
Just like a whole amounts to more than its parts,
also a whole from which a part has been removed
lacks more than just the missing part.” Anni Sumari
They kept telling him that it was an impossible task. Every time he heard that he just worked harder. Hank didn't appreciate the limits of his task being pointed out. He was a doctor first and foremost and if there was a doctor who could mend this body, he was the one to do it. Besides, Hank was probably also the only one who cared if she lived or died.
She lay on the table of the laboratory. Every single piece of her shone with its own kind of light. It was if the moon itself had shattered there solely for Hank's scrutiny. The feline in him basked in the silvery glow, while the scientist in him arranged, systematized, categorized. The man in him tried to remember the woman within the rubble: the sound of her voice, witty remarks, how she moved, or how she held a cup of coffee. The person, Emma Frost.
“The eight carpal bones in two rows...Navicular, lunate, triangular and pisiform. All here. Greater and lesser multangular, capitate and... Oh dear.” There was a gentle 'clink!' – a sound that Hank had learned to dread. A piece had dropped from the table. He pushed his chair back very, very slowly, crouched down, and sighed in relief as he spotted the curved bone straight away. The last time he had dropped a small chip it had taken half an hour to locate it from the floor’s shiny surface. Gently picking the part up, Hank carefully adjusted the bone to its rightful place.
“The hamate. There we go, Emma. The right wrist is completed and slender as ever.” Hank tended to speak to her at times but it was mostly for his own benefit. There was no concrete proof that there was anything left of Emma that heard him. Even when every piece was finally in its place, it didn't mean that the end result would be something more than a mere corpse. It was possible that he was just assembling a woman-shaped statue.
Hank squashed the thought and scolded himself for overlooking the evidence apparent on the table. She was there. Something shone amongst the empty gaps of missing pieces. Something glimmered at the surface of the united parts. The cracks didn't heal but Emma was shaping up.
“No one can blame you for not keeping yourself together.” He eyed the wrist resting on the table and very carefully closed the two inch distance between it and the previously reconstructed part of her arm. The position of the completed wrist was correct considering the position of the arm, but there were few troubling gaps.
“Yes, that was a pretty obvious word play but at least I have upgraded from the jokes about Kibbles'n Bits?” There was no answer of course but Hank didn't take it personally. The jokes had been rather clumsy. He sorted a few loose pieces into another pile, which was labeled in his mind as ‘Hard-To-Tell’. They weren’t parts of right wrist that much was certain, which left only a thousand other possibilities. But at least he was getting somewhere.
“But on another note, what really tickles me is the flaw. You never admit having one.” He placed a loupe on his eye and closely studied the spot where the hand seemed to be the most off balance. After careful consideration Hank chose the surgical dissecting tweezers and picked a speck of a diamond, which had broken into an almost a perfect octagon. With precise movements he placed the octagon on the chink. “My educated guess is either head or the heart.”
“The bullet itself is the crucial clue, you see. One doesn’t trip over bullets made of diamond everyday. I should know. I had a whole CSI marathon last week.” Hank mulled over his line of thinking as he inspected the result. The wrist and the arm fit together correctly, leaving no dark spots inside to indicate any pieces were missing. Hank nodded approvingly. The puzzle was coming together.
He chose a diamond the size of a pebble. Hank had set it aside two hours earlier when it became evident that something was missing from the bone structure of Emma’s right hand. That had been a slight setback.
“Diamonds are fragile things if there’s a flaw inside, as you well know. So, there was one bullet and therefore just one shot. For a mess of this magnitude you’d have to aim for the weakest spot, and then...The Domino Effect.” Hank rotated the pebble around the gap several ways before he found the precise fit, leaving behind a hint of a white line. Like a translucent scar. “Was the flaw in your heart Emma? Or maybe in your head? You can trust me. I won't tell anyone.”
Light bounced and fluttered in its own mysterious ways inside the pile of rubble that had once been her face. Hank sighed. “I didn't think you would tell me. Ladies have their secrets. And prerogative to keep them, of course.”
He carefully twisted the slender wrist. There was screeching sound, like a fingernails being dragged across a chalkboard, and then a silent snap. The wrist finally joined the arm without any gaps. From her shoulder to her wrist bone, Emma was complete. Hank turned his attention to the right hand itself.
“Personally, I’d bet my money on the heart but then you know what a hopeless romantic I am.” Hank put some tools away in exchange for a set of new ones. “I do hope that your mind is still whole, dear Emma. We could use some of that brightness of yours.” He pulled a tray in front of him from the side table. On the tray were two whole fingers and one lower half of a thumb. The pale glow ebbed inside the fingers. Maybe she was trying to move her hand. Maybe it was a trick of light.
“A French manicure. A very classic choice.” Hank noted, moving into lighter subjects. He brought a loose piece of fingernail closer to the tip of the half finished finger. “I will endeavor to try and not to ruin it.” He concentrated before locating the part that clearly showed the metacarpal bone of her index finger. “Now, stop me if any of this sounds familiar. Once there was this guy, let's call him Humpty Dumpty, who sat on the wall...”