A Cut Above | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: A Cut Above | Previous Challenge Entry
By Nola Lorraine Passmore
10/07/14
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I committed my first murder at the age of three. Only instead of Professor Plum with the lead pipe in the library, it was me with the scissors in the hallway. Mum arrived on the scene to find me screaming “I’ve killed him, I’ve killed him”, and my inflatable Bugs Bunny lying in a heap of plastic skin on the floor. With only a tenuous grasp of cause and effect, I didn’t know that cutting his ears off would send his life’s breath sputtering out in a raspy “Whoosh”. Mum and Dad tried to patch him up, but he never stood tall again.

My next crime started innocently enough. I was sitting at the bottom of the stairs outside our laundry room when Mum threw the kitchen curtains down to me. There was a method in her madness. By folding up the curtains and tossing them in my direction, she could go back inside to gather the rest of the dirty clothes and then just make one trip downstairs. The only problem was that I was in reach of a pair of scissors. In the few seconds Mum was gone, I cut some lovely shapes out of the centre of the material. When she spread the curtains out, they were like those strings of paper dolls with the pattern repeating along the chain. My mother didn’t seem as excited about the pretty design as I was.

Mum wisely decided to channel my cutting into more appropriate activities like scrapbooking. I cut out magazine pictures that took my fancy and stuck them onto large white pages with the glue Mum made from water and cornflour. I’m sure some of our visitors must have blushed at the coloured rectangular shapes interspersed throughout my creations. How was I to know they were women’s hygiene products?

With an obvious talent for cutting, I should have gone into a profession where my gifts would be appreciated. Hairdressing would have been an obvious choice. I could spend my days shaping, colouring, and styling fabulous bouffant hair-dos with my designer scissors. Or perhaps brain surgery would have been more up my alley. I can almost see myself cutting little motifs in someone’s grey matter to make them feel better.

For twenty-five years, my affinity for cutting lay dormant as I worked as a university academic. There were cut backs in funding, the cut and thrust of philosophical debates, the occasional colleague who enjoyed cutting others down to size, and students cutting it fine with their exam scores. Although I learned a lot and had many positive experiences, it wasn’t my heart’s desire. I was cut out for something else.

Now I’m back to cutting and pasting, only my scissors are an icon on a toolbar. I move words around on a page, trying this version and that. I cut out the superfluous and hope my manuscripts make the cut in the next competition or publishing round. All my experiences have brought me to this place where I’m still learning new things, trying out new ideas, dealing with failure and relishing success.

Jesus knew the value of a good cut. He likened his Father to a gardener who ‘cuts off every branch … that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful’ (John 15:2, NIV). If I want to bear fruit with my writing, it will take a lot of pruning along the way. Some of my best scenes might end up on the cutting room floor, but I’m up for it. Just don’t tell Bugs about my latest hare-brained scheme.

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