Tag Archives: Fiction

Some things are best forgotten

He kissed her lips and slowly made his way down to her neck and planted soft pecks below her ear. She felt her cheeks flushing with read heat under the familiar smell of his skin. She let his safe warmth carry her breath to a faster pace, and enjoyed her body tingling with eagerness as his touches lost their softness and became more lustful. The blood their bodies pumped filtered all sounds, and only left the fast beat of their hearts echoing in their ears. One by one they forgot their surroundings, their pasts, their regrets, their sorrows…

Then he sighed, letting out a slight sound, reminiscent of a possum threatening an enemy in the darkness of the night and she remembered…

She remembered the rainy day when her friends were away on vacation and she had gathered her toys to play alone in the abandoned little house where neighborhood kids used to get together and pretend to be royalty holding dinners for lords and duchesses. She was surprised to see a man working on the soil right outside in the garden, but she continued to the house, thinking he was the uncle of one of her friends planting flowers for the kids to pick in summer.

She set up the tiny broken plates with the sticks the kids pretended to be valuable silver cutlery. She went on to prepare the delicious invisible food for her guests, who for the lack of her real friends that day, had to be invisible, too. Every one of her select invitees seated around the gold plated table, sipping the soup under the crystal chandelier, were baffled with the perfection she had attained in her cooking. She accepted the quiet praises of her guests, while keeping up with the talks about the dark enemy that lingered around the premises of the castle. She ascertained her dear friends that everyone was safe within the tall strong walls.

Carried away in her imaginary talks with her refined guests, she did not notice the dark figure watching her by the gate of her castle. She was startled when she saw the man working on the soil outside dripping wet in the same room as her.

He smiled, she smiled back. He approached her, walking through the unseeable gold plated table, dispersing the lords and duchesses dressed in tulle and taffeta into fumes and grabbed her by the arm, but his hands being wet, she managed to slip away. She felt an urge to get away from him and stand by the few guests he had not yet walked over. He was in the mood to play tag. She did not want to be rude but she wanted to go back to her game under the shiny crystal chandeliers with her dreamy friends.

He was faster though, and he caught her. He towered behind her, and hugged her small body, but tighter than her parents had ever done. He smelled her hair, but fiercer than anyone who had ever smelled her and squeezed her yet completely flat chest, and let out a deep sigh with a sound that made her think of angry possums at night.

She did not like this strange game she had never played before.

The rainy day helped her win the tag game. She slipped one last time from his wet and cold possum snare and ran out of the deserted house never to return there again.

She never had the heart to invite her tulle and taffeta clothed friends because the castle with the strong walls and shiny chandeliers no longer seemed plausible, no matter how hard she tried.

In the silence of the bedroom, she heard her neighbor play his nostalgic music, “look for the girl with the sun in her eyes”, and she realized that the last time she had the sun shining in her eyes was on that rainy day, just before the dark enemy made its way through the castle walls.

Her lover held her tightly in the bed, and slowly dozed off. In his affectionate embrace, she felt small, like she had on that day in the man’s grip, and she thought, “Some things can’t be forgotten…”

Thank you my dear friend Priscilla for your extremely helpful review.

Advertisements

The Waiting

He looked at the clock on the wall. A toilet flushed upstairs. With his eyes, he followed the water flowing through the pipes in the walls. She used to hate this sound. She would say: “We are living in their sewage!” To him, it was relaxing like the sound of waves. However, now the sound of the water only reminded him of the emptiness of the house, with every drop resonating in the hollow rooms squeezed in between the walls.

He looked at her shoes. The pair of shoes she had worn every single day of the last ten years. They were torn at the edges. One of them had a hole on the sole that she had tried to cover with a piece of felt. She loved those shoes. It was part of her daily routine to polish them every evening. The more her shoes shined, the greater the dignity she emanated as she walked.

Being presentable and clean was of utmost importance to her. That is why no one dared to say anything when her vision deteriorated and she could no longer detect the stains on her shoes. Bits of blotches began to accumulate on everything she used to clean. Cleanliness, her signature, began to wear off as the smell of dust and old wooden furniture grew.

The dishes also carried the impact of her weakened eyesight. Bits of grease appeared on the rims of the plates. Whenever he ran his hands on the once smooth china, he would feel the grease forming bumps here and there. Yet, he never uttered a word to her about it. He knew she needed to believe in her abilities as a home maker. As long as no one made a remark about dirt lingering on the kitchen counter, there was peace in the house. As long as she kept the house running, they were reassured that they could carry on.

The fact was that things had not been going quite smoothly but he did not care. The only thing that mattered to him was that they were making it through the day together. One would find what the other had lost. One would remember what the other forgot. One would provide what the other could not.

In the last couple of years, however, what each could do had diminished, and they had learned to live with less. They had been shopping lighter since neither had the strength to carry heavy bags. With their bones losing their mass, high shelf tops were no longer among the parts of the home they visited often. Many photographs and letters placed on top shelves years ago had become parts of their lives rarely remembered, forgotten among papers turned yellow.

The clock rang eleven o’clock. He boiled an egg for lunch and sat to eat it with tomatoes and bread. He did not have much appetite anymore. He did not know much about cooking anyway, with her having taken care of meals ever since they had moved into their first home together.

During lunch, he had a look at the newspaper. He did not read about the country politics anymore. Politics, he deemed, were for those who still had the energy to believe in seeing the outcomes of changes. Nor was he interested in classified ads. They were for people eager to make a fresh start with a new car or a new apartment. He read third page news about lonely old people vandalized in their homes by young drug addicts for silverware in cupboards. He always checked the weather report to decide whether to put on another cardigan and of course he loved crosswords.

Until four o’clock, he did the crosswords. At four, he got up from his sofa, of which the seat had sunk under years of weight, and placed his dinner on the stove. He looked up at the clock on the wall. With each minute the minute move of the handles echoed in the house. The shoes of his late wife were by the door, shining under the dust with the polish she had last applied. The toilet flushed upstairs, and he watched the water flow through the walls.

 And he waited…

Verdict on my first piece of fiction: Disconcerting

Painting by Caravaggio Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Caravaggio_-_San_Gerolamo.jpg
Painting by Caravaggio
Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Caravaggio_-_San_Gerolamo.jpg

I read somewhere about the first stories people had written and I thought of my first recorded piece of fiction. Plus, considering it is the first day of the new year, I thought it might be appropriate to blog about it.

I wrote it in my first year at school, right after I had figured out letters and what happens when they come together. You reckon it would be about rainbows or a little girl who wants to be a princess, right? No. In my terrible hand writing with loads of spelling mistakes, and lines all over the page, there lay the story of a boy who secretly takes drugs he is hiding in a cabinet. In the end, he dies.

Final verdict: It is disconcerting for a 7 year old kid, isn’t it? Well, why were my parents not disconcerted when they read this? Probably they were relieved to see that I had finally figured out how to read and write. I think I was the last one in my class. (You know those people who learned to read when they were 3? Hell, probably you are one of them. Well, I am among the few that learned to read at school, where I was supposed to.)

We should take lessons from our pasts. What this past experience has taught me is that I ought to have gone to bed when I was told to do so.