This is my entrance to the fast and furious task of the fourth day of the Theinkwell festival. The festival challenges writers to write a post based on a creative stimulus.
The proposal for this fourth day revolves around the narrative arc; we are asked to write by choosing one element from each section: A, B, C and D and then develop the story: a main character ( the protagonist of A) with a problem (from B), a secondary character ( possibly an antagonist from C) and the apparently insurmountable obstacle (from D) to overcome or accept the problem.
Choose one item from each section: A, B, C and D (you can select them or write them on slips of paper and randomly select one item from each pile).
Now you are equipped with everything you need to develop your story: a main character (the protagonist from A) with a problem (from B), a secondary character (possibly an antagonist from C) and the seemingly insurmountable obstacle (from D) to overcoming or coming to terms with the problem.
In your story, show us how you get from the beginning to the end, how the main character is thinking about or dealing with the problem, the other character and the obstacle, including the resolution to the story's conflict.
Feel free to try more than one - or write a second post another day!
Taken fromm: Theinkwell
This is my proposal:
Crying
A butterfly flutters in the wind, the butterfly's wings caress the woman's dry lips, as pale as flour. There must be some other way to dissociate matter from form and reduce it to an absence, he thought, while closing the windows facing the garden and casually drawing the blinds.
She fell on the huge bed as if she had been pushed. Her eyelids were listless, subtle and at the same time graceful, slightly swollen as if she had just woken up or had a fever. With his gaze, he runs through the mostly white spaces of the room. He stops at the small blue details, trying to understand the connection with the sky-colored curtains.
In other areas of the house there is a dance floor, where the mother rehearsed the routine of her shows every day; a sauna and a small bar with a glass pool in the basement. In addition, a relax room with comfortable armchairs to sit down to rest, to recover energy, illuminated only with electric light. She loved that half-light and that silence not disturbed by the noises of the street, because it allowed her to easily forget that outside there was sunshine. The elegance of the house was limited to the interior, and so maintained by the idea of the mother that the brilliance should not be diluted or lavished.
The woman was dressed in discreet clothes: dull and limp colors, but nothing black. She went out to the street and through the glass of her dark glasses she could notice that the light of the city floated in the windows like a golden dust, undecided. "The arms of the city are not for everyone", she remembered her mother's words; but also, that day everything seemed to allude to a convalescent stupor, like a despicable reminiscence of consonance.
She entered the same café as always, where the community of artists and celebrities of the city gathered; where surely not everyone could pay the prices demanded there, but in the interest of seeking favors or maintaining appearances they went every day. The look of those present was a sentimental consonance. And she had always shown coldness even in the most emotional circumstances. She had never tolerated the sentimental outpourings, the out-of-control passions, the fragility that equated human beings with little cats terrified by the lights of a highway.
Those were the first differences she had with her husband, a hippie musician who, contrary to all the people she knew, shunned fame and glory, and these, bent on going where they are not wanted, followed him from a very young age. So the mother set out to chart a promising future for her daughter in the show bussines promoting her with this unbridled musician.
The waiter immediately brought her usual order: an espresso cup with a slice of sachertorte. However, that day she had no appetite, or maybe she didn't feel like eating her repeated breakfast of the last three months. She listened to the murmurs around her criticizing and questioning her for not showing any signs of grief in the face of her mother's death. She put her hands to her face, to everyone's surprise, even to herself. Immediately, she raised her head, got up and left the place.
She entered the funeral home as a model on a catwalk. She simply greeted those present with a slight movement of her head. However, despite her own efforts, she was disturbed when she saw him. Marc, the hippie musician of his torments, stroked the coffin as if it were his own mother's. When he saw it, he approached her and hugged her stubbornly. She did not know how to react. Marc took her by the arm and led her into a small room to rest. She, not knowing what to do, let herself go.
A mist enveloped her for a couple of hours. She was sad and relieved. Sad about the past, relieved about the lightness with which the present time was looming. They didn't say a word to each other. They did not even look at each other, but before leaving for the burial, he passed his hand over her cheek; and she perceived it as the incense of a not far away but badly illuminated memory.
The burial was most normal; though noticeable because seemingly the mother's followers manifested more pain than her own daughter.
At the end, Marc approached her and said:
-I am afraid of the words I am going to say: our history, although in ruins, is complete.
She tried to manifest, once more, the coldness of her emotions; then a light shine was noticed in her eyes, like a restless tear wanting to go out. The most surprised was Marc who, upon noticing it, took her by the hand and led her to his car.
Once in the car, she closed her eyes and fell asleep. She had no dreams, but when she opened her eyes, she was enveloped by a sensation of baroque music and small lights, like candles, running through the city with their brilliance.
-My mother says that when I was born I didn't cry but coughed," she said.
-I was trying to gag a cry that didn't exist. My mother did not allow the nurse to hit me; she took me in her arms and fed me from her breast. So I didn't cry.
Both of them looked out the car window at the city and the setting sun.
-It's going to start getting dark," he said.
-Now that Mom is dead, I am stuck in the middle of death. Nothing separates me from her but time.
It was night, so street lamps, houses and cafés were illuminated and the outline of things became more precious; at once, he touches her hand. She stares at him. He tries to settle down to get closer to her face and feels his heart rate speed up. He tries to relax his breathing and chooses to kiss the woman's hand, which is held tightly in his hand. The night air became more alive, there were traffic jams at the crossroads and people rushed into the streets. She lowers her head and comes close to the torso of the man; she caresses his arms with the fingers of her other hand and directs her head gently until she meets the impassive gaze of the man. And amidst all those lights and agitation they experienced a feeling of eternity, an illusory feeling that the course of time had stopped. They have no words to say to each other. Then he brings his lips closer to hers.
The car stops. She gets out in a hurry and runs as if she were running away. She enters his house, closes the door behind her and finally cries as if pushing all the pain that has accompanied her since the beginning of her existence. It was already night and, on the other side, the city was disintegrating.
Poetry can be appreciated between some sentences, and the conflict between the loss of a loved one and the unknowns that it drags from the past. We continue in the race 😉 @morey-lezama
That's right, just some of the reading keys: loss of a family member and questions about the past. Thank you!
Hi @morey-lezama I like the story for your protagonist, the woman who can't cry and suppresses her emotions. Does the problem stem from the woman's mother who piggy-backed the daughter's career on the coattails of the daughte's musician husband? I can't tell where the problem lies.
Thank you for sharing your story.
I think the problem may come from there, from the relationship with the mother. One detail that I failed to highlight in the story, and which may be key, is the absence of the father figure; the mother occupies this place with some rudeness.
I was going to ask about the father. I was thinking he must have passed away or was absent through divorce - not wanting to deal with the mother who pushes her child to do things she may have wanted to do herself. Yes, the mother does occupy all her space putting her forth for a career. She's projected as being domineering. Maybe that's why the daughter holds back her emotions.
A father in the daughter's life may have taken the edge off, and she may have gravitated towards him in the emotional realm.
Ahhhh, finally she managed to feel
Alas it needed the death of her mother, and the support of her ex
Nice one @morey-lezama ... I am curious to know your picks on the four categories :D
Hello, it was something like that, at least in the beginning:
My main character is: A young girl
My character's problem is: Unable to recover from a loss
My character is living, meeting or disagreeing with: Ex-spouse
What prevents my character from solving his problem is: Irritating opinions of other people
Yes, I see it now :D
That feeling of grief and relief tied up together..but I'm not sure if I got it right. Loss is never easy. I felt the emotions in the passage. :)
It may be because the keys are not well worked out, but it seems to me that the main character has many difficulties in expressing her emotions and, somehow, with the death of the mother and the reunion with the ex-husband, something is removed within her that leads her to a consciously undesired position: that of manifesting her crying. Thank you!
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STOPGreetings, @ morey-lezama I have read your text from what I understood as the first symbolism in your first sentence: death, a butterfly, hovering over white lips and the haughty thought that aims to correct the "doing" of death?
There must be some other way to dissociate matter from form and reduce it to an absence, he thought, ...
A girl who could not grow up, forced to the mother's plan, and who did not learn to cry because she did not know the street. Interesting character, dark and strange character. I felt sorry for her. I think the forecast will be fulfilled, he does not have much time to live:
-Now that mom is dead, I'm caught in the middle of death. Nothing separates me from her except time.
I love your metaphors, they are beautiful. I could say from this text that I missed a treatment of time.
Very good reading and I appreciate it very much. I tried to play with some symbols, indeed, brought from poetry. Death haunts the characters as well as our lives, so it is important to allow the expression of our emotions even if it goes against our own way of being. Greetings and thank you very much for your attentive reading.
This is a beautiful piece of writing, @morey-lezama. It really resonated with me. I think we all have trouble knowing the feelings within, and sometimes they can be trapped and under pressure. That is what I took away from this story, and I thought you captured that really well.
Additionally, you have some really nice phrasing. The writing creates a mood, and you do such a nice job of adding details and touches that put us there in the setting.
That is really inspired. I read multiple times!
As for some constructive feedback for you, one thing to watch for is tense. It can be distracting when a story is told in both present and past tense. (For example, in this excerpt, the tense changes from past to present: "It was night, so street lamps, houses and cafés were illuminated and the outline of things became more precious; at once, he touches her hand. She stares at him.") A good writing tips post for reference is Lessons in Tense.
As always, very timely, valuable and stimulating your comments. I really appreciate you taking the time to read and comment. They are very enlightening to me along the way of the writing.
I was not so clear on the role of time in tension. I was able to appreciate the observation to my story, read the post you mention and began to evaluate some of my other texts and, indeed, they gain a lot when time is well managed. The same mistake in this story, I have it in others. But now I look at them with a different perspective, so I thank you, once again, for your observations. Best regards!
A girl with the characteristics of this one: born with the roughness of a stone and raised in an environment of superficiality. And yes, her conflict is the death of her mother. Although one can also notice her impossibility to express her true emotions, even in front of the man she loves.