A story starter this month. The following sentence could be the opening OR closing line. If you want a different pronoun or if you have another thought on the verb “to go”… go for it! Let’s not go beyond 500 words.
The morning after, she went on.
OR: another option would be to write a bit of prose or a poem about this photo of the child in the May 1 newsletter.
This is lovely...I love how the words just kind of wind around through the story, so simply and descriptively said. I like especially...the weight of his bags as heavy as the downpour now gracing saturated spring ground....the tip toes of the child..... Sweet images.
Tara, I echo Shirley's "lovely"--it really is. In so few words a portrait--and it feels to be the story of a life-time of fishing/harvesting/familial love... Each word is working hard, from "barren" lakes, to "several"...and we know he'll be back out again, carrying with him all the good stuff of his home and loved/loving ones.
The echoes of rhyming words or slant rhyme--the downpour/ground--and the assonance, too, so works: the wEight/bAgs/As/hEAvy, and nights/ice, and more throughout...
"Tip toes" just evokes "child."
Love how you saw this photo, and shared your interpretation--thank you!
The red and brown box rested on her desk. Slowly, she slid its cardboard drawer open and brought out one, thin wooden match. She twirled the slim stalk between tense fingers. It's red tip so familiar, so ordinary. She moved it toward the rough, rectangular striking patch, where the words, “keep away from children’ were typed formally in black print. Every morning, she did this. Swept the match across the sandpaper, felt the swoosh of the tip igniting, and watched as the yellow burn took hold. After lighting her candle, her lips would part slightly. She’d exhale a slow, soft breath. The flame would die, replaced with a thin string of smoke.
Today for her morning meditation, she was focused on releasing her partner. They were splitting after years of no affection and a mass of mental clutter. Now he was living in the back cottage, still on the property but separated from the main house by several stony steps. She stayed in the main house, facing the street and hanging onto her patience like she was hanging from a window ledge. Her fingers dug in, her body pulling heavily, afraid of a fatal fall. It was only for a month or two until the house was sold. She only had to hang on that long. But patience was still something she was learning. She hoped she was strong enough because she was tested daily. For example, did it matter he had already moved on? Was seeing someone new? Did it matter that he came out of the cottage, ground his heavy boots in to the gravel to help this new woman bring in bags of groceries. Heavy bags with leafy greens slouching inside. No doubt she would be cooking, stirring various pots. Would he be leaning back on the couch, stomach extended and hungry, watching tv and waiting? Waiting to be waited on, hand and foot, the way he liked.
Did it matter that the new woman had parked across the driveway – her driveway; almost blocking her own car from leaving? She had struggled to reverse earlier and cursed this new person. She had called a friend and ranted, calling this other woman a fucking bitch. But was she really? Likely not. She had been told whatever stories he had chosen to tell her and she just had heavy bags to carry. Bags full of whatever - past histories maybe with something green, leafy and promising on top?
She had seen her arrive from the upstairs bedroom window. The one that faced the street. They had greeted each other with familiarity. Bodies bent forward in bland conversation. Maybe commenting about vegetables, she thought. Using her phone; she had zoomed in and shot a grainy photo. She enlarged the image and noticed how the woman was draped in a rather shapeless burgundy jogging suit. There was nothing athletic about her. She wore a long, thin pony tail. Nothing flattering there either. But she must be kind. It would only be a very kind person that would come here, be convinced it's ok to walk by another woman's house to help a poor creature in a cottage.
She felt tempted to leave her house and bang on the cottage door. She’d go there to complain about the woman’s parking job. Look into her kind brown eyes, her flat, moon face and survey her frumpy figure. Then tell her to move her fucking car. But she knew if she started with that, that something more would slide out, unhinge. Something that lay buried below the surface, that held words like rage, loss, ten years. Then he would lumber to the door, with nothing guarded, and shout; his small mouth would bark and bark and bark, ignoring any of her protests. The breath, forced from his mouth, in short gusts, would bang around the doorway. He would fire his arm to the top of the door frame, propping himself up, legs apart, chest butting forward in an aggressive stance, like she’d seen before. There was no hope she’d be heard so what was the use of it?
Or she thought, if she was a different person, she could take another small piece of red-tipped wood and strike it. Walk up to the cottage door, maybe even with a handful of red-tipped sticks, a sort of blazing bouquet... Tell them both that they should have moved the fucking car and toss the flaming bunch into the cottage. It would hit the dried flowers in the entrance first and that would be all it would take for the flames to run up the walls to the wooden frames and bannister. Maybe it would even jump to their clothes, to his sloppy fat t-shirt, to her burgundy jogging suit. Maybe even her limp pony tail. The burgundy velour, would melt, turn black and stick to whatever lay beneath. The air would fill with the acrid smell of burning polyester.
But she’d never do this. Restraint was a skill she had grown over the past 10 years. She had made an art out of the practise of restraint. She was so controlled, that her emotions where clenched and could no longer emote anything. There were no tears and no passion. Everything was held in, tight in her ribs, her battered heart, her stony mind. She prided herself on her restraint. Keep calm. Keep calm and carry on. Only a few more weeks till the property was sold and she'd be away from this. She could hang from the ledge just a little longer.
She considered what to do. About the woman and her parking. The restraint, which was her strength had led to an imbalance of power. He could do what he wanted. He knew she would take it. But how much could one woman bear? Who had she become? With this unbendable backbone, this internal stronghold. She no longer knew. She grabbed the red and brown box and walked up to the cottage door, her hand becoming hot. Disrespect had been thrown at her, blocking her in with that fucking car. She could ignite the whole place if she wanted. She could take back her power – or not. She was calm as she walked.
The momentum in this, Shirley, is so good. That first touch of matchstick, something she does every morning, escalating to her fantasies of a "blazing bouquet." And the "burgundy velour would melt, turn black and stick..." oh my. Anger, hurt, building to explosion. Still, restraint, if practiced too long, can become default. Things we do, and things we think to do.
I am seeing her--in the final paragraph break--as going out to destroy. The box is already afire when she leaves her own door. It's the phrase "or not" that leaves me with a slice of doubt though that she does take action. The final line in the penultimate paragraph holds all that dreadful calm that comes over when one must do...but I'm still wondering to what/where/who is she walking?
What happens if you cut the sentence "she could take back her power--or not"?
Very heavy imagery here, you've very effectively captured the tension from the beginning as the woman holds the matchstick between her fingers and carry this tension forward throughout the proceeding reflections, observations, and emotional unpacking with great momentum, as Alison put it. I felt such an intimacy in the way you presented the scene - you truly render the reader as witness to her private therapy session, which paints the woman all the more vulnerable given her violent and vindictive fantasies.
I walk away with great interest in knowing more about the woman's relationship with her ex, and how they related to each other when they were still together. I can't help but feel that the new woman is likely quite like the protagonist to evoke such strong urges, and that her "letting go" is her acceptance of being replaced, not merely that the two diverged as people over the years and are going their separate way. For this reason, I feel this could work as a chapter to a longer work, while standing strong on its own as a short story as well.
Disembarking after the end-of-winter deluge,
The weight of his bags as heavy as the
Downpour now gracing saturated spring ground
He returned for the final time to his truck trailer,
Locking up the two dozen coolers stacked along the
Far wall, his hands still smelling of the past week’s catch
Soon to be replaced by their cheeky warmth
The tip toes of the child anxious for reuniting --
No more nights away separated by ice roads and
Barren lakes and her mom’s nightly prayers during grace
-- Cross yourself, Maya, for daddy
He would be welcomed by March’s midday sun
Where he would remain for several months
This is lovely...I love how the words just kind of wind around through the story, so simply and descriptively said. I like especially...the weight of his bags as heavy as the downpour now gracing saturated spring ground....the tip toes of the child..... Sweet images.
Tara, I echo Shirley's "lovely"--it really is. In so few words a portrait--and it feels to be the story of a life-time of fishing/harvesting/familial love... Each word is working hard, from "barren" lakes, to "several"...and we know he'll be back out again, carrying with him all the good stuff of his home and loved/loving ones.
The echoes of rhyming words or slant rhyme--the downpour/ground--and the assonance, too, so works: the wEight/bAgs/As/hEAvy, and nights/ice, and more throughout...
"Tip toes" just evokes "child."
Love how you saw this photo, and shared your interpretation--thank you!
MATCHED
By Shirley Silva
The red and brown box rested on her desk. Slowly, she slid its cardboard drawer open and brought out one, thin wooden match. She twirled the slim stalk between tense fingers. It's red tip so familiar, so ordinary. She moved it toward the rough, rectangular striking patch, where the words, “keep away from children’ were typed formally in black print. Every morning, she did this. Swept the match across the sandpaper, felt the swoosh of the tip igniting, and watched as the yellow burn took hold. After lighting her candle, her lips would part slightly. She’d exhale a slow, soft breath. The flame would die, replaced with a thin string of smoke.
Today for her morning meditation, she was focused on releasing her partner. They were splitting after years of no affection and a mass of mental clutter. Now he was living in the back cottage, still on the property but separated from the main house by several stony steps. She stayed in the main house, facing the street and hanging onto her patience like she was hanging from a window ledge. Her fingers dug in, her body pulling heavily, afraid of a fatal fall. It was only for a month or two until the house was sold. She only had to hang on that long. But patience was still something she was learning. She hoped she was strong enough because she was tested daily. For example, did it matter he had already moved on? Was seeing someone new? Did it matter that he came out of the cottage, ground his heavy boots in to the gravel to help this new woman bring in bags of groceries. Heavy bags with leafy greens slouching inside. No doubt she would be cooking, stirring various pots. Would he be leaning back on the couch, stomach extended and hungry, watching tv and waiting? Waiting to be waited on, hand and foot, the way he liked.
Did it matter that the new woman had parked across the driveway – her driveway; almost blocking her own car from leaving? She had struggled to reverse earlier and cursed this new person. She had called a friend and ranted, calling this other woman a fucking bitch. But was she really? Likely not. She had been told whatever stories he had chosen to tell her and she just had heavy bags to carry. Bags full of whatever - past histories maybe with something green, leafy and promising on top?
She had seen her arrive from the upstairs bedroom window. The one that faced the street. They had greeted each other with familiarity. Bodies bent forward in bland conversation. Maybe commenting about vegetables, she thought. Using her phone; she had zoomed in and shot a grainy photo. She enlarged the image and noticed how the woman was draped in a rather shapeless burgundy jogging suit. There was nothing athletic about her. She wore a long, thin pony tail. Nothing flattering there either. But she must be kind. It would only be a very kind person that would come here, be convinced it's ok to walk by another woman's house to help a poor creature in a cottage.
She felt tempted to leave her house and bang on the cottage door. She’d go there to complain about the woman’s parking job. Look into her kind brown eyes, her flat, moon face and survey her frumpy figure. Then tell her to move her fucking car. But she knew if she started with that, that something more would slide out, unhinge. Something that lay buried below the surface, that held words like rage, loss, ten years. Then he would lumber to the door, with nothing guarded, and shout; his small mouth would bark and bark and bark, ignoring any of her protests. The breath, forced from his mouth, in short gusts, would bang around the doorway. He would fire his arm to the top of the door frame, propping himself up, legs apart, chest butting forward in an aggressive stance, like she’d seen before. There was no hope she’d be heard so what was the use of it?
Or she thought, if she was a different person, she could take another small piece of red-tipped wood and strike it. Walk up to the cottage door, maybe even with a handful of red-tipped sticks, a sort of blazing bouquet... Tell them both that they should have moved the fucking car and toss the flaming bunch into the cottage. It would hit the dried flowers in the entrance first and that would be all it would take for the flames to run up the walls to the wooden frames and bannister. Maybe it would even jump to their clothes, to his sloppy fat t-shirt, to her burgundy jogging suit. Maybe even her limp pony tail. The burgundy velour, would melt, turn black and stick to whatever lay beneath. The air would fill with the acrid smell of burning polyester.
But she’d never do this. Restraint was a skill she had grown over the past 10 years. She had made an art out of the practise of restraint. She was so controlled, that her emotions where clenched and could no longer emote anything. There were no tears and no passion. Everything was held in, tight in her ribs, her battered heart, her stony mind. She prided herself on her restraint. Keep calm. Keep calm and carry on. Only a few more weeks till the property was sold and she'd be away from this. She could hang from the ledge just a little longer.
She considered what to do. About the woman and her parking. The restraint, which was her strength had led to an imbalance of power. He could do what he wanted. He knew she would take it. But how much could one woman bear? Who had she become? With this unbendable backbone, this internal stronghold. She no longer knew. She grabbed the red and brown box and walked up to the cottage door, her hand becoming hot. Disrespect had been thrown at her, blocking her in with that fucking car. She could ignite the whole place if she wanted. She could take back her power – or not. She was calm as she walked.
The morning after, she moved on.
The momentum in this, Shirley, is so good. That first touch of matchstick, something she does every morning, escalating to her fantasies of a "blazing bouquet." And the "burgundy velour would melt, turn black and stick..." oh my. Anger, hurt, building to explosion. Still, restraint, if practiced too long, can become default. Things we do, and things we think to do.
I am seeing her--in the final paragraph break--as going out to destroy. The box is already afire when she leaves her own door. It's the phrase "or not" that leaves me with a slice of doubt though that she does take action. The final line in the penultimate paragraph holds all that dreadful calm that comes over when one must do...but I'm still wondering to what/where/who is she walking?
What happens if you cut the sentence "she could take back her power--or not"?
Curious to know what others think...
Thank you for posting!
Very heavy imagery here, you've very effectively captured the tension from the beginning as the woman holds the matchstick between her fingers and carry this tension forward throughout the proceeding reflections, observations, and emotional unpacking with great momentum, as Alison put it. I felt such an intimacy in the way you presented the scene - you truly render the reader as witness to her private therapy session, which paints the woman all the more vulnerable given her violent and vindictive fantasies.
I walk away with great interest in knowing more about the woman's relationship with her ex, and how they related to each other when they were still together. I can't help but feel that the new woman is likely quite like the protagonist to evoke such strong urges, and that her "letting go" is her acceptance of being replaced, not merely that the two diverged as people over the years and are going their separate way. For this reason, I feel this could work as a chapter to a longer work, while standing strong on its own as a short story as well.