from my intro to fiction class
i already turned this one in, so there's no real urgency, but i'd like some feedback in case i pick this one for my "extended story" i have to do for my final.
the assignment was to have two people, with high-stake secrets from each other. one or both of the secrets must be revealed at the end, and there must be a power shift because of this.
i'm not too fond of this story, by the way.
the title is from a counting crows song.
questions:
did i fulfill the assignment? (not for assignment's sake, but rather, did i reach my goal?)
the capitalization was an experiment. did it fail or succeed? do you see what i'm trying to do with it? or is it just distracting?
any suggestions or comments?
i’m falling from the ceiling, you’re falling from the sky
i lie awake on her couch not sleeping, not sleeping at all but breathing. there are colors on the ceiling from the neighbor’s tv and they ripple and wash over me and make me feel as though i am underwater. i hold my breath.
her keys clink in the lock and she opens the door and flicks on the light letting out all the water. exhaaaale. i squint at her. she is dripping. black drippings from her eyes. jacket dripping from her arms. black hair dripping from her head. she splatters down next to me. i squint but she pretends not to notice and the light stays on.
“I’m not going to tell you where I was,” she says. her wet arms make my shirt wet too.
i look at the rivulets of water streaming down her face. black mascara coal river running from beneath her eyes, but not from inside. tearless water. “it’s raining,” i say.
“Very observant.” she begins taking off her boots. she stretches her legs out and lies down beside me on the couch. her hair sticks to my face and makes the pillow wet. “You got another brilliant reflection to point out, Theo?”
i say no and pull her hairs from my tongue. i cannot see her face anymore. i do not see her face at night. “I need a towel,” she tells me. i swim up from her sea of hair and leave her on the couch.
in the bathroom it is still dark. i stand still and hold my breath until my lungs feel as though they will push out from under my ribs. until my head fills with one, huge, empty bubble. it is dark at the bottom of the sea, they say. i exhale. i find her towel and carry it back to the couch. there are long black strands stuck to it. stuck to me.
she takes the towel from me and covers her face with it, soaking up the rivers and creeks and trickles. i want to tell her now, before i can see her face again. before she wipes all the black lines away and i forget they were ever there. i want to tell her now.
“Why aren’t you in the bed?” she asks, voice muffled by terrycloth and hair. “It’s kind of cold out here on the couch.”
“it’s not so cold,” i say. she calls me weird. she shivers, but it is the rain on her arms that makes her cold, not the room. she starts to dry the water off. i watch the towel run over her skin, leaving behind dryness where wet once was. towels are magic. i am going to tell her.
“i have to talk to you about something,” i say. “It can wait until tomorrow, Theo,” she says. “It is three a.m. and I am rainsoaked and tired. And I already said that I’m not telling you where I was. So don’t push it.”
i am not pushing it. i wasn’t even going to ask where she’d been. i tell her this and she throws the towel at me.
“All men want to know where their women have been. If they truly love them.”
she sweeps back her hair and looks at me. all her exposed skin is dry, but her clothes are still wet. i hold my breath. she pokes me sharply in the ribs and sends all my air stampeding out, as though my body is a balloon and her finger the needle. “Stop it. Every time I say something you don’t want to reply to, you hold your breath. I’m sick of it.”
“then you should say something i can reply to,” i say. she just looks at me, the light from the neighbor’s tv making patterns on her face. i say her name.
“I’m going to bed” is her answer. she wriggles out of her miniskirt and little top, splashing them all over the living room and heading into the bedroom. i stay on the couch for a little while longer, still awash in light. she hadn’t turned it off when she left the room. i do not lie there and wonder where she’d been. i lie and wonder if i am going to tell her tonight. if i am going to tell her ever. or if i should just go and leave my shadow behind on the wall, like a flash explosion. ah, my shadow would not linger on her walls anyway. i will tell her tonight.
i gather her clothes and take them into the bedroom. she is lying naked on the bed, squinting at the ends of her hair. the light is still on. i turn it off.
“I’m not ready for lights-out yet, Theodore. Please turn them back on.”
i take off my clothes and climb into bed next to her. her body glows white even in the dark. the tv makes ripples on our bodies. concentric circles that never touch.
she turns to me. “Get naked all you like, I’m not going to have sex with you tonight.”
i don’t want sex tonight. i set my hand onto her stomach. i say her name. she lets go of her hair and puts her hand on mine.
“i know that you don’t love me anymore,” i say to her. she does not say anything. her hand stays on mine. “i don’t know if you knew that i know that.”
i do not hold my breath.
“i didn’t know that you knew that,” she says. “how long have you known?”
“two years.” i take my hand off her stomach and lie flat on my back. ripples on the ceiling. she does not move. she is quiet and i can hear water softly hitting the pillow under her head.
“there are things i should tell you,” she says. “i should have told you that a long time ago. there are lots of things i should have told you a long time ago.”
i don’t want to hear them. they all add up to what i already know anyway. i stop her before her confessions start pouring out. i tell her about the money i saved up. i tell her about the apartment i will be moving into. i tell her i will be gone by the end of the week.
she is sitting up. her hair drips down, hiding her face. her eyes are dripping, from the inside this time. tears hitting her legs, wetting her bare skin all over again. i cannot help but reach over and wipe them away. i cannot help but take her into my arms. she is holding me, as she hasn’t in years. in the rippling blue light, we make love. we make love to each other until the neighbors turn off their television and the room sinks into darkness. in the black, we lie next to each other, barely touching. she says my name. i do not answer. we lie there, breathing.
the assignment was to have two people, with high-stake secrets from each other. one or both of the secrets must be revealed at the end, and there must be a power shift because of this.
i'm not too fond of this story, by the way.
the title is from a counting crows song.
questions:
did i fulfill the assignment? (not for assignment's sake, but rather, did i reach my goal?)
the capitalization was an experiment. did it fail or succeed? do you see what i'm trying to do with it? or is it just distracting?
any suggestions or comments?
i’m falling from the ceiling, you’re falling from the sky
i lie awake on her couch not sleeping, not sleeping at all but breathing. there are colors on the ceiling from the neighbor’s tv and they ripple and wash over me and make me feel as though i am underwater. i hold my breath.
her keys clink in the lock and she opens the door and flicks on the light letting out all the water. exhaaaale. i squint at her. she is dripping. black drippings from her eyes. jacket dripping from her arms. black hair dripping from her head. she splatters down next to me. i squint but she pretends not to notice and the light stays on.
“I’m not going to tell you where I was,” she says. her wet arms make my shirt wet too.
i look at the rivulets of water streaming down her face. black mascara coal river running from beneath her eyes, but not from inside. tearless water. “it’s raining,” i say.
“Very observant.” she begins taking off her boots. she stretches her legs out and lies down beside me on the couch. her hair sticks to my face and makes the pillow wet. “You got another brilliant reflection to point out, Theo?”
i say no and pull her hairs from my tongue. i cannot see her face anymore. i do not see her face at night. “I need a towel,” she tells me. i swim up from her sea of hair and leave her on the couch.
in the bathroom it is still dark. i stand still and hold my breath until my lungs feel as though they will push out from under my ribs. until my head fills with one, huge, empty bubble. it is dark at the bottom of the sea, they say. i exhale. i find her towel and carry it back to the couch. there are long black strands stuck to it. stuck to me.
she takes the towel from me and covers her face with it, soaking up the rivers and creeks and trickles. i want to tell her now, before i can see her face again. before she wipes all the black lines away and i forget they were ever there. i want to tell her now.
“Why aren’t you in the bed?” she asks, voice muffled by terrycloth and hair. “It’s kind of cold out here on the couch.”
“it’s not so cold,” i say. she calls me weird. she shivers, but it is the rain on her arms that makes her cold, not the room. she starts to dry the water off. i watch the towel run over her skin, leaving behind dryness where wet once was. towels are magic. i am going to tell her.
“i have to talk to you about something,” i say. “It can wait until tomorrow, Theo,” she says. “It is three a.m. and I am rainsoaked and tired. And I already said that I’m not telling you where I was. So don’t push it.”
i am not pushing it. i wasn’t even going to ask where she’d been. i tell her this and she throws the towel at me.
“All men want to know where their women have been. If they truly love them.”
she sweeps back her hair and looks at me. all her exposed skin is dry, but her clothes are still wet. i hold my breath. she pokes me sharply in the ribs and sends all my air stampeding out, as though my body is a balloon and her finger the needle. “Stop it. Every time I say something you don’t want to reply to, you hold your breath. I’m sick of it.”
“then you should say something i can reply to,” i say. she just looks at me, the light from the neighbor’s tv making patterns on her face. i say her name.
“I’m going to bed” is her answer. she wriggles out of her miniskirt and little top, splashing them all over the living room and heading into the bedroom. i stay on the couch for a little while longer, still awash in light. she hadn’t turned it off when she left the room. i do not lie there and wonder where she’d been. i lie and wonder if i am going to tell her tonight. if i am going to tell her ever. or if i should just go and leave my shadow behind on the wall, like a flash explosion. ah, my shadow would not linger on her walls anyway. i will tell her tonight.
i gather her clothes and take them into the bedroom. she is lying naked on the bed, squinting at the ends of her hair. the light is still on. i turn it off.
“I’m not ready for lights-out yet, Theodore. Please turn them back on.”
i take off my clothes and climb into bed next to her. her body glows white even in the dark. the tv makes ripples on our bodies. concentric circles that never touch.
she turns to me. “Get naked all you like, I’m not going to have sex with you tonight.”
i don’t want sex tonight. i set my hand onto her stomach. i say her name. she lets go of her hair and puts her hand on mine.
“i know that you don’t love me anymore,” i say to her. she does not say anything. her hand stays on mine. “i don’t know if you knew that i know that.”
i do not hold my breath.
“i didn’t know that you knew that,” she says. “how long have you known?”
“two years.” i take my hand off her stomach and lie flat on my back. ripples on the ceiling. she does not move. she is quiet and i can hear water softly hitting the pillow under her head.
“there are things i should tell you,” she says. “i should have told you that a long time ago. there are lots of things i should have told you a long time ago.”
i don’t want to hear them. they all add up to what i already know anyway. i stop her before her confessions start pouring out. i tell her about the money i saved up. i tell her about the apartment i will be moving into. i tell her i will be gone by the end of the week.
she is sitting up. her hair drips down, hiding her face. her eyes are dripping, from the inside this time. tears hitting her legs, wetting her bare skin all over again. i cannot help but reach over and wipe them away. i cannot help but take her into my arms. she is holding me, as she hasn’t in years. in the rippling blue light, we make love. we make love to each other until the neighbors turn off their television and the room sinks into darkness. in the black, we lie next to each other, barely touching. she says my name. i do not answer. we lie there, breathing.