Short Story: Solitaire
Title: Solitaire
Story Type: Original
Wordcount (I swear I'm going to actually start doing these): 1,000
Background: This story was the very first of Project Kilo, lo those many years ago, and when I was going over my old work to see which of these PK posts was salvageable, I was astonished to read this, particularly so early in the process. I vividly remember the day I wrote it, the panic as my self-imposed deadline loomed ever nearer, the humiliation of failing my own challenge on the first day, my mad dash through the house desperately seeking inspiration.
I came across my mother, who at that time spent the vast majority of her time playing Solitaire at our bar. I'd noticed and commented on it before, but never payed it all that much attention. That day, however, the distinct sound of one card scraping another as she flipped it and set it down kind of shot through my brain. About an hour and a half later, I wrote this. I remember writing it, that the narrator sounded like Emma Thompson because I'd recently watched Stranger Than Fiction and was obsessed with her character's narrative style, but I don't really remember writing this. It seems far too tight, too clean, and too potent to be something I whipped up in a little over an hour when I was nineteen.
These days, Solitaire is the story I reread when I need to remind myself that I am, in fact, a talented writer with a great deal of natural potential and technical skill. I hope you agree.
Solitaire
Fwip. Swish. Slap.
The cards made an erratic downbeat, a disjointed melody that rasped against her ears with each draw and shuffle. King of Hearts, Queen of Spades.
The faces, the pictures blended together in a blur of symbols and colors. Jack of Clubs, Ten of Diamonds.
Three Aces stared up at her. Each waiting, expectant. She had assembled them in order of preference. First Spades, then Diamonds, an empty space and then Hearts. In her youth, she had wondered how and why the cards got their names, who had designed and decided what each pattern would mean in respect to the others. Now, though, she thought only of the next three cards. Alternate the colors, count backwards, defeat and victory in the same hand.
She played alone. Of course, that was the name of the game, wasn't it? The very title mocked her solitude. Solitude, solitaire. It was all the same thing, wasn't it? Not that any of this mattered, of course. Just draw the next three cards, hope for the best.
If she won, who lost? If she lost, who won? She was dealer and player, ally and enemy. This wasn't about skill. Who needs skill to defeath themselves? What was the point. She didn't win anything. No one even said "good game" and patted her on the back.
Ace of Clubs. She slid it into place between the Diamonds and Hearts. Victory. Loss. Ten points for her, ten points against.
If she had been given to pointless imaginings, she would perhaps have tried to picture the sadistic bastard who invented a game wherein should you win, you also lost. She would imagine him to have beady, dark eyes that shifted back and forth like a metronome. She would have given him a monocle, because only pompous creeps wore monocles. Them and the monopoly man, and he wasn't such a great guy anyway.
But she wasn't the type to imagine silly things, so she simply drew the next three cards.
Fwip.
A more introspective creature might consider how intriguing that sound was. The sharp and yet hushed sound of one card scraping against another. They might imagine all the possible objects that could make that exact sound, and then compare the different notes and octaves inherint in individual fwips.
But not her. She just drew the next three cards.
The layout which had once been orderly and meticulous was now a big mess. She didn't like messes. So when some columns got longer and others got shorter, she weighed her accumulation of points against the relative ugliness of the game so far, and set about restoring order to the silent and impassive deck. Were she the type to wonder, she might find herself wondering if that was in fact the object of this game. Restoring order to a field of chaos. Failing to make such a philosophical connection, however, she drew the next three cards.
All of her Aces were gone now, hidden behind their less impressive brothers like small children in a leaf pile. She remembered small children in leaf piles. It was silly how they found so much enjoyment out of something so simple. A more poetic soul would've reflected on what a wonder it is that a child can take something as depressing and glum as a pile of dead leaves and from it create an explosion of pure life and movement and joy. But she was far to sensible to entertain such flights of fancy, so she just drew the next three cards.
She found no joy in this game. It simply passed the time until the clock told her it was time to do something else. The house was clean. The house was always clean. In years past there had been messes and spills and things left lying about by small people who were fond of loud voices, but that was a long time ago. Now everything was still, and comfortably settled in its appointed place. And tomorrow there would be work, and meals, and perhaps another game to pass the time until the clock told her to stop and move on, but for now she drew the next three cards. The clock didn't seem to mind.
She didn't always play solitaire. She used to play Gin, and Bridge, occasionally. She had even been known to enjoy a game of poker should the mood and company inspire it. But all of those games required people other than oneself to play, and really she couldn't be bothered to seek them out. She doubted she even remembered how to play any of those other games. They had been more fun than this, though. That much she did recall.
Her deck was getting thin now. All of her piles had gotten thicker, and there was a possibility that she might win and lose, rather than lose and win. That would be nice. She straightened her columns, she was down to four, and tidied up the piles which awaited the next contribution, and then she drew the next three cards.
Spades, Diamonds, Clubs and Hearts. She couldn't remember how or why she had come to settle on that order. She knew that she had been a small girl when she had decided it, and it stayed that way. One more imposition of order where there was none. They all looked fairly dull to her now, so maybe it had been something other than the pictures that influenced the decision. But she was grown now, and couldn't be expected to remember how a child's mind worked.
Only two cards were left to draw now. They weren't the two she needed. She examined the field for a move she may have missed, but couldn't find one. She had lost. She had won. She sighed and gathered up the columns and piles, sorting them out and shuffling them up. She set out her field once again and glanced up.
The clock made no objections.
She drew the first three cards.
Story Type: Original
Wordcount (I swear I'm going to actually start doing these): 1,000
Background: This story was the very first of Project Kilo, lo those many years ago, and when I was going over my old work to see which of these PK posts was salvageable, I was astonished to read this, particularly so early in the process. I vividly remember the day I wrote it, the panic as my self-imposed deadline loomed ever nearer, the humiliation of failing my own challenge on the first day, my mad dash through the house desperately seeking inspiration.
I came across my mother, who at that time spent the vast majority of her time playing Solitaire at our bar. I'd noticed and commented on it before, but never payed it all that much attention. That day, however, the distinct sound of one card scraping another as she flipped it and set it down kind of shot through my brain. About an hour and a half later, I wrote this. I remember writing it, that the narrator sounded like Emma Thompson because I'd recently watched Stranger Than Fiction and was obsessed with her character's narrative style, but I don't really remember writing this. It seems far too tight, too clean, and too potent to be something I whipped up in a little over an hour when I was nineteen.
These days, Solitaire is the story I reread when I need to remind myself that I am, in fact, a talented writer with a great deal of natural potential and technical skill. I hope you agree.
Solitaire
Fwip. Swish. Slap.
The cards made an erratic downbeat, a disjointed melody that rasped against her ears with each draw and shuffle. King of Hearts, Queen of Spades.
The faces, the pictures blended together in a blur of symbols and colors. Jack of Clubs, Ten of Diamonds.
Three Aces stared up at her. Each waiting, expectant. She had assembled them in order of preference. First Spades, then Diamonds, an empty space and then Hearts. In her youth, she had wondered how and why the cards got their names, who had designed and decided what each pattern would mean in respect to the others. Now, though, she thought only of the next three cards. Alternate the colors, count backwards, defeat and victory in the same hand.
She played alone. Of course, that was the name of the game, wasn't it? The very title mocked her solitude. Solitude, solitaire. It was all the same thing, wasn't it? Not that any of this mattered, of course. Just draw the next three cards, hope for the best.
If she won, who lost? If she lost, who won? She was dealer and player, ally and enemy. This wasn't about skill. Who needs skill to defeath themselves? What was the point. She didn't win anything. No one even said "good game" and patted her on the back.
Ace of Clubs. She slid it into place between the Diamonds and Hearts. Victory. Loss. Ten points for her, ten points against.
If she had been given to pointless imaginings, she would perhaps have tried to picture the sadistic bastard who invented a game wherein should you win, you also lost. She would imagine him to have beady, dark eyes that shifted back and forth like a metronome. She would have given him a monocle, because only pompous creeps wore monocles. Them and the monopoly man, and he wasn't such a great guy anyway.
But she wasn't the type to imagine silly things, so she simply drew the next three cards.
Fwip.
A more introspective creature might consider how intriguing that sound was. The sharp and yet hushed sound of one card scraping against another. They might imagine all the possible objects that could make that exact sound, and then compare the different notes and octaves inherint in individual fwips.
But not her. She just drew the next three cards.
The layout which had once been orderly and meticulous was now a big mess. She didn't like messes. So when some columns got longer and others got shorter, she weighed her accumulation of points against the relative ugliness of the game so far, and set about restoring order to the silent and impassive deck. Were she the type to wonder, she might find herself wondering if that was in fact the object of this game. Restoring order to a field of chaos. Failing to make such a philosophical connection, however, she drew the next three cards.
All of her Aces were gone now, hidden behind their less impressive brothers like small children in a leaf pile. She remembered small children in leaf piles. It was silly how they found so much enjoyment out of something so simple. A more poetic soul would've reflected on what a wonder it is that a child can take something as depressing and glum as a pile of dead leaves and from it create an explosion of pure life and movement and joy. But she was far to sensible to entertain such flights of fancy, so she just drew the next three cards.
She found no joy in this game. It simply passed the time until the clock told her it was time to do something else. The house was clean. The house was always clean. In years past there had been messes and spills and things left lying about by small people who were fond of loud voices, but that was a long time ago. Now everything was still, and comfortably settled in its appointed place. And tomorrow there would be work, and meals, and perhaps another game to pass the time until the clock told her to stop and move on, but for now she drew the next three cards. The clock didn't seem to mind.
She didn't always play solitaire. She used to play Gin, and Bridge, occasionally. She had even been known to enjoy a game of poker should the mood and company inspire it. But all of those games required people other than oneself to play, and really she couldn't be bothered to seek them out. She doubted she even remembered how to play any of those other games. They had been more fun than this, though. That much she did recall.
Her deck was getting thin now. All of her piles had gotten thicker, and there was a possibility that she might win and lose, rather than lose and win. That would be nice. She straightened her columns, she was down to four, and tidied up the piles which awaited the next contribution, and then she drew the next three cards.
Spades, Diamonds, Clubs and Hearts. She couldn't remember how or why she had come to settle on that order. She knew that she had been a small girl when she had decided it, and it stayed that way. One more imposition of order where there was none. They all looked fairly dull to her now, so maybe it had been something other than the pictures that influenced the decision. But she was grown now, and couldn't be expected to remember how a child's mind worked.
Only two cards were left to draw now. They weren't the two she needed. She examined the field for a move she may have missed, but couldn't find one. She had lost. She had won. She sighed and gathered up the columns and piles, sorting them out and shuffling them up. She set out her field once again and glanced up.
The clock made no objections.
She drew the first three cards.