It has to start somewhere

Short fiction

It has to start somewhere

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Greenfaile 08-03-2005, 1:50 PM
*A short writing assignment for my writing group. I did promise I would post "something"*

It was cold that night. “The frost lay on the pumpkin,” as my dad used to say. I hurried along the darkened path I had traversed few times before. A short cut, along the railroad tracks, that should have gotten me home much quicker than the usual way. I balanced myself along the rails, knowing a train hadn’t been through here in a very long time. My feet slid much quicker, causing me to fall a time or two, but a knock to the head is no reason to doubt my vision. The streets were empty; the old buildings on either side of the tracks didn’t let light from the city intrude so I know it wasn’t a trick of some flickering street lamp.

Wind whispered through the air, broken by the sound of katydids. Most people don’t close their eyes or mouths long enough to appreciate the nature that creeps in on the city, but I do. It sneaks up on us, nature, that is. It was here first, not a lot of us remember that. On nights like these after I had left work and if I am alone, I like to scare myself with thoughts about what waits in the shadows. Spinning mysterious tales, talking to myself or to spooks in the night. People probably think I am crazy but people think what they want, they aren’t my concern.

Things I read earlier today at the library, during breaks from working, popped like heated corn into my head. “No, Asimov wrote way too many books, most of them make my head hurt. I guess its better than throwing someone into a vat of acid to hide a murder.” I never claimed to be normal or have normal thoughts, did I? Anyways, on this particular night I was having my usual self-debate on some minor issue, when I saw my face reflected back at me through the back window of a shop. Not one to be too vain, I stopped, but the image kept moving.

I should be getting home. I could hear mom now, “The world is a dangerous place. You don’t reside in it. Come straight from work so I don’t have to worry about you.” Somehow her warnings always faded to the background when I saw something I wanted to learn about. This place was new and instinctive curiosity took over. “Toad Hall. Hmmm.” I rattled the door handle. It was open. Would only take a minute, I reasoned.

Books, had to be thousands of them. A woman sat behind the dust-covered countertop. Cane in hand, “Close the door would you? Ruins the pages. Air does. Come in or get out!” Obediently I closed the door, stepping inside. “That’s better,” she said, “What are you looking for, girl?” “Actually, I was hoping to find myself in here.” “We don’t sell mirrors, or self-help books.” I wondered if mom had a sister.

“No seriously, I thought I saw me come in here. You don’t have to believe me. Just did anyone come in a minute ago?”
She stood up with her cane in hand, “I keep it dark in here. Light fades the books.”
“I’d think a person would stand out, even in the dark. They tend to take up more space.”
“Eh, smart one aren’t you? Try that room?”

She pointed to a room off to the right, adjusting her glasses and regaining her perch, proceeding to ignore me once again.

Maybe it was the books; maybe my mirror-self, but my nosy instinct got the better of me. I pawed through the stacks of books, lying everywhere, no longer concerned about the shadow that drew me in. I spent hours wandering what had to be this tiny little room. It expanded every time I picked up another book. History, religion, politics. This was life and I breathed it in. A set of journals stood apart, I flipped through them, but they seemed monotonous. The same story over and over told in a different hand.

Without thinking, I pulled a pen from my pocket and began to write on one set of blank pages. Filling them with nonsense relating to slugs and deaths, kings and beasts. I romanticized that I was Scherezade, but telling a story as if my life depended on it. Making notes, taking ideas from all that surrounded me incorporating it all into MY world until my hand was sore and would produce no more. I must have dozed off then, because I don’t remember making it home.

The next day, I stopped by. It seems that in my daze, I’d taken the book without paying for it. I may be a lot of things but thief I am not. Money in hand, I returned ready for the old lady’s caustic remarks, determined to pay for what I’d “borrowed.” The store was gone. An empty lot had taken its place. Over the years, nature has taken back the lot like it has a tendency to do. But, I did find myself there. It’s why I stand here now; cane in hand, ready to lay the foundation for a small shop to hold those books. Nature may not like it, man may not appreciate it, but for some reason I have to do it. This is my world, and I am ready to build it.

RE: It has to start somewhere

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gabrielcoeli 08-03-2005, 11:22 PM
A bit abstract, but very good. Pulls you right in, and without distracting grammatical errors (!)
I like to think I'm a smart person, but I'm not sure I "got it." Is there a symbolism I'm missing? At any rate, the writing was solid.
I think you would do very well to consider some of your descriptions. You seem to have a talent for pacing and atmosphere, which are good, but some of your more florid language impresses where some of your more pedestrian leaves wanting. All in all, a great story, but I added the mandatory constructive criticism.
Clarity, clarity, clarity. That'll make this one a winner.

I would rework this until you are AMAZED and not just satisfied, and then seek an outlet for publication.

****
(4 out of 5 stars. Great job, and great story!)

Gabriel Coeli
gabrielcoeli.com
gabe@gabrielcoeli.com

RE: It has to start somewhere

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jobydog 08-04-2005, 8:25 PM
"My feet slid much quicker, causing me to fall a time or two, but a knock to the head is no reason to doubt my vision."

I found this a bit confusing placed here without anything to lead up to it. Maybe it was just me, but it made me stop and wonder what I had missed or what it meant. To me, this distracted from the story because it made me stop, breaking the story right at the beginning. In the next sentence, at the end, you said,"... so I know it wasn’t a trick of some flickering street lamp." Did you mean to switch tenses from past to present? (Or does it go forward to the present on purpose to the time frame at the end of the story? I just couldn't tell that for sure, so I thought it was a bit distracting, making me stop again.)

Otherwise, I thought it had a good flow, but I didn't really understand what it was about and exactly what happened. I thought the end was confusing, but maybe I just missed something?

RE: It has to start somewhere

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Bandito63 08-04-2005, 11:10 PM
Hi Greenfaile,

I, also, had a little trouble with the first paragraph. When I was younger, I would walk the rails to take a shortcut home. And yes, when the rails are wet or frost covered, they are very slick. The last two sentences alluded to something: "to doubt my vision" and "I know it wasn't a trick". What did you see or what were we supposed to have seen?

I didn't have any trouble with the girl eventually becoming the old lady that she had seen so many years before.

It was a good story. I liked it. It just needs a little polish here and there. I enjoyed reading your work. Nice going. [:D]

Re: It has to start somewhere

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bartylsbythescrivnr 09-22-2005, 2:06 PM

Nice story! I like stories that dabble in the surreal. Some can be overdone (like mine typically), but this is done in an interesting way. I'm not sure about all of it; i like the parts where the character thinks about Mom and what she'd say, bringing a dreamy, nostalgic feel. The shop scene was good; I also was picturing a boy throughout. Not sure what i'd do to this story, except "polish."

Re: It has to start somewhere

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NEOPHYTE 09-26-2005, 8:26 PM

Greenfaile, I know that name from another place for fantasy.   Purposefully or not, there are symbols here.   The Wind and The Willow's Toad Hall, 1001 Arabian Knights, Mom, all signs of  youth.  The time of youth is ending because there is frost on the tracks.  Through education, she grows and discovers the  track she wants to follow that will lead to what she will eventually become.  Everything she writes down or reads is her mind absorbing knowledge.  Yet, there is a mystical tone to it all.  In a way, it is a fantasy from childhood that is turned into reality by the adult.  What was the book that was borrowed?   Someone once said write, and they symbols will happen naturally.   I too like this, even though the disappearing business has been used many times, this adds something more, a new twist to an old story.   I enjoyed and thank you.