Shading the days: Mettalic. - Writers Forum

Indy Baggins · 12-18-2004, 11:22 PM

Hello,
This is my first story I'm posting here and one of my first stories in englisch, so be kind hehe. I'm writing this as a Christmas present for one of my friends, all suggestions are welcome.

Shading the days:
Metallic

It is coming. I can feel it.
As far away as it still is, it will come, I am sure.
Sometimes I wonder whether it comes for me. For me alone. I can feel my heartbeat speeding up and I check my watch. Two more minutes. It is never late. Nor early.
A shiver steals trough my body. Almost now.
I sweat, but not because it is warm. I let my forehead lean against the mirror for a moment, relishing in it’s cold. Then I pull back and, purely out of habit, straighten my clothes.
I stare back at the pale face in the mirror.
I am nothing if it doesn’t come, without it. Nobody knows, but these daily moments are the sheer definition of my existence.

Of course I have a wife. One who knows better than to disturb me now. Strange it seems, that a person like me once found someone who willingly wanted to spend her life with me. That wasn’t such a long time ago, I realize. What happened between then and now I don’t know.

She feels it though. Aside from all our differences, she feels it, more than I.
But she does not relish the way it makes her feel, like she is nothing. She is still one of those poor souls who wants to be something. Who eternally crawls into the air, in the hope that one day she will catch something she can hold on to.
She never does.

So she hides.
She paints her face. Thick and heavy. She dresses up. She acts like the people she sees on TV. Maybe because they are her only point of reference to the real world. Two-dimensional happiness for all.

Maybe under all those veils of covering, there is still some perfect little part left of the person I once knew. Or once thought I knew. After all, what do we know when we are that young. Ach, maybe even more then I do now.

She consists of layers now, my wife. Small films of covering, of guilt and loneliness.

I wonder sometimes. Whether I could peel them all away, one by one, until only she will be left. Naked, full of truth and ugliness. She is probably ugly without her cover, just as all of us are. I wouldn’t turn away from her, no. I would hold her in my arms until the dark or the hope, makes her or me smile again.

All like little children are we, waiting under the linen bedcovers for either sleep to numb our mind or fear to splinter it to pieces. No mother who tells us the dark is just imagination, no comfort in the light for we know dark will return.

But what is love anyway, other than the imagination that one’s life feels better when shared with an other. In the end all of us are born alone. And all of us die alone. What happens in between is rarely considered relevant anymore once the cold earth has swallowed you back.

It comes. I can feel it shivers rolling through the earth. The sound is always a few seconds late. I relish in it anyway. I don’t have to look through my window to see it speeding through the ice-filled country. Sweet train, take me away, I pray. It never does.
It makes a deep, thrilling sound, and then the sound dies away, together with all feeling. Goodbye. You go to nothing, I stay in nothing.

I remember a day, I was half as tall as I am now. Racing from school to the bridge. Not to look over it and see the steaming wagons, as my friends did. No, to feel the shivers. The feel the world break apart for one second and to wish it would take me away to that place, between sound and breaking. It never did.

I grew up. Never thought about escaping anymore. Jobs it was, money, love. And then more money. Because you needed it for love right. You needed a house. With pretty floors, look I have it. She cleans them every day.
Maybe because that way they never get dirty, maybe because she hopes that some day they will be dirty. I asked her once and she didn‘t answer.
Does she try to clean our love every day too? Does she try to scrub all wounds away, until her hands are left raw and bleeding? If so, I’ve never seen it.

Why do people always think about the past as being in black and whites? It was not, I can assure you. Why do we think about the people from the past as beings who were inferior to us? About ourselves as children as smaller in every way than us today? Not knowing anything?
I am sure that I was better as a child.
Nothing important that stands between me now and that distant and small black and white figure I once was. Nothing important I have learned now, that I did not knew then. No memories of happiness stand out as clearer and better than those of a long time ago.

I will run away now.

What, if anything, will I tell her? “Thank you for your kindness. You were most supporting to me.” That seems fitted. No insults, why would it be her fault when it so obviously is not.

I walk to the door and turn the knob.
This is it.

And I run, and run, the snow making creaking sounds under my feet, tempering the world into a deep blanket, covering, I can go now, and I go.

And I reach it.

I can see it’s lightened windows, it’s speed and the sound almost carries me away, I found it, it is mine now…

------

Fighting for breath I wake up. It is dark and warm. In the distance I can hear the train make one more sound and it is gone.

“Honey? Are you ok? You were dreaming… honey? Tell me what happened…” she holds me. Her hands seem almost an offence to my body. I shake her of.
It is not her business. But, for old time’s sake, I answer anyway.
“I took a train.”
She laughs. “You have never taken a train in your life.”

It’s true.

Somehow I feel as if I should defend myself.
“I took that train, the one that runs over the fields.” I make a vague motion towards the window. She knows what I’m talking about.

“That’s a wood train” she sighs. “It does not carry passengers.”

Seeing my face, she says, “Come on Henry, it’s not like you didn’t know that, we’ve lived here for years.”

I didn’t.

daniela · 12-20-2004, 12:34 PM

The formatting is a little strange, but I think it works well with this piece. You have a nice flow throughout the story and you did a good job of portraying your character's thoughts. There is this one line that I find a little clunky, though.

"Strange it seems, that a person like me once found someone who willingly wanted to spend her life with me."

It kind of sticks out like a sore thumb. Perhaps you should cut the unnecessary words and rearrange a little what is left. Also, the comma isn’t needed here and breaks up the sentence at an odd place.

The ending was really neat. I thought the guy was dying or going to kill himself and it turns out that he was dreaming. Overall you did a nice job and I think whoever receives this is very lucky to get such an interesting story for a present.

--DM--

writerprincess15 · 12-20-2004, 12:52 PM

I agree! I think this story is fabulous! Of course, i have read it once before when you showed me it, but reading it a second time i like it even more! Awesome job! I loved it and i cant wait for you to post more of your writing! Hugs!

Devon · 12-21-2004, 01:20 AM

Hi Indy! Just thought I'd drop you a quick note to let you know that I'll be leaving comments on this piece soon. It's 1:30 in the morning right now and I'd like to reread what you've written when I'm more awake so I can get a better sense of the story. There's a lot of feeling to this piece and it will probably be somewhat like interpreting a piece of poetry. But, anywho . . . did I just split an infinitive?

Indy Baggins · 12-21-2004, 01:00 PM

hehe-thanks for reading it anyway-let me know what you think...
*hurries of to read the new part of the perfect player*

Devon · 12-21-2004, 09:15 PM

All righty. Hmm . . .er. . . um . . . where to start.

I noticed that you had many trains of thought (no pun intended, here) going throughout the piece, but they flowed together nicely. You did a great job of interconnecting all of them. The concise sentences allow the reader to keep pace evenly without it feeling choppy and disjoint. At first, a lot of it seemed like a metaphor for death and dying, but by the end the reader discovers that it was in fact Henry's dream. Was he dreaming about death, metaphorically, that is? I like it when the writer leaves things up to the reader's interpretation and doesn't 'spoon-feed' them with "This is the way it is, set in concrete, and you can't think of it any other way. Blegh." Lol. Sorry. Got carried away.

The story was very well written in the sense that it did do a great job of revealing the main character's thoughts (agreeing with Daniela). It didn't lend itself to heavy description, per se, and that's all right. It worked in this piece. The strain of darkness kept itself well throughout. There were many lines I really liked, such as:

"All like little children are we, waiting under the linen bedcovers for either sleep to numb our mind or fear to splinter it to pieces."

And this one:

"But, what is love anyway, other than the imagination that one's life feels better when shared with another."

Oh yes, and this one, of course: "Two-dimensional happiness for all." I love the feel of cynicisim in that line.

There was one line I found that if you reconstructed it differently, would flow better: "No insults, why would it be her fault when it so obviously is not." If you brought the 'is' between the 'it' and 'so' it would not have a slight snag to it's readablility.

"No insults, why would it be her fault when it is so obviously not."

One thing I still can't figure out (and I've read this three times) is how Henry didn't know that the train didn't carry passengers, that it was just a wood train. Or am I totally missing something and interpreting it incorrectly?

Anyway, this piece was very good and I agree with Daniela once again. The person getting this story as a gift is lucky indeed.

Indy Baggins · 12-25-2004, 09:10 PM

Hey,

thank you for your comments, I edited the sentences you recommended and "gave" it away as a present.

The fact hat Henry does not know that the train doesn't carry passangers?

I intended this entire piece as a kind of gentle parody of the person it is intended for. The fact that Henry puts all his hopes and live on something unrealistic. Deep down he knows that the train does not carry passangers. Deep down he knows he will never ride it too. But it is the fantasy that keeps him going, and when pressed upon the facts (his wife) he denies it all.

I don't know if this makes any sense...

daniela · 12-25-2004, 09:16 PM

It makes perfect sense.

--DM--

Devon · 12-26-2004, 06:07 AM

Ah, yes. Got it. It does make sense.

Tori · 12-26-2004, 06:27 AM

I truly, truly like this story.

Quote:

She feels it though. Aside from all our differences, she feels it, more than I.
But she does not relish the way it makes her feel, like she is nothing. She is still one of those poor souls who wants to be something. Who eternally crawls into the air, in the hope that one day she will catch something she can hold on to.
She never does.

This paragraph was written in a way that defined the wife and allowed for readers to empathize. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.

Only thing I would change:

Quote:

“That’s a wood train” she sighs. “It does not carry passengers.”

I'd make does not, doesn't; only because it is dialogue and I find it unrealistic and unflowing for a character to speak without the contraction unless they are an overly educated or snobbish character, not to mention, your character uses that's in the first sentence. I would re-write that dialogue:

"That's a wood train." She sighs. "It doesn't carry passengers."

Since it's one of the last lines of the piece, I think it really stuck out for me. Regardless, great writing!