revjim.net

Though I have written many poems, and countless technical articles and essays, I have never once written fiction outside of a classroom setting. Even then my experience was limited. I have decided to give it a shot.

Below is my first attempt: a short, fictional story entitled "reflections". I'll appreciate any comments or criticism you might have, though those which tell HOW to make it better help the most. Special thanks goes to Jaclyn for helping me with editing.

It doesn't really work the way I had intended it to in my head and I am not 100% happy with it. The meaning I was attempting to convey may have become lost in the technical details of writing and many of its strong points may have become unfocused in the shuffle. But, I've grown tired of it and, therefore, am becoming less and less inspired when working on it. So I've decided to publish it as is. You be the judge.

He got up from her white imported granite floor, and walked out the front door, naked and cold. He wandered down her street with no real direction, except away, and with no duration in mind, except forever.

He loved her more than he had ever loved anything or anyone and it had always been this way; from the instant he saw her, until now. He would have done anything for her, anything to make her happy, and she knew this.

On many occasions he would cower in the corner of his living room as she screamed and cursed at him, upset with him for something he couldn't possibly control, like running out of hot water during her shower, or being late due to an accident on the freeway. As she cursed him, and called him names, she'd take whatever was nearest and throw it at him. Her aim, luckily, was poor. When she finally ran out of things to throw, words to scream, or the energy to do either, he would find himself sitting in a pile of his belongings, shattered about him like his life, neither of which mattered more to him than she did.

In her anger she would often acquire a scratch or a bruise, of her own infliction. When she finally calmed down, he would tend to her injuries, neglecting his own cuts, scrapes, bruises, and, on one occasion, a broken finger.

Though he had asked many times, she refused to live with him. She would tell him that she couldn't possibly do so because she couldn't stand to be around him for more than five minutes at a time, let alone be in the same house with him day after day. So, on his meager wages he afforded a small run-down apartment for himself and, on the other side of the city, paid the mortgage on the beautiful home he had bought her last year. It wasn't good enough for her, and he knew it, but it was the best he could do for now.

She, of course, insisted on nothing but the finest amenities. After the house had been built, she decided that the ceramic tiles in the kitchen weren't good enough. She needed white granite, imported from the side of some cliff in a remote region of the world that he had never even heard of. While this modification cost him dearly, there was nothing he wouldn't give her if he could, so she got her wish. When it was finished, they both marveled in the purity of the stone, and the luxury held in its pores. It was worth every penny, and so was she. Every time he came to see her, which was as often as possible, he would cross over those beautiful white tiles. Even though they were intentionally unpolished and porous, he would swear he could see her reflection in them

Today marked the day they met, three years ago. Though he had been planning this day for the past four months, she spent at least two of them reminding him that he had better do something special for her this year to make up for ruining last year.

Knowing she would be out all day as she usually was, he took the day off work. First he cleaned the house from top to bottom, as she was fairly poor at any domesticated activity, and it had gotten quite bad. He covered every surface he could think of with candles. He littered her bed with rose petals. He wrapped the pair of diamond earrings she hinted about wanting only two weeks ago, and a pair of sheer red panties he'd picked up from the lingerie store on Commerce. He bought the ingredients for her favorite dish, and began cooking it so it would be ready at 6pm, the time she had asked him to meet her there. Dinner was ready by 5:45pm, and was waiting in the oven. He dimmed the lights, and lit all the candles. Then he put on Chris Isaak's "Heart Shaped World", one of her favorites. He stripped down to nothing, put on a tie, and draped a towel over his arm. He would be her servant for a day, to show her how much he loved her. As he waited for her to arrive he was very excited. She would be pleased with him.

She arrived a little over an hour late. This didn't phase him at all, as he half expected it. He covered her in kisses and led her into the kitchen to show her all he had done for her. He handed her the box containing the earrings and watched her eyes light up as she unwrapped them. Next, he handed her the bag holding the panties. She laughed when she saw them, smiled at him, and dangled them in front of her waist, swaying her hips back and forth. He had always loved the way she teased him. He poured two glasses of port and escorted her to the table. He gathered her plate and his, and took them to the stove to serve her.

He had placed a beautiful bouquet of roses at the center of the table. She pulled them close to her to breathe in the scent she had smelled a many times before, thanks to him. As she brought them to her face, a thorn, forgotten by him when he arranged the flowers, pricked her finger.

She screamed in pain, and then at him. He ran to her, not knowing what had happened. She sprung from her chair and sunk a fist into his face. Staggering backward he ran for the foyer. He knew what would come next. She picked up the vase of flowers and chased after him, hurling it at him as soon as she was close enough. It hit him in the chest and shattered on the cold white granite under his feet. She punched and kicked until he was on the ground pleading her to stop. "I'm sorry," he shouted over her screams and fists, "I should have checked them. I forgot."

He was very sorry. He should have checked them. He ruined what could have been an incredible evening. Her punches slowed as he remained balled up on the floor, lying in the broken glass of the vase, silent.

She started to walk toward the door, her keys in hand. Just as she was about to slam the door behind her he called out, "I love you, baby. I'm sorry.".

She spun around quickly, and shot him a cold glare. "Well I fucking HATE you," she said slamming the door behind her.

He just laid there, whimpering. He heard her walk down the steps in front of the house. Shards of broken glass pierced his naked body as blood ran warm onto the granite tiles. He heard her car door slam and the engine start. Tears fell from his eyes uncontrollably, not because his skin was cut, but because his heart was hurting. He heard her tires squeal as she slammed on the gas. He should have checked the roses for thorns. He heard her race down the street. He should have checked the roses for thorns.

He laid there for a while. His head pressed against the cold granite. His body pressed against the broken glass. His eyes shut tight, tears pouring out from behind them. He loved her. She would not get over this quickly. He must make it up to her somehow. He should have checked the roses for thorns. It was his own fault. It was his own doing.

Then he opened his eyes. The granite, being porous and unpolished, was stained by his blood. The grout in between each tile darkened with his sweat and tears. The tile was no longer beautiful. He studied the pores. He watched them soak up his blood almost as quickly as it fell from his body. He could no longer see her reflection.

He got up from her white imported granite floor, and walked out the front door, naked and cold. He wandered down her street with no real direction, except away, and with no duration in mind, except forever.