Only the beginning

edited

Sweets, it isn't quite a short story (maybe a 'short short', or whatever they call it). Anyhow, your words are very powerful. In such a short piece you put the reader through quite a workout -- loved it. Makes me really hope and pray that peace comes to that poor girl. And then the cycle restarts with a new victim.....Well done! :thumbs_up

Thanks for your comment! :) :)
That is true that it isn't a short story. Maybe a 'short short story', yes. :lol: :D
It's more of a text on a theme, I guess.
I am glad that you found my words powerful.

I did worry whether it could (if you intended it do) achieve the status of a narrative rather than a vivid powerful pieceof stream-of-consciousness. The "yellow bag," I thought was the promise of some objective reality beyond the heated thoughts of the two characters, and then the yellow article of clothing seemed to call into question whether there really was a yellow bag - the promise of escape - or whether yellowness was just a figment of her imagination.

But if it was to attain the condition of change that narrative requires - even if only change in the reader's perception of what has been presented - you do provide that in the shocking conclusion:

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Originally Posted by Sweets America

Some yards away, a little girl is weeping and holding her knee, as she has fallen to the ice. Oh, little girl, this is only the beginning, don’t you know?

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At which point, whether from the author's point of view or that of the protagonist - something does change: from that of the possibly fevered thinking of both the man and the woman, to a powerful feminist statement of the circumstance of women in general who feel they have no option but to submit to spousal brutality.

Thank you, Jer. :)
I actually enjoyed writing in this 'stream of consciousness' way and emphasizing thoughts instead of action.
Now that you have explained, I see what you mean about the 'yellow bag'. I did not intend it this way though, I just wanted to add this yellow coat worn by the little boy, because the bag was a symbol of hope and the fact that the yellow coat was worn by a male character reduced this hope to nothing, in a way. Oh, also, when I wrote that, I couldn't help thinking of the 'low men in yellow coats' by Stephen King.
I am not sure I wanted to make a general feminist statement, I think I just wanted to write something which ended in kind of a depressive way, I wanted the cycle to perpetuate itself, I wanted to write about hopelessness.

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Originally Posted by Sweets America

Hello? Huh, this is my first post in the short-story section. :cold:
I'm not sure what I wrote can really be called a story, but I can let you define it if you like. Could you tell me what you think of it?


She is sliding, her body elegantly floating above the ice. Her tiny bruised legs push her forward, using the leftovers of her energy, the energy she secretly keeps for such occasions. During those minutes, she becomes a paradox. The coldness of the winter air freezes her body, but the warmness inside of it has reached its maximal level. The efforts hurt although they provide her with such valuable peace of mind. She entirely is alive. The muscles contract, burn and yell from the pain. She won’t listen to their complaint. Some butterflies whirl inside of her stomach, and she becomes one of them, flying away from her life, then from the earth, flying to a darker place where all she can see is a nothingness made of silence.
He is watching her, she can feel it. He grabs her arm roughly and tries to keep her from leaving. He hates that smile on her face right now. That smile is his property, and no one else should have any right to come close to it.
She breathes and looks around. He is far away, on the other side of the ice rink. This is so strange, she could have sworn she had felt his hand clasp her arm and press it until it left another bruise. He likes leaving traces on her body. She has become the page on which he prints his violence. Taking a deep cold breath, she pushes harder with her legs and gets lost in dizziness.
He is sweaty, excited, restless. She is sliding there, moving her body in such a provocative way. Sliding, sliding, sliding..., whirling around all those other men. Their eyes filled with eagerness and lust are following the course of her body. They can smell her delicate perfume as she swiftly passes by them. He cannot bear that sight. At the moment, she smells like dirt to him. Oh yes he loves her, more than anyone else in this world. ‘She is all mine’, he thinks, and he will not hesitate to murder her if she ever tries to fly too far. To escape.
She is escaping. She flies above the ice. If only she could tell someone. If only she could open her mouth and yell so that someone at last would hear her pain, echoing against the ice. He has taken possession of her body, marking it. She feels that he is taking possession of her soul as well. No, she cannot yell, she cannot call, but she will keep hope. She doesn’t need anyone to get out of the trap he has put her in. She will have to be patient. She has to concentrate on the yellow bag.
Suddenly as she stops, her glance encounters that of another woman. They both share some seconds of their lives and without a word, both of them know. They are caught in the same trap. The eyes of the other woman seem tired. She wonders if her own face bears the weight of her miserable life. Maybe they all see it. Maybe they just pass by and turn their eyes away, pretending not to have guessed. He was right after all, no one can help you out there – Only yourself, maybe.
She has noticed his malignant eyes peering at her. Scrutinizing her. She feels naked and cold. She has a good knowledge of what is going to happen once they get home. The cycle will inevitably perpetuate itself, like some cancer that strikes you again just after you’ve dared hoping it had been receding.
She thinks of the yellow bag again. The money in it is getting bigger. Someday it will be big enough to enable her to escape. But will she still have energy left when that day comes? Will she still be alive?
It is getting colder suddenly. The ice looks bitter. It will be time soon, time to go back to the trap. In her stomach, the butterflies start to suffocate, entering a slow death process, while some new butterflies get born. Those ones hurt.
She glances away. A family is skating. A brown-haired little boy in a yellow coat is giggling. Some yards away, a little girl is weeping and holding her knee, as she has fallen to the ice. Oh, little girl, this is only the beginning, don’t you know?

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Sophie, I really enjoyed reading your story. I wish for more of it every time I read it. It grabs the reader and holds on. Please write more. I love it.

Thank you, Granny! :) :)
I'm sure this story could be elaborated, but I am not sure I want to write more about it. I think I would prefer writing about something else. I'm happy that you enjoyed it!!

Your story is too hard to understand,I think

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Originally Posted by baibai

Your story is too hard to understnd,I think

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Really? In which ways? Can you tell me more? Maybe you could try to tell me what you understand of it and I would see what is still foggy. I thought that it might be a little strange in the beginning but that the rest of the text explained it.
Thank you for your comment. :)

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Originally Posted by Sweets America

Really? In which ways? Can you tell me more? Maybe you could try to tell me what you understand of it and I would see what is still foggy. I thought that it might be a little strange in the beginning but that the rest of the text explained it.
Thank you for your comment. :)

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I read it for a second time .Now I understand it better .Maybe I need a third time.;)

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Originally Posted by baibai

I read it for a second time .Now I understand it better .Maybe I need a third time.;)

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Ahah! ;) Thanks for your reply. I know that sometimes the reader needs to make an effort in order to go into a story, but the writer also has to give the reader enough elements so that he will understand. The reader and the writer should meet half-way, I think.:)

This has to be one of the best stories I have read here on lit-net forums. I feel really impressed by your description. Emotions are portrayed so well that during all the time I was reading this story, I had been putting myself in the area this story has focused upon, then eventually in the places of all these characters too, and after having read the story, couldn't stop myself from thinking about it for sometime too.

Would like to read more by you as well. :)

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Originally Posted by Pensive

This has to be one of the best stories I have read here on lit-net forums. I feel really impressed by your description. Emotions are portrayed so well that during all the time I was reading this story, I had been putting myself in the area this story has focused upon, then eventually in the places of all these characters too, and after having read the story, couldn't stop myself from thinking about it for sometime too.

Would like to read more by you as well. :)

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Thank you very much for this reply, Pensive! That reassures me a little because I would like taking some creative writing courses next year and I hope I will do ok in it.
I am so happy that you felt the emotions I tried to translate into my words. I appreciate that my little story had such an impact on you.
Thank you again. :)

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Originally Posted by Sweets America

Thank you, Jer. :)
I actually enjoyed writing in this 'stream of consciousness' way and emphasizing thoughts instead of action.
Now that you have explained, I see what you mean about the 'yellow bag'. I did not intend it this way though, I just wanted to add this yellow coat worn by the little boy, because the bag was a symbol of hope and the fact that the yellow coat was worn by a male character reduced this hope to nothing, in a way.

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It is one of the frustrations - and sometimes on of the happy surprises - that what one writes will strike readers differently than what one intended. And since writing fiction is like writing poetry in that it is a collaboration between the conscious and the unconscious mind, sometimes what one has written will be even MORE truthful or truthful in a different way than one intended.

For me, the first appearance of the reference to yellow gave me some assurance of a reality outside that of the character's mind. Until that reference, everything was of necessity subjective - and therefore of somewhat questionable truth, as our thoughts almost always were. If she had merely mentioned "a bag" I might have concluded that it could bereal or it could be part of a fantasy wish to escape, but the fact that it was yellow - a seemingly irrelevant detail - made it objectively real for me.

Then when it turns out that the boy is wearing a yellow coat could mean - as you consciously intend - that her escape route was blocked or it could be nothing more than reality taunting her, or her having doubts.

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Oh, also, when I wrote that, I couldn't help thinking of the 'low men in yellow coats' by Stephen King.

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Well, as in our dreams, anything and everything can get into our fiction!

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I am not sure I wanted to make a general feminist statement,

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Maybe not, but I felt and still feel free to read it that way. She, the protagonist, may not be intending a feminist observation, but the perception that her situation is not unique to her lifts the story for me from one of a vivid but static experience into one that had wider reference - an example of the change that I think narratives require.

a good start.
Stream of consciousness is certainly valid. I would try tightening it up a little. A few more concrete images to help it breathe? Also, the paragraphs could be broken up a little to make it a little easier on the eyes. A couple of lines of enlightening dialogue?
Please don't abandon this -- you've got a good topic here.