As promised...
Mar. 30th, 2004 12:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evergleamOkay, so I said I would maybe post my story, and I think I will. I have a few ideas as to where I want it to go, and a few specific scenes I want to add, but I thought I would talk to my professor tomorrow before I do that.
One thing it is missing, however, is a central conflict. I haven't quite worked out what the root of their misery is, but I know I don't want it to be anything too heavy-handed. A lot of it has to do with the close quarters and the heat, but I think there should be something a little more central than that. Also, I was wondering if you all think I should make the setting more specific, or if I should leave it in an un-named city.
I need lots of constructive criticism on this one, so fire away. :-)
I lie with my head resting on the one good arm of our ratty peach-colored loveseat, with the cool pages of a magazine pressed against my face. The dusty blue curtains are drawn so that only a feeble light filters in, fluttering against the faded green-gray carpet. Stale July air floods the tiny two room apartment, the flimsy air conditioning unit in the bedroom stuttering and wheezing, as though it might fall backwards out the window, three stories down and smash into a thousand teeny shards on the simmering pavement below.
A mass of cars waits impatiently at the intersection outside the window, honking their horns in the stiff summer heat. Getting up, I leave a sticky imprint on the loveseat and stagger toward the window. There is a door between the bedroom and the window that leads out onto a metal balcony that shakes in the wind as though it might let go its hold on the side of the building and plummet to the ground. Today the air is still and stifling as I step through the doorway and out into the mid-afternoon sunshine. I peer down at the traffic and search for David’s car among those of business men returning home for lunch. The shadows from the birch trees that line the sidewalks dance in little circles as joggers and dog-walkers pass under and through them. I hear a rattling of keys at the lock to the front door behind me, and I step back into the apartment as David is tossing his book bag onto the floor.
He comes home for lunch at one-thirty every day. Sometimes I am there, and he crosses the room to mechanically brush his lips across my cheek, or else he will move for the computer with a breathless hello in my direction. Other times I am not there, and I don’t know what he does.
Today he heads for the computer, and as he plops down in his swivel chair I pat his shoulder as I squeeze by him into the kitchen, and he says nothing to me. I open the refrigerator and pull out a jar of grape jelly and place it on the counter. I hate this kitchen. The counter tops are covered in a thin layer of grime that won’t come up no matter how I scrub. The floor is much the same, a skinny trail of dirt stains the tiles as though someone has perpetually just dragged mud into the apartment. The cabinet doors bang open as I search for a clean plate. I fix a sandwich and breeze back into the living room and plunk down onto the loveseat once more.
The computer desk is situated next to the loveseat. With the sandwich resting on the arm beside me and my magazine in my lap, I look up at David’s face, it is pale and washed out in the glow of the computer screen. Munching on my food, I study the slight curl of his upper lip, the smattering of freckles dusted across his crooked nose, the tangled mess of brown curls that’s perpetually falling in his eyes. I remember the feeling of excitement that used to coarse through me when he would come into the room and my stomach begins to turn. I recognize something in David’s face that has fallen away, something behind the indifference that has glazed over his face. I see a boy who used to smile at me.
He looks up and notices my steady gaze, a flash of irritation flickers in his eyes. “Why are you staring at me?” he snaps.
I pause, and avert my stare to the kitchen window behind him. “There’s something stuck between your teeth,” I say. I return to my magazine.
David is interning with a market research firm for the summer. He gets up at six every morning and showers. His is dressed in his button-down collared shirt and gray slacks and out the door before I ever have to move. I wonder if he resents me these mornings, while I toss lightly in bed and he dresses himself groggily. I spend most of the morning reading or sitting out the balcony watching the city go about its business. I am here when David comes home for lunch, where he usually doesn’t eat but instead sits in front of the computer for forty-five minutes. He leaves and it is my turn to shower and get ready for work. I am not interning somewhere, but I, too, put on a button-down collared shirt and gray slacks. Over this I pull on my red apron and nametag. I work evenings at the local grocery store a few blocks away from our apartment.
David is not back from work with the car when it is time for me to go, so I must walk the three blocks. I lock the door to the apartment behind me and trudge down the steep flight of stairs that extend from the bottom of the building straight up to the third floor. The hall smells of damp fresh paint and cardboard, as it has since the day we moved in the last week of May. Flinging open the door to the building, I hurl myself out into the oppressive humidity. I can feel the heat from the sun-soaked sidewalk through my thinly-soled shoes. Already my stringy blonde hair is curling like tendrils of spaghetti and clinging to my neck. My shirt is damp underneath my arms. I think of the air-conditioned haven that awaits me.
It is a Friday, and so I wonder if David and I will do anything tonight when I get off work, like we used to do. We do not rent or watch movies anymore, the television set in our apartment is busted and only plays static. I cannot pick up some food from the store and bring it to cook for him like I once would have, the gas stove in the kitchen won’t light anymore, and so it is piled with dirty dishes. Once, we would have caught a late-night movie at the Cineplex downtown. The darkened theater allows us to sit in silence without the requisite feeling of awkwardness. I can watch him out of the corners of my eyes without him yelling at me in his exasperated voice.
“Alisa,” he sighs when he’s caught me staring. “I hate when you do that. Creeps me out.”
A whoosh of cool air greets me as I enter Food-Mart. I clock in and assume my post at the third cash register. Family after family comes through my line with their boxes of dried foods and cheese crackers and the occasional banana. My shift passes uneventfully, and around eleven I make my way to the telephone in the back to call David. The phone rings four times before he answers.
“Hullo.” His voice is distant, with a hint of agitation.
“David, it’s me. Can you pick me up?” I twirl the phone cord between my index and middle fingers.
“Right now, Alisa? I’m in the middle of something.” I can’t think of what could be so important, especially since I know he hasn’t left his seat at the computer since he came home.
“David, it’s dark and it’s late, I don’t want to walk back by myself.”
“You know how bad parking is in the city this time of night, if I leave now I’ll never get a space again. Can’t one of the other cashiers drive you home or something?”
“Sure. I’ll ask,” I mumble into the receiver. “See you in a bit.” I hang up the phone without waiting for his goodbye.
When I am back in the apartment, David is still at the computer and does not acknowledge my arrival. He seems angry, slamming a book on the floor while simultaneously knocking an empty coffee mug on the desk over, but I don’t dare ask what is bothering him. I can tell by the look on his face that it would only lead to a loud fight, or worse, more silence. I sit down again on the loveseat, and trace my finger around a brown stain on the cushion beside me. David is only a few feet away from me, close enough to touch if I reached my hand out to him. Instead, I pick up a book from the floor. I glance at the cover. I’ve read it before.
I look around the room for something to do. The apartment is cluttered with David’s things. His stacks of DVDs rest in one corner between the loveseat and the wall next to the front door, ready to topple onto the floor at any moment. His dirty clothes lay in piles in front of the bathroom. Books and papers and folders from his job are strewn abut the floor in front of the computer and lead into the bedroom. I cannot see them, but I know that my clothes are folded neatly in a corner of the bedroom closet. Some of my books are on the bookshelf next to the door to the balcony.
I get up and move outside to the balcony. Sitting in a metal fold-out chair, I watch the traffic again, it seems to be a new pastime of mine of late. I hope, in vain, that David will join me.
Also, I don't like the "end" much. And I feel like I need more details, or rather, better imagery in a lot of places. I dunno. Help me out here. ;)
One thing it is missing, however, is a central conflict. I haven't quite worked out what the root of their misery is, but I know I don't want it to be anything too heavy-handed. A lot of it has to do with the close quarters and the heat, but I think there should be something a little more central than that. Also, I was wondering if you all think I should make the setting more specific, or if I should leave it in an un-named city.
I need lots of constructive criticism on this one, so fire away. :-)
I lie with my head resting on the one good arm of our ratty peach-colored loveseat, with the cool pages of a magazine pressed against my face. The dusty blue curtains are drawn so that only a feeble light filters in, fluttering against the faded green-gray carpet. Stale July air floods the tiny two room apartment, the flimsy air conditioning unit in the bedroom stuttering and wheezing, as though it might fall backwards out the window, three stories down and smash into a thousand teeny shards on the simmering pavement below.
A mass of cars waits impatiently at the intersection outside the window, honking their horns in the stiff summer heat. Getting up, I leave a sticky imprint on the loveseat and stagger toward the window. There is a door between the bedroom and the window that leads out onto a metal balcony that shakes in the wind as though it might let go its hold on the side of the building and plummet to the ground. Today the air is still and stifling as I step through the doorway and out into the mid-afternoon sunshine. I peer down at the traffic and search for David’s car among those of business men returning home for lunch. The shadows from the birch trees that line the sidewalks dance in little circles as joggers and dog-walkers pass under and through them. I hear a rattling of keys at the lock to the front door behind me, and I step back into the apartment as David is tossing his book bag onto the floor.
He comes home for lunch at one-thirty every day. Sometimes I am there, and he crosses the room to mechanically brush his lips across my cheek, or else he will move for the computer with a breathless hello in my direction. Other times I am not there, and I don’t know what he does.
Today he heads for the computer, and as he plops down in his swivel chair I pat his shoulder as I squeeze by him into the kitchen, and he says nothing to me. I open the refrigerator and pull out a jar of grape jelly and place it on the counter. I hate this kitchen. The counter tops are covered in a thin layer of grime that won’t come up no matter how I scrub. The floor is much the same, a skinny trail of dirt stains the tiles as though someone has perpetually just dragged mud into the apartment. The cabinet doors bang open as I search for a clean plate. I fix a sandwich and breeze back into the living room and plunk down onto the loveseat once more.
The computer desk is situated next to the loveseat. With the sandwich resting on the arm beside me and my magazine in my lap, I look up at David’s face, it is pale and washed out in the glow of the computer screen. Munching on my food, I study the slight curl of his upper lip, the smattering of freckles dusted across his crooked nose, the tangled mess of brown curls that’s perpetually falling in his eyes. I remember the feeling of excitement that used to coarse through me when he would come into the room and my stomach begins to turn. I recognize something in David’s face that has fallen away, something behind the indifference that has glazed over his face. I see a boy who used to smile at me.
He looks up and notices my steady gaze, a flash of irritation flickers in his eyes. “Why are you staring at me?” he snaps.
I pause, and avert my stare to the kitchen window behind him. “There’s something stuck between your teeth,” I say. I return to my magazine.
David is interning with a market research firm for the summer. He gets up at six every morning and showers. His is dressed in his button-down collared shirt and gray slacks and out the door before I ever have to move. I wonder if he resents me these mornings, while I toss lightly in bed and he dresses himself groggily. I spend most of the morning reading or sitting out the balcony watching the city go about its business. I am here when David comes home for lunch, where he usually doesn’t eat but instead sits in front of the computer for forty-five minutes. He leaves and it is my turn to shower and get ready for work. I am not interning somewhere, but I, too, put on a button-down collared shirt and gray slacks. Over this I pull on my red apron and nametag. I work evenings at the local grocery store a few blocks away from our apartment.
David is not back from work with the car when it is time for me to go, so I must walk the three blocks. I lock the door to the apartment behind me and trudge down the steep flight of stairs that extend from the bottom of the building straight up to the third floor. The hall smells of damp fresh paint and cardboard, as it has since the day we moved in the last week of May. Flinging open the door to the building, I hurl myself out into the oppressive humidity. I can feel the heat from the sun-soaked sidewalk through my thinly-soled shoes. Already my stringy blonde hair is curling like tendrils of spaghetti and clinging to my neck. My shirt is damp underneath my arms. I think of the air-conditioned haven that awaits me.
It is a Friday, and so I wonder if David and I will do anything tonight when I get off work, like we used to do. We do not rent or watch movies anymore, the television set in our apartment is busted and only plays static. I cannot pick up some food from the store and bring it to cook for him like I once would have, the gas stove in the kitchen won’t light anymore, and so it is piled with dirty dishes. Once, we would have caught a late-night movie at the Cineplex downtown. The darkened theater allows us to sit in silence without the requisite feeling of awkwardness. I can watch him out of the corners of my eyes without him yelling at me in his exasperated voice.
“Alisa,” he sighs when he’s caught me staring. “I hate when you do that. Creeps me out.”
A whoosh of cool air greets me as I enter Food-Mart. I clock in and assume my post at the third cash register. Family after family comes through my line with their boxes of dried foods and cheese crackers and the occasional banana. My shift passes uneventfully, and around eleven I make my way to the telephone in the back to call David. The phone rings four times before he answers.
“Hullo.” His voice is distant, with a hint of agitation.
“David, it’s me. Can you pick me up?” I twirl the phone cord between my index and middle fingers.
“Right now, Alisa? I’m in the middle of something.” I can’t think of what could be so important, especially since I know he hasn’t left his seat at the computer since he came home.
“David, it’s dark and it’s late, I don’t want to walk back by myself.”
“You know how bad parking is in the city this time of night, if I leave now I’ll never get a space again. Can’t one of the other cashiers drive you home or something?”
“Sure. I’ll ask,” I mumble into the receiver. “See you in a bit.” I hang up the phone without waiting for his goodbye.
When I am back in the apartment, David is still at the computer and does not acknowledge my arrival. He seems angry, slamming a book on the floor while simultaneously knocking an empty coffee mug on the desk over, but I don’t dare ask what is bothering him. I can tell by the look on his face that it would only lead to a loud fight, or worse, more silence. I sit down again on the loveseat, and trace my finger around a brown stain on the cushion beside me. David is only a few feet away from me, close enough to touch if I reached my hand out to him. Instead, I pick up a book from the floor. I glance at the cover. I’ve read it before.
I look around the room for something to do. The apartment is cluttered with David’s things. His stacks of DVDs rest in one corner between the loveseat and the wall next to the front door, ready to topple onto the floor at any moment. His dirty clothes lay in piles in front of the bathroom. Books and papers and folders from his job are strewn abut the floor in front of the computer and lead into the bedroom. I cannot see them, but I know that my clothes are folded neatly in a corner of the bedroom closet. Some of my books are on the bookshelf next to the door to the balcony.
I get up and move outside to the balcony. Sitting in a metal fold-out chair, I watch the traffic again, it seems to be a new pastime of mine of late. I hope, in vain, that David will join me.
Also, I don't like the "end" much. And I feel like I need more details, or rather, better imagery in a lot of places. I dunno. Help me out here. ;)
