Margaret

Outcast

Hi guys, here's a very short story I wrote the other day. Any C&C welcome.

Margaret poured the boiling water into her tall glass cup. It steamed and hissed as she poured and slowly the colour began seeping out of the teabag, tinting the water. The tiles were cold against her bare feet and she rocked from heel to toe, revelling in the sheer joyous comfort of her purple pyjamas. She was having a lazy day, the likes of which she had not had in a terribly long time. The days had a way of sliding away from her, ever so slowly at first but gathering speed until Friday after Friday after Friday had disappeared into the wind. Margaret always measured time by the number of Fridays that had passed; a vestige of her youth perhaps, when everything built up to and wound down from the Friday night party. Between seventeen and twenty five, she had been so convinced that the best years of her life would be between seventeen and twenty five. Terror stricken at the thought of wasting them she had rushed blindly into everything from intellectualism to alcoholism. She had tried write her life in college like a page from Kerouac, all late nights, skipped lectures, meaningless protests, coffee shop debates, whiskey twisted parties, head spinning lightening relationships and plunging, crippling bouts of utter depression.

Although it all seemed so shockingly recent she knew that youth and old age were worlds apart. Margaret did not feel like the foolish girl she had been at twenty. What was more she had no wish to feel like the foolish girl she had been at twenty. Those were the days when friends came and went with the seasons and when the indulging of the senses cancelled out any need for the fulfillment of the mind. In adulthood she was freed from the frenzy of needing to see and do and experience everything right now (that had been her saying in younger days. “Shots. You and I. Right now!” or “I’m going to get up out of this chair and change the world right now!”) She did not regret her past, it had been a blinding technicolour swirl of brilliance (and she was never short of anecdotes) but there had come a time when it had to stop. She had to stop. Too often she had teetered on the edge.

Slowly the teabag began to sink, drifting lethargically downwards, its own swirl of colour released. She fished around with a teaspoon and tossed the bag into the sink, it landing with a wet thump. Carefully she carried the herbal tea away and set it down before curling back into her armchair. This was it now; it replaced the frantic dash of youth. The tang of the lemony tea, the warmth of her bare toes curled under her and the sheer joyous comfort of her purple pyjamas. The beauty of it, though, the absolute beauty.

smcgiff

Hi Margaret,

Interesting – The youth can have their kicks as long as I’ve my herbal and cosy fire.

There are places where I think you’ve tried too hard and used a “thesaurus” word where a simple word would have intruded less e.g. ‘tinting the water’.

You’d some strong and enjoyable sentences, ‘she had rushed blindly into everything from intellectualism to alcoholism’, then there were others that I had to go back over several times and still didn’t get, ‘She had tried write her life in college like a page from Kerouac…’ and lines I don’t think worked, ‘until Friday after Friday after Friday had disappeared into the wind.’

Finally, my spelling is atrocious and I rely heavily on Word to ensure the spelling is correct, and when I read someone else’s writing I do the same, and so a couple of words popped out.

Thanks for posting!

shiv

Hey Outcast,

Thanks for sharing, it was stimulating! I like your style a lot, and I could relate to it. Today I'm having a pajama day myself! I agree with the previous poster about your strong sentences, and any Kerouac reference does it for me I like your list especially:

all late nights, skipped lectures, meaningless protests, coffee shop debates, whiskey twisted parties, head spinning lightening relationships and plunging, crippling bouts of utter depression.

I also like the strange sort of repetition you employ to make a point:

Margaret did not feel like the foolish girl she had been at twenty. What was more she had no wish to feel like the foolish girl she had been at twenty.

This is nice too:

blinding technicolour swirl of brilliance (and she was never short of anecdotes) but there had come a time when it had to stop. She had to stop. Too often she had teetered on the edge.

I never thought describing making a cup of tea could be so heartfelt and descriptive. Maybe I'll have to boil the kettle more often...

Outcast

Thanks to you both. I agree with some of the suggestions made, I've redrafted it a bit. And this is possibly just the original concept, I'm considering broadening it over the next while.

Glad you liked it.