Flash fiction- Above the Rapids of the River Seine

randomchild

All criticism welcome! If you enjoyed it let me know


Above the Rapids of the Seine
By Jonathan Shortall

“…Fine.”


The curt end of a lengthy conversation. A conversation so long it had begun the moment they had met. Its ripples would be felt in their lives even longer. The woman tore herself from the soothingly warm lair of the duvet wrapping. Meanwhile, Charles’ body lay, unmoving, on the wintry white bed, his modesty protected by the bleak duvet cocooned around his body, acting as a barrier against the intruding weather that howled outside. It seemed to him that no matter how tightly he enveloped himself in his make-shift fortress, a hint of the cold still seeped in, which bit all the way into the core of his essence. Never mind, he thought to himself; the frost will soon melt away. It always gave up eventually.


He pretended not to listen to the semi naked woman pacing around the house, with the subtlety of a heavy gust, in a surprisingly composed and dignified search for her missing garments that had been blown around the house in the whirlwind of their love making. While she occasionally cursed at the seeming futility of her quest, Charles staid sprawled on the bed, presenting an indifferent front, his lack of opinion more than made up for by the intrudingly noisy weather outside. The only sign of life he emanated was an occasional tug on his covering, tightening its embrace around him, always tied as a counter to a particularly heavy assault on the window by the abominable conditions. He succeeded in shutting out the cold even further. As the woman buttoned her fashionable blouse, she glared down at Charles. A cocktail of pity, anger and frustration began to bubble up into her facial features, but was quickly erased, as her unreadable countenance came to the fore once more. Charles slothfully pretended to nod off, uninterested in these proceedings. In reality, he was listening intently to the woman. Harder than he had ever before.


This turbulent scenario left an uncomfortably cold tension permeating through the apartment, rivalled only by the frosty conditions outside. It was suddenly interrupted by the loud ringing of a mobile phone, emitting from the woman’s bag. As she strutted over to answer, Charles instinctively raised his head from the indention on the pillow, roused by curiosity. The ring tone brought distant memories of happier times gushing back: some silly musical that she had dragged him to many months ago. The music was just a background to the lush memories. She looked incredible that night. The phone was flicked open and a conversation struck. She fixed Charles with an icy glare, at odds with the treacherous weather outside, which snapped him back to cold reality. Unable to survive this tempest, he feigned apathy and once again turned from her, as the weather continued its assault on the room with renewed vigour.


As her phone conversation came to a conclusion, the search for her final missing items also came to its crescendo: her left shoe and felt black hat were rediscovered behind an issue of Runner’s Monthly, which had been recklessly dumped on the floor, characteristic of the way the rest of Charles’ possessions decorated the flat. She gracefully crouched to collect her article and ambled around the bed with such natural dignity, integrity and grandeur that Charles was pinned to his prone position, like a child sheltering from a storm. She gently set herself down on a chair adjacent to the bed, affixing her shoe onto her slender foot, all the while firmly keeping Charles in her gaze. A perfect silence, only ruined by the intruding wind howling outside.


Once her clothing was properly fixed, she calmly stood up, turned her head from Charles’s bed and walked towards the door, carefully stepping over the minefield of clutter that was embedded in Charles’ abode: his running shoes, shorts and recently worn dinner jacket, which all combined to create a montage of his life. She resolutely opened the door in front of her, the fresh air welcoming her from the distinct musk of the male scent that was so pre-eminent in Charles’ apartment. The bright light of the communal hallway shone into the room. Her silhouette, strongly framed by the sturdy woodwork, was altered by slowly turning her head to glance one final time upon Charles. If Charles had turned over to look at this moment this is what he would have seen: a woman’s face in profile view, shadowed by her charmingly expensive hat, a soft, longing look in her visible eye, from which a solitary tear tore down her face. But, as he did not, he saw nothing but the darkness of his inner eye lids.


Some time later, the door closed itself, slammed by the strong breeze blowing through the corridor. Outside, the fierce conditions began to subside and the inevitable thawing of the ice occurred. Charles opened his eyes to see the frost reluctantly melt away from his windowsill. Droplets of water fell from the ledge. Today would be a good day for running, he thought to himself. Ever since he was a boy, he had always been good at running. From opponents, people or problems…


Sometimes he never had to even move from his bed to do so.

© Jonathan Shortall 08-06-08


Thanks for reading!

shiv

i really dig this. you write very well. one thing: too many adjectives. you don't need so many to get your points across, and they can weigh your words down. would like to read more of your stuff.

Esel

randomchild wrote: »

All criticism welcome! If you enjoyed it let me know


Above the Rapids of the Seine
By Jonathan Shortall

“…Fine.”


The curt end of a lengthy conversation. A conversation so long it had begun the moment they had met. Its ripples would be felt in their lives even longer. The woman tore herself from the soothingly warm lair of the duvet wrapping. Meanwhile, Charles’ body lay, unmoving, on the wintry white bed, his modesty protected by the bleak duvet cocooned around his body, acting as a barrier against the intruding weather that howled outside. It seemed to him that no matter how tightly he enveloped himself in his make-shift fortress, a hint of the cold still seeped in, which bit all the way into the core of his essence. Never mind, he thought to himself; the frost will soon melt away. It always gave up eventually.


He pretended not to listen to the semi naked woman pacing around the house, with the subtlety of a heavy gust, in a surprisingly composed and dignified search for her missing garments that had been blown around the house in the whirlwind of their love making. While she occasionally cursed at the seeming futility of her quest, Charles staid sprawled on the bed, presenting an indifferent front, his lack of opinion more than made up for by the intrudingly noisy weather outside. The only sign of life he emanated was an occasional tug on his covering, tightening its embrace around him, always tied as a counter to a particularly heavy assault on the window by the abominable conditions. He succeeded in shutting out the cold even further. As the woman buttoned her fashionable blouse, she glared down at Charles. A cocktail of pity, anger and frustration began to bubble up into her facial features, but was quickly erased, as her unreadable countenance came to the fore once more. Charles slothfully pretended to nod off, uninterested in these proceedings. In reality, he was listening intently to the woman. Harder than he had ever before.


This turbulent scenario left an uncomfortably cold tension permeating through the apartment, rivalled only by the frosty conditions outside. It was suddenly interrupted by the loud ringing of a mobile phone, emitting from the woman’s bag. As she strutted over to answer, Charles instinctively raised his head from the indention on the pillow, roused by curiosity. The ring tone brought distant memories of happier times gushing back: some silly musical that she had dragged him to many months ago. The music was just a background to the lush memories. She looked incredible that night. The phone was flicked open and a conversation struck. She fixed Charles with an icy glare, at odds with the treacherous weather outside, which snapped him back to cold reality. Unable to survive this tempest, he feigned apathy and once again turned from her, as the weather continued its assault on the room with renewed vigour.


As her phone conversation came to a conclusion, the search for her final missing items also came to its crescendo: her left shoe and felt black hat were rediscovered behind an issue of Runner’s Monthly, which had been recklessly dumped on the floor, characteristic of the way the rest of Charles’ possessions decorated the flat. She gracefully crouched to collect her article and ambled around the bed with such natural dignity, integrity and grandeur that Charles was pinned to his prone position, like a child sheltering from a storm. She gently set herself down on a chair adjacent to the bed, affixing her shoe onto her slender foot, all the while firmly keeping Charles in her gaze. A perfect silence, only ruined by the intruding wind howling outside.


Once her clothing was properly fixed, she calmly stood up, turned her head from Charles’s bed and walked towards the door, carefully stepping over the minefield of clutter that was embedded in Charles’ abode: his running shoes, shorts and recently worn dinner jacket, which all combined to create a montage of his life. She resolutely opened the door in front of her, the fresh air welcoming her from the distinct musk of the male scent that was so pre-eminent in Charles’ apartment. The bright light of the communal hallway shone into the room. Her silhouette, strongly framed by the sturdy woodwork, was altered by slowly turning her head to glance one final time upon Charles. If Charles had turned over to look at this moment this is what he would have seen: a woman’s face in profile view, shadowed by her charmingly expensive hat, a soft, longing look in her visible eye, from which a solitary tear tore down her face. But, as he did not, he saw nothing but the darkness of his inner eye lids.


Some time later, the door closed itself, slammed by the strong breeze blowing through the corridor. Outside, the fierce conditions began to subside and the inevitable thawing of the ice occurred. Charles opened his eyes to see the frost reluctantly melt away from his windowsill. Droplets of water fell from the ledge. Today would be a good day for running, he thought to himself. Ever since he was a boy, he had always been good at running. From opponents, people or problems…


Sometimes he never had to even move from his bed to do so.

© Jonathan Shortall 08-06-08


Thanks for reading!

I've underlined a few things that need changing/correcting.

pickarooney

esel wrote: »

I've underlined a few things that need changing/correcting.

Heh, exactly the same things jumped out at me. Also, you don't really 'affix' a shoe - your foot goes inside it, 'affix' is more for gluing things on.
Similarly a 'crescendo' is something that grows (louder, in musical terms). It doesn't fit well with a search.
Nit-picky, but if the woman had just risen and torn herself out of the duvet, it's hard to imagine the same covering staying cocooning his body ('cocooned around' is not really correct, gramatically, as the contents are what are cocooned, rather than the wrapping).

I didn't think the story went anywhere, which is a pity as there was some guild build-up, although a little laboured as regards adjectives. Maybe as a lead-in to a longer story this would work, but as it stands the reader is left a little short-changed, I feel.