An Ending- Flash Fiction

randomchild

Yo boards! Its been a while since I have done this, final year college really bit into my writing time, but I love writing so I hope to post a lot more of these before I start my post grad! This is my first time writing a story in the present tense too so I would appreciate any tips on this form of narration, particularly if I slipped into the past tense inappropriately at any time during the story. Oh and any and all criticism is welcome!

An Ending by Jonathan Shortall

A stale air stills through the flat, the absence of the wind leaves it in the ascendancy. No sound is to be heard, no movement to be seen: silence permeates throughout with nothing but the caress of the wind on the window-pane to intrude on the hushed serenity. A square coffee table, timber built and matt finished is the focal point of the main room: every item, every piece is positioned with reverence to this sacred object; a foundation upon which life can be built. Heavy art books are scattered on its surface at fashionably random angles: carefully dusted and kept in pristine condition, they act as an unmolested splash of colour that sharply contrasts with its coppiced surroundings. A shadow, cast from the light bulb that hangs overhead, silently rocks to and fro over the table; like a pendulum it pours eclipse and shadow over each of the books in their turn. In a previous time, this shade had reached out past the table’s territory, to the wooden floor below. However, it had brought little else than unwelcome darkness to the pine’s artificial majesty. At this time, the shadow seems content with haunting the small table, the glossy books its sole companion.

Past this boundary, a cream couch constricts itself around the far corner of the table. Chosen for its leather surface, (why it can shed all trace of existence in one easy swipe!) and sturdy oak frame (it will never falter in support), it is the perfect receptacle. The unmarked skin is stretched and pulled into an L shaped rack, an exquisitely perverse touch. Opposite the sofa, past the other corner of the table, sits a television, the volume is turned down to a level that makes communication an impossibility. The myriad colours that it emits are one of many unnatural sources of light in the idyllic room, but this is more than that: a passage to the outside world that remains ajar, its potential untapped.

In the background, pale curtains cover the far wall, masking the exit that the balcony could provide. They manage to challenge the entry, indeed almost the existence, of the sunlight that may be shining outside. The lamps, lights and candles scattered around the room are artificed to provide satisfactory lighting in its absence. The door to the balcony is wide open, allowing for a breeze to enter, but the heavy curtains stand resolute to the entrance of the wind: they are barely lifted from the ground as the wind is forced to crawl under them, under their yoke, to be admitted to the room. On the wall is another door, the entrance to this stifling abode. A variety of singularly golden locks are the sole relief from its bareness. There might not be a “welcome” rug on its outside, but a small brown mat lies on the ground to the side, for any welcomed intruder to wipe their feet upon.


*******


Noises come from the other side of the door. They are herald to its opening: keys turn and defences are undone. A woman has entered; the very act ruptures the rule of tranquillity that came before. Cradled in her arm is a brown grocery bag. A plastic bottle of water, bread and milk are poking out of it. Its top heavy nature makes it brush against the disguised freckles on her skin as a black sleeve swings back to close the door. Soon the locks are back in place and the door is sealed once more. She ushers the bills that have fallen from the letter box off the floor. They now join their brethren on the side table in front of the mat. The kitchen table is to provide relief from her burden as the unloading process is begun and shortly complete. The large amount of non-edible produce allows for a rapid unpacking (most of what is needed goes elsewhere). As soon as the lamps are turned off, the curtains are withdrawn (the natural light will save on bills). The balcony door is firmly shut, that opportunistic wind might now know defeat.

She skirts around the paper bin by the sofa. (As usual) It is overflowing with scrap: aborted ideas, stillborn before they were conceived. Now she stands before the coffee table itself and the shadow that hangs above. The ritual of entry is complete, so she can finally attend to the limp body that is swaying from the light bulb. The knotted noose is straightened out and put in its proper place. The body is crumpling to the ground behind her as she walks away. It is ready to embrace the wooden surface below. But what is long dead cannot yield: the floor is unforgiving and does nothing to soften his fall.

There was no note: he did not know how to write it perfectly.

© Jonathan Shortall 08-06-08

Thanks for reading!

Mialuvzfun!

randomchild wrote: »

Yo boards! Its been a while since I have done this, final year college really bit into my writing time, but I love writing so I hope to post a lot more of these before I start my post grad! This is my first time writing a story in the present tense too so I would appreciate any tips on this form of narration, particularly if I slipped into the past tense inappropriately at any time during the story. Oh and any and all criticism is welcome!

An Ending by Jonathan Shortall

A stale air stills through the flat, the absence of the wind leaves it in the ascendancy. No sound is to be heard, no movement to be seen: silence permeates throughout with nothing but the caress of the wind on the window-pane to intrude on the hushed serenity. A square coffee table, timber built and matt finished is the focal point of the main room: every item, every piece is positioned with reverence to this sacred object; a foundation upon which life can be built. Heavy art books are scattered on its surface at fashionably random angles: carefully dusted and kept in pristine condition, they act as an unmolested splash of colour that sharply contrasts with its coppiced surroundings. A shadow, cast from the light bulb that hangs overhead, silently rocks to and fro over the table; like a pendulum it pours eclipse and shadow over each of the books in their turn. In a previous time, this shade had reached out past the table’s territory, to the wooden floor below. However, it had brought little else than unwelcome darkness to the pine’s artificial majesty. At this time, the shadow seems content with haunting the small table, the glossy books its sole companion.

Past this boundary, a cream couch constricts itself around the far corner of the table. Chosen for its leather surface, (why it can shed all trace of existence in one easy swipe!) and sturdy oak frame (it will never falter in support), it is the perfect receptacle. The unmarked skin is stretched and pulled into an L shaped rack, an exquisitely perverse touch. Opposite the sofa, past the other corner of the table, sits a television, the volume is turned down to a level that makes communication an impossibility. The myriad colours that it emits are one of many unnatural sources of light in the idyllic room, but this is more than that: a passage to the outside world that remains ajar, its potential untapped.

In the background, pale curtains cover the far wall, masking the exit that the balcony could provide. They manage to challenge the entry, indeed almost the existence, of the sunlight that may be shining outside. The lamps, lights and candles scattered around the room are artificed to provide satisfactory lighting in its absence. The door to the balcony is wide open, allowing for a breeze to enter, but the heavy curtains stand resolute to the entrance of the wind: they are barely lifted from the ground as the wind is forced to crawl under them, under their yoke, to be admitted to the room. On the wall is another door, the entrance to this stifling abode. A variety of singularly golden locks are the sole relief from its bareness. There might not be a “welcome” rug on its outside, but a small brown mat lies on the ground to the side, for any welcomed intruder to wipe their feet upon.


*******


Noises come from the other side of the door. They are herald to its opening: keys turn and defences are undone. A woman has entered; the very act ruptures the rule of tranquillity that came before. Cradled in her arm is a brown grocery bag. A plastic bottle of water, bread and milk are poking out of it. Its top heavy nature makes it brush against the disguised freckles on her skin as a black sleeve swings back to close the door. Soon the locks are back in place and the door is sealed once more. She ushers the bills that have fallen from the letter box off the floor. They now join their brethren on the side table in front of the mat. The kitchen table is to provide relief from her burden as the unloading process is begun and shortly complete. The large amount of non-edible produce allows for a rapid unpacking (most of what is needed goes elsewhere). As soon as the lamps are turned off, the curtains are withdrawn (the natural light will save on bills). The balcony door is firmly shut, that opportunistic wind might now know defeat.

She skirts around the paper bin by the sofa. (As usual) It is overflowing with scrap: aborted ideas, stillborn before they were conceived. Now she stands before the coffee table itself and the shadow that hangs above. The ritual of entry is complete, so she can finally attend to the limp body that is swaying from the light bulb. The knotted noose is straightened out and put in its proper place. The body is crumpling to the ground behind her as she walks away. It is ready to embrace the wooden surface below. But what is long dead cannot yield: the floor is unforgiving and does nothing to soften his fall.

There was no note: he did not know how to write it perfectly.

© Jonathan Shortall 08-06-08

Thanks for reading!

Thats rly good