Short Story

Precious flower

Hi everyone I'm a bit nervous about this as this is probably the first short story I have written outside of secondary school (though I did write one for a module in college). Unfortunately, it's not exactly finished as I had to scale down to enter it into an Irish times competition (which I only did for the laugh as I knew it didn't have a proper ending but I had to fit it within the word count (1,200 words) and I had no other ideas for shirt stories. I written it before I became aware of the competition). I would just like to wonder what people think of it as a story? Apologises in advance as I don't think it's that great!:pac:

Rock-a-By, Baby
The coffee tasted like sloppy, wet, ashes as it swirled in her mouth. She resisted the urge to spit it out unceremoniously onto the kitchen table and forced herself to swallow it. She had made it moments earlier, a fresh pot, yet it already felt as cold and stiff as a corpse. At least she thought she had. Every time Luke pivoted on his feet in her direction she raised it to dry, cracked lips. She feared her response to any question he asked. A burst of manic, disturbing laughter might shake her teeth. She might rip her hair out from its root and smile as the blood dripped into her eyes. That could very well cause him to raise an eyebrow. She felt that she was doing a horrific job at cloaking her thoughts and emotions from him, yet he never seemed to notice. He only beamed at her as if his entire world consisted of puppies and rainbows. Look at me you idiot, LOOK! But he did look at her she reasoned, straight in the eye, but he never saw anything. He saw her but never got beneath her delicate outer membrane. Maybe he was as scared as she was at what lied underneath that manikin smile. She was.


She stared longingly at the clock. It felt like he would never leave for work. She was convinced the clock was ticking back when she ripped her eyes from it. She tapped her foot impatiently on the chipped tile floor. Please. She begged the deaf clock. HURRY UP IT’S TIME. Every tick felt like a pin piercing her skin. It seemed like days before the clock drifted its mother hand on twelve and it smaller hand, like an infant unsteady on its feet, at 8. As if he had been stuck in a time warp, Luke suddenly started at the worktop slapping his mug down “Oh! Better get going. Traffic will be crazy this morning with that weather. No let up for two weeks, imagine that huh?.” She didn’t response and he didn’t notice. Her eyes wandered to the patio window to see an infestation of snow suffocating the garden. Her chest tightened. She gripped the flowery mug until she heard it creaking under the pressure. It felt hot all of a sudden. Gathering his things Luke paused at the kitchen table. His huge figure blocked out the cold air sneaking its way through pockets in the window pane. She felt his breath caress the nape of her neck. Icy cold. “Give June-bug a kiss from me when she gets up. I’m surprised she slept in this late.” So was she, but this brought her joy, not disappointment. Maybe she’d stay sleeping. Forever. The thought made her rake her fingernails hard down her forearm.


When she came back to her senses she felt the cold air bite at her skin. Luke had left and she hadn’t even noticed. Pulling back her sleeve she realised her forearm was bleeding, quite a bit. Her legs were deadweight as she hoisted herself up from the chair and plodded over to the kitchen sink. Groping for the dish cloth she scrubbed her forearm viciously. Maybe if she scrubbed hard enough she could scrub those evil thoughts from her head. Whimpers from the room down the hall made her stop and throw some kitchen paper on the cuts stemming the valley of blood. The cries did not bring her excitement, worry or concern, but irritation and anger. Could that child not shut up!? Yet June was not a difficult baby. She merely did what babies do. She communicated the only way she knew how. She had slept through the night since she was born. She ate everything that was put in front of her without question. She never threw toys, broke precious ornaments or bothered the cat. There wasn’t an ugly bone in the child’s body.



And yet Kate felt nothing for her. Mothers were supposed to feel a surge of love unlike no other when they are presented with a little bundle they’ve been waited 8 months to lay their eyes on. Weren’t they? Luke had openly, and equally sobbed and laughed with joy. His reaction had made her want to scream and slap him. Because she had flat lined. She was certain there had been a mix up and they had been presented with a stranger’s baby. She knew the scenario was an impossible one though. Part of her had wished she could just have handed it back, like a t-shirt that looked good in the shop but was totally unflattering on her the following day. Hi I’d like to return this baby please. Reason? Oh, she’s just not quite what we were thinking. Better luck next time I guess. And they’d all laugh over it and she and Luke could go back to living their lives the way they had been before. Except she couldn’t return this t-shirt. This one had sewn itself onto her skin the moment she draped it over her body. Plus, Luke liked this t-shirt; its silky touch with its beautiful and vibrant, alive, colour. But she didn’t. It made her itch all over and come out in an unpleasant rash. But she loved Luke, so surely she reasoned, she could learn to love this baby that was half of them both. Maybe this wasn’t like she’d seen on television. Maybe it would just take her a few days and she’d be flooded with the feeling she had so desperately tried to force out in that moment.



But six months on and it had yet to happen. Luke adored June, or June-bug as he affectionately cooed at her. That pet name conjured for her an image of a filthy cockroach that made her skin crawl and wish to kill. June gurgled happily in response to that pet name which Kate never had the love to utter. Even saying June made her mouth dry up and feel like she was chewing on cotton wool. She hated that name. She had designated Luke to decide her name and deal with everything else regarding her well-being. Kate could barely look at her or touch her for the first few weeks after they brought her home from the hospital. Eventually, like when she had to face cleaning up after the dog when it soiled the floor or vomited conveniently on to the couch, she learned to look at, and hold June without recoiling. She’d only hold and tolerate her for the minimum amount of time until Luke came home and she headed to bed complaining of a severe migraine. She prayed things would improve. But they didn't.

On the fifth month, the voices began. At first she merely thought it was Luke speaking to her. Much of the words that oozed from his lips danced before her in a haze. She was scared to admit that what she heard didn’t sound anything like him. Not at all. Then it began to happen when she was alone. Just her and June. Voices licking at her ears, nestling close, whispering disturbing things. They hadn’t been too serious at first. Like when June would wake from a nap – So she’s awake, leave her for another hour. She’ll be hungry but she’ll hardly die now will she? Wouldn’t want her getting spoiled – but lately the wicked whispers had taken on a more sinister, deadly tone – Wouldn’t life have been so much better for you if she simply never existed? And more alarmingly as she stood shadowed over her cot – It’d be quick and easy, no fuss…..that pillow…..over her face. Seconds. Done. That particular thought had made her whole being shake. She had run from the bedroom and vomited violently into the toilet. How could she have thought such things? What kind of mother would think such things!? It was all the more terrifying to her that in those few seconds that she had clutched the pillow it had seemed like a sane thought. Was she going crazy?



She would never go to the doctor. She knew they would just label it “Post-Natal Depression” and throw a cocktail of drugs at her hoping some would stick to stop her complaining. But she wasn't sick, no she couldn't be. She was just stressed that she hadn't bonded immediately with June and the absurd thoughts were a reflection of that. Yes, she was fine. She was fine. I AM FINE. I just need to give it time. This is all just a phase. After all they were just thoughts. Everyone has frightening thoughts once in a while. Thoughts can’t harm. Sticks and stone can break my bones but words can never hurt me. She never fully understood that phrase. If words did not produce the desired pain but sticks and stones did, would they not just skip over the former? Her mother’s abusive words had hurt though. She had no need for stones. The lashings of her acid tongue were enough.



Her thoughts were interrupted as June’s whimpers progressed to panicked roars. She must have had a nightmare, she mused. Yet this didn’t hasten her steps. If anything her daughter’s howling brought her a pervasive pleasure. She felt an electric charge course through her body. As she ambled towards her daughter’s room and her cries increased in pitch, the horrific pleasant sensation spread throughout her entire body. It seemed strongest at her feet as if the power was emanating through the wooden, dusty floorboards. She felt powerless to resist its pull, a pull that ensured she kept taking mere baby steps. She had never felt this before but somehow it had felt right, soothing. Her eyes connected with the mirror placed adjacent to June’s nursery and she just managed to hold bad the urge to scream. She whipped around and shut her eyes tight. The figure in the mirror. The sick grin plastered across its face. The dark dead eyes that seemed to reflect nothing but blackness. The……the….blood smeared across like paint. As she slowly turned back to the mirror and sneaked a second glimpse at her reflection. She was relieved to see her normal self-staring back at her. Pale and frightened but her. Turning back towards her daughter’s door she gave herself a minute to calm her thundering heart before heading inside to quell her daughter’s bedtime fears. And her own.



June held tight to the rails of her cold, sterile ceramic crib her lower lip jutting out, trembling. Her bloodshot brown eyes shot up to her mother. Her tiny hands let go of their death grip on the bars and clutched out desperately at air between them in anticipation for that air to take on a solid form. Even when June was like this, sad in need of soothing love, she felt empty. Kate dug her nails into her palm trying earnestly to summon the love that should have radiated from her. But nothing came. It wasn't maternal instinct that made her bend down and pick up her frightened daughter but duty. She knew she couldn't leave her there. If Luke came home how would she possibly explain herself? She felt herself stiffen as she attempted to comfort June. “There, there June it’s alright”. A robot could have done better. It always amazed Kate how June never stiffened in her arms, sensing the lack of motherly love. In contrast she hugged herself tightly to her mother as if she thought she could transfer her love to Kate. But the longing embrace only made Kate become more rigid. She couldn't wait for June to start walking. She was certain she was only damaging the child by holding her like this. “I suppose we should feed you” Or maybe not? The voice crept in again and she could sense her spine tingle with that charge once more. She quickly turned on her heel and left the room avoiding the mirror as she passed it. The voices were getting worse.

RoyMcC

Powerful, and it deserves a good ending. (Maybe you have one?)

A couple of things. Your paragraphs should be shorter, snappier. Don't give the reader an excuse to wander off the script. Imagery is good but doesn't always work (tea stiff like a corpse ) but your interpretation of the clock is very good, for example.

Needs a good edit but I'd love to be able to write like this. I hope you're thinking about doing more of it.

Precious flower

RoyMcC wrote: »

Powerful, and it deserves a good ending. (Maybe you have one?)

A couple of things. Your paragraphs should be shorter, snappier. Don't give the reader an excuse to wander off the script. Imagery is good but doesn't always work (tea stiff like a corpse ) but your interpretation of the clock is very good, for example.

Needs a good edit but I'd love to be able to write like this. I hope you're thinking about doing more of it.

Thanks, I thought so too. To be honest I wasn't 100% sure where the ending was ending. I knew I wanted to create The Shining like feel to it. Haha I had forgotten I'd put that image in, sounds ridiculous when I read it back! :pac:
Yeah I figured it did need an edit, I was attempted to make the sentences slightly snappy and disconnected to create a disorientated feel but I'm not sure how well that came across. Thank you! I had thought it wasn't the best! I am, I have ideas but it's getting them out of my head on to paper and not getting bored half way through, or losing the ending, that is my issue.

Oryx

A great story, with some lovely, and deadly, imagery. Great use of words. But sometimes brevity is better than description. I would go back and remove a lot of adjectives and adverbs. It will pick up the pace for you. And on a really pedantic note, mannequin is spelled wrong, and that whole sentence needs restructuring.

Precious flower

Oryx wrote: »

A great story, with some lovely, and deadly, imagery. Great use of words. But sometimes brevity is better than description. I would go back and remove a lot of adjectives and adverbs. It will pick up the pace for you. And on a really pedantic note, mannequin is spelled wrong, and that whole sentence needs restructuring.

Thanks AH! I hadn't seen that at all! I guess I wasn't paying enough attention when proof reading, I hate re reading over work I've done (a major pitfall of mine). Thanks for the feedback! I like you being pedantic because being pedantic is what points out the silly errors made that take away from the story.

Precious flower

Btw, my idea of the ending would be that "the voices" would drive her to either come close to or murder the child. I understand that's quite dark but I find myself always drawn to the darker aspects. The short story I wrote for college also involved the someone dying and was quite dark! I'm really a very nice person in real life!:o Also I had a thought that the voice would actually be that of her abusive mother and that at one point in the story she would turn around and she her mother's face in her child's face but I found that storyline got a bit blurry and messy. This short story was actually a story that I had wanted to write for the short story in college but at the time it seemed too messy and I couldn't mesh it out well enough so I merely went for another.

Oryx

Precious flower wrote: »

Rock-a-By, Baby
The coffee tasted like sloppy, wet, ashes as it swirled in her mouth. She resisted the urge to spit it onto the kitchen table and forced herself to swallow it. She had made it moments earlier, a fresh pot, yet it already felt as cold and stiff as a corpse. Every time Luke pivoted towards her she raised her cup to dry, cracked lips. She feared her response to any question he asked. A burst of manic, disturbing laughter might shake her teeth. She might rip her hair out from its roots, then smile as the blood dripped into her eyes. That could very well cause him to raise an eyebrow. She felt that she was doing a horrific job at cloaking her thoughts and emotions from him, yet he never seemed to notice. He only beamed at her as if his entire world consisted of puppies and rainbows. Look at me you idiot, LOOK! He did look at her, she reasoned, but he never got beneath her delicate outer membrane. Maybe he was as scared as she was of what lay beneath that mannequin smile. She was.


She stared longingly at the clock. It felt like he would never leave for work. She was convinced the clock was ticking backwards when she ripped her eyes from it. She tapped her foot impatiently on the chipped tile floor. Please, she begged the deaf clock. HURRY UP. IT’S TIME. Every tick felt like a pin piercing her skin. It seemed like days before the clock drifted its mother hand on twelve and it smaller hand, an infant unsteady on its feet, to eight. As if he had been stuck in a time warp, Luke suddenly slapped his mug down “Oh! Better get going. Traffic will be crazy this morning with that weather. No let up for two weeks, imagine that huh?” She didn’t respond and he didn’t notice. Her eyes wandered to the patio window to see the infestation of snow suffocating the garden. Her chest tightened. She gripped the flowery mug until she heard it creaking under the pressure. It felt hot all of a sudden. Gathering his things Luke paused at the kitchen table. His huge figure blocked out the cold air sneaking its way through pockets in the window pane. She felt his breath caress the nape of her neck. Icy cold. “Give June-bug a kiss from me when she gets up. I’m surprised she slept in this late.” So was she, but this brought her joy, not disappointment. Maybe she’d stay sleeping. Forever. The thought made her rake her fingernails hard down her forearm.


When she came back to her senses she felt the cold air bite at her skin. Luke had left and she hadn’t even noticed. Pulling back her sleeve she realised her forearm was bleeding, quite a bit. Her legs were deadweight as she hoisted herself up from the chair and plodded to the kitchen sink. Groping for the dish cloth she scrubbed her forearm viciously. Maybe if she scrubbed hard enough she could scrub those evil thoughts from her head. Whimpers from the room down the hall made her stop and throw some kitchen paper on the cuts stemming the flow of blood. The cries did not bring her excitement, worry or concern, but irritation and anger. Could that child not shut up!? Yet June was not a difficult baby. She merely did what babies do. She communicated the only way she knew how. She had slept through the night since she was born. She ate everything that was put in front of her without question. She never threw toys, broke precious ornaments or bothered the cat. There wasn’t an ugly bone in the child’s body.



And yet Kate felt nothing for her. Mothers were supposed to feel a surge of love unlike no other when they are presented with a little bundle they’ve been waited 8 months to lay their eyes on. Weren’t they? Luke had sobbed and laughed with joy. His reaction had made her want to scream and slap him. Because she had flat lined. She was certain there had been a mix up and they had been presented with a stranger’s baby. Part of her had wished she could just have handed it back, like a t-shirt that looked good in the shop but was totally unflattering on her the following day. Hi I’d like to return this baby please. Reason? Oh, she’s just not quite what we were thinking. Better luck next time I guess. And they’d all laugh over it and she and Luke could go back to living their lives the way they had been before. Except she couldn’t return this t-shirt. This one had sewn itself onto her skin the moment she draped it over her body. Plus, Luke liked this t-shirt; its silky touch with its beautiful and vibrant, alive, colour. But she didn’t. It made her itch all over as if with an unpleasant rash. But she loved Luke, so surely she reasoned, she could learn to love this baby that was half of them both. Maybe this wasn’t like she’d seen on television. Maybe it would just take her a few days and she’d be flooded with the feeling she had so desperately tried to force out in that moment.



But six months on and it had yet to happen. Luke adored June, or June-bug as he affectionately cooed at her. That pet name conjured for her an image of a filthy cockroach that made her skin crawl and wish to kill. June gurgled happily in response to that pet name which Kate never had the love to utter. Even saying June made her mouth dry up and feel like she was chewing on cotton wool. She hated that name. She had let Luke decide her name and deal with everything else regarding her well-being. Kate could barely look at her or touch her for the first few weeks after they brought her home from the hospital. Eventually, as when she had to clean up after the dog when it soiled the floor or vomited on the couch, she learned to look at, and hold June without recoiling. She’d only hold and tolerate her for the minimum amount of time until Luke came home and she could head to bed complaining of a severe migraine. She prayed things would improve. But they didn't.

On the fifth month, the voices began. At first she merely thought it was Luke speaking to her. Much of the words that oozed from his lips danced before her in a haze. She was scared to admit that what she heard didn’t sound anything like him. Not at all. Then it began to happen when she was alone. Just her and June. Voices licking at her ears, nestling close, whispering disturbing things. They hadn’t been too serious at first. Like when June would wake from a nap – So she’s awake, leave her for another hour. She’ll be hungry but she’ll hardly die now will she? Wouldn’t want her getting spoiled – but lately the wicked whispers had taken on a more sinister, deadly tone – Wouldn’t life have been so much better for you if she simply never existed? And more alarmingly as she stood shadowed over her cot – It’d be quick and easy, no fuss…..that pillow…..over her face. Seconds. Done. That particular thought had made her whole being shake. She had run from the bedroom and vomited into the toilet. How could she have thought such things? What kind of mother would think such things!? It was all the more terrifying to her that in those few seconds it had seemed like a sane thought. Was she going crazy?



She would never go to the doctor. She knew they would just label it “Post-Natal Depression” and throw a cocktail of drugs at her hoping some would stick, and stop her complaining. But she wasn't sick. She was just stressed that she hadn't bonded immediately with June and the absurd thoughts were a reflection of that. Yes, she was fine. She was fine. I AM FINE. I just need to give it time. This is all just a phase. After all they were just thoughts. Everyone has frightening thoughts once in a while. Thoughts can’t harm. Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me. Her mother’s abusive words had hurt though. She'd had no need for stones. The lashings of her acid tongue were enough.



Her thoughts were interrupted as June’s whimpers progressed to panicked roars. She must have had a nightmare, she mused. Yet she didn’t hasten her steps. If anything her daughter’s howling brought her a pervasive pleasure. She felt an electric charge course through her body. As she ambled towards her daughter’s room and her cries increased in pitch, the horrific pleasant sensation spread throughout her entire body. It seemed strongest at her feet as if the power was emanating through the wooden, dusty floorboards. She felt powerless to resist its pull, a pull that ensured she kept taking mere baby steps. She had never felt this before but somehow it had felt right, soothing. Her eyes connected with the mirror placed adjacent to June’s nursery and she just managed to hold back the urge to scream. She whipped around and shut her eyes tight. The figure in the mirror. The sick grin plastered across its face. The dark dead eyes that seemed to reflect nothing but blackness. Blood smeared across like paint. As she slowly turned back to the mirror and sneaked a second glimpse at her reflection. She was relieved to see her normal self-staring back at her, pale and frightened. Turning back towards her daughter’s door she gave herself a minute to calm her thundering heart before heading inside to quell her daughter’s fears. And her own.



June held tight to the rails of her cold, sterile ceramic crib, her lower lip jutting out, trembling. Her bloodshot brown eyes shot up to her mother. Her tiny hands let go of their death grip on the bars and clutched out desperately in anticipation. Even when June was like this, sad in need of soothing love, she felt empty. Kate dug her nails into her palm trying earnestly to summon the love that should have radiated from her. But nothing came. It wasn't maternal instinct that made her bend down and pick up her frightened daughter, but duty. She knew she couldn't leave her there. If Luke came home how would she possibly explain herself? She felt herself stiffen as she attempted to comfort June. “There, there June it’s alright”. A robot could have done better. It always amazed Kate how June never stiffened in her arms, sensing the lack of motherly love. In contrast she clung tightly to her mother as if she thought she could transfer her love to Kate. But the longing embrace only made Kate become more rigid. She couldn't wait for June to start walking. She was certain she was only damaging the child by holding her like this. “I suppose we should feed you” Or maybe not? The voice crept in again and she could sense her spine tingle with that charge once more. She quickly turned on her heel and left the room avoiding the mirror as she passed it. The voices were getting worse.

Some ideas there for you?

femur61

I really enjoyed your story but maybe make it tighter. Get rid of a few adjectives. I found my self wandering, only a little because the story line is brilliant and you have some excellent descriptions.

Das Kitty

I really like the concept. The characterisation is unexpected and excellent.

I think if you put it away for a few months, and worked on something else for a while you'd be able to come back to it with fresh eyes and see where it needs tightening.

Beware of over-writing. Think of the point you want to make in each paragraph and make it as cleanly as you can without restating.

Cut right back on the adjectives and adverbs. Try to find stronger nouns and verbs where possible. This is difficult to begin with, but with practice is gets easier.

On a grammatical note. Dialogue, and thoughts normally go in their own paragraph. Unless you're trying to achieve an effect where everything is running in on top of each other. Personally I would have found it easier to read the first and second paragraphs if the dialogue was sectioned out. It would also be easier to show the divergence between what the narrator says and what she thinks, which is always interesting.

Good job. Keep writing. All of these things get easier with practice.


PS -- I was confused by the ceramic cot. I thought it was a bath and she was going to drown the baby.

Pessimist

"PS -- I was confused by the ceramic cot. I thought it was a bath and she was going to drown the baby."

I enjoyed it too, a little work & it will be great. Just an idea but you could take what the poster above said and work into your ending. The mother could get mixed up and drown the baby, thinking she's put the baby in the cot but leaving it in the bath instead. You could leave it open as to whether the mother does it on purpose, the voices told her to do it or whether it was a genuine mistake.

Das Kitty

Pessimist wrote: »

"PS -- I was confused by the ceramic cot. I thought it was a bath and she was going to drown the baby."

I enjoyed it too, a little work & it will be great. Just an idea but you could take what the poster above said and work into your ending. The mother could get mixed up and drown the baby, thinking she's put the baby in the cot but leaving it in the bath instead. You could leave it open as to whether the mother does it on purpose, the voices told her to do it or whether it was a genuine mistake.

I don't think that fits with her character though. She's far too self aware.

Oryx

I think it would be more chilling if the story closes with the inference that she is knowingly putting baby to bed in that 'ceramic cot'

Edit: though it needs to be clear its the bath. I typed it and thought that could mean toilet.

Pessimist

Yeah 'mixed up' definitely not the right term there. But you get the idea. Just thought putting the baby in the bath to drown was an idea when Das kitty mentioned it.

km85264

You have a great story here. Very powerful, and I think you have a good ending. The first two paragraphs wander a bit. Reading them I lost interest and skipped to later, but then had to go back to the third paragraph where it starts to get strong. Wild suggestion: start at the third paragraph, drop the reader straight into the bloodied arm, bring Luke back in later.
In reference to your comment "I hate re reading over work I've done", sorry, but revision is 90% of the art of telling a good story. Read and read and read again. Read it out loud or get your computer to read it. If you're not comfortable reading it, you're probably not finished yet.

Precious flower

Thanks for all your feedback guys it's really helpful!:) The "ceramic cot" idea is really good. I do think she is too aware myself to unknowingly drown the baby but I certainly think the ceramic coffin kind of symbolising/meaning a coffin (if that is what some of ye meant) is a good idea. Thank you guys! I'll keep working on it and hopefully I'l have something solid to show eventually!:)

timelxpe

I really enjoyed reading this despite couple of points highlighted already