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The Curtains

by gkay 

Posted: 05 December 2005
Word Count: 1600
Summary: First part of a story I wrote a while ago. I've never been quite happy with it, mostly because it seemed to wander directionlessly, so I'd appreciate any comments you have. It does contain quite sexually explicit passages.


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Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.


Roland Fournoy is afraid of what he will see when he draws the curtain aside. Last night, all the things he witnessed through the incendiary flashes of light from bursting fireworks and silhouetted against distant walls made him sure that they would come for him before the night was through. Now it is morning and there is still only the room and the orange wallpaper. He knows that when he draws back the curtain he will see them standing there in a thick knot, spilling from his garden into the street. He imagines them coming into the house and pictures himself pressing his form into the very corner of this room. He will be bleating his fear as they stream into his house, bunching into each other as they come through the door. For now he sits on the very corner of the hard mattress, hands folded in his lap. In a minute, he will draw back the curtains.

He remembers that he was going to go into town today on the bus driven by the young man who never speaks. The man they had before was older. He always had a kind word for the passengers and always came on time. This new one always comes late, leaving Roland to stand on the pavement wearing the hearing aid which he puts on before he goes out so he can pretend he can’t hear the things said by the children who pass him on their way to school. They come four abreast, brushing against him before turning and calling him a fucking paedo. He smiles, trying to collude with them that they’re wishing him a good morning, but these girls are able to reach the very core of him. Unconstrained, they direct a ceaseless stream of language and sound at him which passes straight through him and out the back of his head, carrying the splintered fragments of his self-respect. Their expressions resolve so quickly. Their neural paths are like highways, carrying juggernauts of pure, crystalline emotion from the sparse framework of their minds into the world. He knows that he has no authority in the eyes of these girls and no presence. He is a smudged outline in the foreground of a world which belongs to them in a way it never did to him. There is no ambivalence in their treatment of him and the delight they feel in the discharge of their thoughts and his resulting discomfort is unaffected and immediate.

Often, when Roland gets into town, he cannot remember what he is there to do. It is easier if he has a few things to do. If there are a few things, then they hang together in his consciousness like flies on flypaper. If he looks at one, he can see the others. When there is only one thing, it eludes him, and he will stand at the bus-stop until the bus returns. No shopping, the man will ask. Roland will smile enigmatically, encouraging his interest. He wants to describe to the man the sensation of being fellated by a shop-girl in the changing room of the GAP, but the man turns his attention to the other passengers. These cheerless fantasies hover always on the edge of his consciousness. They commingle, using the face of one girl, and the hands of another. They hardly excite him anymore but all the same, they comfort him, as though instead of being authored by himself, they originate outside himself, a gift from the outside world to show that if he is depraved and perverse, well so are the lurid precincts through which he moves. He sees the imminence of sex in every expression and in the angle of every limb. Standing in a queue, a woman behind and in front, he thinks he can smell the parts of themselves they try to mask below the floral tones of less natural scents, and he wonders in turn whether they can smell the semen on his sleeves. Often, when he walks past the shop windows and sees a girl leaning over the counter or arranging clothes on a rack, he is sure that what he imagines has already taken place and that the smile on her face is a glow caused by the memory of it.

Standing in the darkness when he gets home, he remembers why he went into town. By then it is too late and he has to wait until the next day, so he goes to the top drawer of the bureau. This occupies an entire wall of his living room. He takes out one of the hundreds of small green pens so he can start to make a list. He sees the photographs which are also in this drawer. Most of them show a woman and two young girls. The woman is beautiful and her expression wistful. One of the children is prettier than the other. He remembers that the woman’s name is Jane, but cannot remember the name of either child. All he can remember about them is a cold afternoon when the older one was sitting in a trolley at the supermarket. He was telling her to put down a jar of peanut butter she had picked up from the shelf. He remembers that he said it too sharply or too loudly and she had become petulant. She was refusing to return it to the shelf and he had become angry and begun to scream at her and he was screaming into her face, holding on to her arm tightly so that she couldn’t twist away from him. He remembers that she stopped struggling and begun to cry. She dropped the jar which shattered on the floor, and they stayed there until a store assistant came along with a mop and a sign that said caution - wet floor and everyone was staring at him. The child was sobbing, hunched over the handle of the trolley. There is a man in some of the photographs and if he looks at it for a long time, it looks like him. The man in the photographs is thinner, and smiling. There is a mirror above the bureau so he is able to hold the photograph up in front of him at arms length and allow his eyes to flicker from the man in the photograph with his arm around the two girls back to his reflection. When he does this he begins to think that the man in the photographs may be his brother, and this woman and these children his family.

When he returns to his bedroom and draws the curtains back, there is an anaemic light which barely illuminates the street outside. It is the first day of November. The man who lives with his parents at number fifty-seven is the only person he sees. He is washing his car in the street, bending to the bucket, covering the bonnet with wide sweeps. His forearms are bleached white in the cold and his breath is coming in great clouds of steam. He sees Roland staring at him and he stares back, dropping the sponge into the bucket. Roland looks away. He can see the man’s head, immobile at the edge of his vision. The man uses the interruption as a reason to light a cigarette. He looks through the kitchen windows of nearby houses. He sees someone else staring at him – the woman with the russet hair who lives with her husband at number forty-five. He remembers seeing this woman last night. At the moment, she is stirring the contents of a mug.

In the top window of the house opposite stands the girl who came into his garden twice last night and stood with her face only inches from his own through the dirty glass. She is standing wrapped in a towel, blow-drying her hair. The quickening he experiences at her near-nakedness saturates him and he stands transfixed, watching her hair dancing around her face. He sees her switch the blow dryer off. She angles it upwards with an economy of movement which indicates that she will be switching it on again. For now, she places her other hand underneath her elbow. She strikes this pose for a moment and then she moves that hand up to her face. She places her fingers to her throat and draws them down her neck to where the towel is knotted. She loosens the towel, which falls to the floor, and stands there naked. His eyes descend like a bridge suicide to the dark patch between her legs and they linger there. When he looks back at her face, she is still staring at him. Although the arousal always comes before the self-loathing, he realises what he should have realised when she crossed the street toward him for the second time last night. She means to torment him indefinitely, her own pleasure in these encounters ever more visceral. He is bound from escaping this situation by his own limitations, as much as by the limitations he has had imposed on him. He has forgotten what brought him here and can only remember a time when he had been someone else. He thinks maybe that person pushed themselves too far into a world believing the world wasn’t watching. He looks again at the place between her legs, as he must, and when she turns and walks away, he looks at the woman drinking from the mug. He draws the curtains and sits heavily on the bed, listening to the sound of himself sobbing into the room.






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Comments by other Members



gkay at 14:42 on 06 December 2005  Report this post
This is the first third of a longer piece I wrote a while ago. It kind of got away from me, if you know what I mean, and I've always felt that it reads in a quite fragmented way, but I'd be very keen to know what you think, and don't pull any punches, because I'm at the stage where getting better at this is my primary goal, and I don't feel like I'm looking at it objectively any more.

Thanks in advance
Guy

Nell at 17:50 on 06 December 2005  Report this post
Hi Guy, welcome to WriteWords. I read this yesterday but didn't have have time to comment. I felt too that I needed time for the story to settle a little on my mind - to gather my thoughts before committing myself. I guess it's that sort of story.

I have the feeling that much thought and care has gone into showing Roland's feelings and his state of mind. There is great depth here: both the story and the writing feel convincing - you write well and as a reader I trust what you're telling/showing me. Then the shock of that 'discharge' sentence - and I've been thinking about it since yesterday. It has the sting of raw truth and says so much about your MC, but will almost certainly limit the outlets for this story, and without knowing where the story is going (ie what will happen in the second part) it's difficult to judge how much it's needed.

I noticed a tendency for very long sentences, and although it's good to vary sentence length I found that because of the seeming profundity of some of those thoughts that I had to re-read them. Some repetition seemed deliberate, but you could look at places where that's not quite clear -
eg: Often, when Roland gets into town, he cannot remember what he is there to do. It is easier if he has a few things to do – if there are a few things...

A careful edit and maybe reading aloud will point up slightly awkward sentences -

eg: He remembers that he was going to go into town today – the bus driven by the young man who never speaks. I felt that 'on' would serve you better than a dash here, but that's just one opinion - see what others think.

The strength of this piece is in the writing and characterization - do become a full member as I'd like to find out what has happened and what will happen to Roland, dark and desolate as he is.

Nell.

gkay at 09:00 on 07 December 2005  Report this post
Hi Nell - many thanks for your comments. In truth, I had a moment or two when I considered modifying that particular passage, since I wasn't sure it needed to be quite that strong. It was used to suggest how immediate his sensations were. In the end I left it in and waited to see if anyone would remark on it.

Your comment about sentence length is a good one as well. Like you say, some of it is deliberate but I guess it's an easy habit to get into. I'll keep an eye on that in future.

I'm pretty sure I will become a full member. I've been lurking on short story forums for a while now and this one is by far the best I've seen - the section on competitions and job opportunities is really comprehensive and I've read some brilliant writing here.

Thanks again for your comments.

Cymro at 11:22 on 07 December 2005  Report this post
Hi Guy.

Thanks for commenting on my story - it's only fair I return the favour!

I thought this was an excellent piece of writing, really vivid and full of intriguing thoughts and images. The whole thing is very dark and unsettling - and I mean that as a compliment! I really like the details included e.g. Roland's view from his window - the man washing his car, the woman across the street. The detail is well observed, authentic and really nicely handled.

I would agree that sometimes the sentences do run on too long. I appreciate that this can be an effective way of reflecting someone's mental state, but I just felt once or twice it spoiled what were some interesting ideas, especially the sentence beginning This new one always comes late, sometimes ten minutes late.

The internal characterisation is great, but perhaps (and this may be dealt with later in the story) I needed to know just a little bit more about the character nearer the beginning...I assumed Roland was old, but then I started to question that assumption as I read on, which slightly interfered with the flow of the piece.

Having said that, these are minor quibbles and overall I really enjoyed reading this piece. I'd love to read the rest of it.

gkay at 11:47 on 07 December 2005  Report this post
Hi Cymro

Thanks for your comments. You've made a perceptive observation, in that I changed my mind a few times about Rolands age, and I think maybe this dithering is reflected in the text. He's supposed to be middle-aged. I'll take on board your suggestions regarding imparting more about Rolands character earlier on - I can see some cut and paste work coming on.

I'll upload more of the story as soon as I get round to upgrading my membership status.

Cheers
Guy

laurafraser at 18:30 on 08 December 2005  Report this post
There are some exceptionally potent images here:

His eyes descend like a bridge suicide to the dark patch between her legs...

which slam the image into focus for the reader and make for quite exhilarating writer.

I agree with Nell about the sentence structure, it is a very wordy piece and I think would work well with some snipping here and there, to give it a different texture. EG:

Last night, all the things he witnessed through the incendiary flashes of light from bursting fireworks and silhouetted against distant walls made him sure that they would come for him before the night was through, and now it is morning and there is still only the room and the orange wallpaper, but he knows that when he draws back the curtain he will see them standing there in a thick knot, spilling from his garden into the street.

There is so much here, and although fantastically written, it is a lot to digest in one sentence which has the effect of loosing the reader slightly, as they forget the previous image as they attempt to swallow the next. It may just be my perference but I think there is an almost majestic power in small sentences, they seem to say bigger things.

But very striking. I would be interested to read this after an edit.

Happy days

LF.

gkay at 08:47 on 09 December 2005  Report this post
Thanks for your comments Laura

It was odd seeing that passage there in isolation, and then it struck me that it was a single sentence and I thought hell, that's just too long. I think when I'm writing I just get this flood of images and in my haste to get them all out, I just stick them all together with my big box of comma's. I know exactly what you mean about shorter sentences having more power, and I admire this in other writing so I'll do a re-write and stick it back up when it's done.



Prospero at 18:30 on 09 December 2005  Report this post
Hi Guy, there is a lot of very good stuff here. Your Main Character (MCs) confusion comes over very powerfully, and the ideas like the girl using him for her own gratification are excellent.

I agree some of the sentences need shortening so may I suggest you try looking at the story sentence by sentence and see if there are any surplus words, or missing punctuation.

This is the way I generally start when I am looking to tighten up my writing.

I shall look forward to reading the re-write.

Best

John

gkay at 13:51 on 12 December 2005  Report this post
Hi - just a quick note to say I've edited this piece according to the advice I have received, and I'm much happier with the result.

Thanks to everyone who has read it and commented. Hopefully this version is an improvement.

Guy

Prospero at 02:39 on 13 December 2005  Report this post
Hi Guy
This is definitely much tighter. This a very powerful and disturbing piece that doesn't give up it secrets easily yet is worth the effort, a novel of this would, IMHO, be literary prize material.

Very well done

John

davedave at 12:57 on 28 December 2005  Report this post
Hi Guy,

It's strong stuff - I too loved the 'bridge suicide' bit and the whole tone felt authentic. That said, I can understand why you felt it was a bit 'directionless'. I wanted a bit more 'direction', to be honest and I think there's room for more work in line with previous comments - making it a little less uncluttered.

Small thing, I didn't like 'the (very) corner of the room/mattress'.

But I can't add too much to the (very positive) previous comments. It's really very good.

Dave

paul53 [for I am he] at 10:00 on 31 January 2006  Report this post
Guy,
This has a lot going for it. Are you intending to upload the rest of it? I hope so.
Paul

gkay at 10:27 on 31 January 2006  Report this post
Thanks Paul - I was intending to upload the rest after I had posted this first section, but a comment made by Prospero got me thinking about where it could go and I'm now currently 40 000 words into a novel which has this guy as the protagonist, so I'm going to finish that and once I'm happy with the final draft, I'll probably upload a couple of sample chapters..

Guy

Cholero at 16:50 on 04 March 2006  Report this post
Guy

I think this is excellent. I like your honesty, there's no shying away from things. The tale of a man whose 'normal' life has disappeared and who is trapped in a nightmare of need and alienation following what I'm guessing is a nervous breakdown. I would go as far to say that the subject you've chosen here is the stuff of great writing, it is a strong attempt to deal with a whole number of matters that are rarely touched upon. I don't want to big you up but I'm reminded at times of Camus.

Keep it up. I'm a big fan of Frotteur, but I think your style here is better, remains with the character more completely. I don't know why, but the whole bus thing I find very affecting.

How about limbering up with the rest of us each week in Flash I or II? Be great to see more of your stuff.

Best

Pete

gkay at 09:14 on 06 March 2006  Report this post
Thanks a lot Pete. Like I said in the previous comment, I've been working on a novel based on this short piece, and the more I explore this guy's life, the more I seem to need to include, and the more I include, the more I realise what a monumental task it is to write a novel.

Your suggestion about posting a few flash pieces is a good one - I might post something soon.

Thanks again for your comments. I feel a bit guilty about my lack of contribution to the site just lately. I'm hoping that once the bulk of my text is more or less in the right order, I'll be able to contribute more often.

G


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