This is my entrance to the fast and furious task of the fourth day of the Theinkwell festival. The festival challenges writers to write a post based on a creative stimulus.
The proposal for this fourth day revolves around the narrative arc; we are asked to write by choosing one element from each section: A, B, C and D and then develop the story: a main character ( the protagonist of A) with a problem (from B), a secondary character ( possibly an antagonist from C) and the apparently insurmountable obstacle (from D) to overcome or accept the problem.
Choose one item from each section: A, B, C and D (you can select them or write them on slips of paper and randomly select one item from each pile).
Now you are equipped with everything you need to develop your story: a main character (the protagonist from A) with a problem (from B), a secondary character (possibly an antagonist from C) and the seemingly insurmountable obstacle (from D) to overcoming or coming to terms with the problem.
In your story, show us how you get from the beginning to the end, how the main character is thinking about or dealing with the problem, the other character and the obstacle, including the resolution to the story's conflict.
Feel free to try more than one - or write a second post another day!
Taken fromm: Theinkwell
This is my proposal:
Crying
A butterfly flutters in the wind, the butterfly's wings caress the woman's dry lips, as pale as flour. There must be some other way to dissociate matter from form and reduce it to an absence, he thought, while closing the windows facing the garden and casually drawing the blinds.
She fell on the huge bed as if she had been pushed. Her eyelids were listless, subtle and at the same time graceful, slightly swollen as if she had just woken up or had a fever. With his gaze, he runs through the mostly white spaces of the room. He stops at the small blue details, trying to understand the connection with the sky-colored curtains.
In other areas of the house there is a dance floor, where the mother rehearsed the routine of her shows every day; a sauna and a small bar with a glass pool in the basement. In addition, a relax room with comfortable armchairs to sit down to rest, to recover energy, illuminated only with electric light. She loved that half-light and that silence not disturbed by the noises of the street, because it allowed her to easily forget that outside there was sunshine. The elegance of the house was limited to the interior, and so maintained by the idea of the mother that the brilliance should not be diluted or lavished.
The woman was dressed in discreet clothes: dull and limp colors, but nothing black. She went out to the street and through the glass of her dark glasses she could notice that the light of the city floated in the windows like a golden dust, undecided. "The arms of the city are not for everyone", she remembered her mother's words; but also, that day everything seemed to allude to a convalescent stupor, like a despicable reminiscence of consonance.
She entered the same café as always, where the community of artists and celebrities of the city gathered; where surely not everyone could pay the prices demanded there, but in the interest of seeking favors or maintaining appearances they went every day. The look of those present was a sentimental consonance. And she had always shown coldness even in the most emotional circumstances. She had never tolerated the sentimental outpourings, the out-of-control passions, the fragility that equated human beings with little cats terrified by the lights of a highway.
Those were the first differences she had with her husband, a hippie musician who, contrary to all the people she knew, shunned fame and glory, and these, bent on going where they are not wanted, followed him from a very young age. So the mother set out to chart a promising future for her daughter in the show bussines promoting her with this unbridled musician.
The waiter immediately brought her usual order: an espresso cup with a slice of sachertorte. However, that day she had no appetite, or maybe she didn't feel like eating her repeated breakfast of the last three months. She listened to the murmurs around her criticizing and questioning her for not showing any signs of grief in the face of her mother's death. She put her hands to her face, to everyone's surprise, even to herself. Immediately, she raised her head, got up and left the place.
She entered the funeral home as a model on a catwalk. She simply greeted those present with a slight movement of her head. However, despite her own efforts, she was disturbed when she saw him. Marc, the hippie musician of his torments, stroked the coffin as if it were his own mother's. When he saw it, he approached her and hugged her stubbornly. She did not know how to react. Marc took her by the arm and led her into a small room to rest. She, not knowing what to do, let herself go.
A mist enveloped her for a couple of hours. She was sad and relieved. Sad about the past, relieved about the lightness with which the present time was looming. They didn't say a word to each other. They did not even look at each other, but before leaving for the burial, he passed his hand over her cheek; and she perceived it as the incense of a not far away but badly illuminated memory.
The burial was most normal; though noticeable because seemingly the mother's followers manifested more pain than her own daughter.
At the end, Marc approached her and said:
-I am afraid of the words I am going to say: our history, although in ruins, is complete.
She tried to manifest, once more, the coldness of her emotions; then a light shine was noticed in her eyes, like a restless tear wanting to go out. The most surprised was Marc who, upon noticing it, took her by the hand and led her to his car.
Once in the car, she closed her eyes and fell asleep. She had no dreams, but when she opened her eyes, she was enveloped by a sensation of baroque music and small lights, like candles, running through the city with their brilliance.
-My mother says that when I was born I didn't cry but coughed," she said.
-I was trying to gag a cry that didn't exist. My mother did not allow the nurse to hit me; she took me in her arms and fed me from her breast. So I didn't cry.
Both of them looked out the car window at the city and the setting sun.
-It's going to start getting dark," he said.
-Now that Mom is dead, I am stuck in the middle of death. Nothing separates me from her but time.
It was night, so street lamps, houses and cafés were illuminated and the outline of things became more precious; at once, he touches her hand. She stares at him. He tries to settle down to get closer to her face and feels his heart rate speed up. He tries to relax his breathing and chooses to kiss the woman's hand, which is held tightly in his hand. The night air became more alive, there were traffic jams at the crossroads and people rushed into the streets. She lowers her head and comes close to the torso of the man; she caresses his arms with the fingers of her other hand and directs her head gently until she meets the impassive gaze of the man. And amidst all those lights and agitation they experienced a feeling of eternity, an illusory feeling that the course of time had stopped. They have no words to say to each other. Then he brings his lips closer to hers.
The car stops. She gets out in a hurry and runs as if she were running away. She enters his house, closes the door behind her and finally cries as if pushing all the pain that has accompanied her since the beginning of her existence. It was already night and, on the other side, the city was disintegrating.