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A Harrowing Tale (and other sordid affairs)
Introduction
Sometimes I come up with a premise for a short story, and I think: 'that is the worst idea I have ever had'. Then I make a book out of it.
What follows this brief foreword are four short pieces of writing I finished over the course of a year (with plenty of procrastination, obviously) during my time as part of a Creative Writing Club, which was hosted by an incredibly eccentric and excruciatingly offensive young man named Phil. I liked Phil.
Hence, they don't seem to tie in together in any way, except in the consistent tentativeness of my writing style back then. This was when I was still mortified by the slightest mention of masturbation, of course.
Hey -- at least I wasn't writing heinously anatomically incorrect gay erotica like my straight female peers in that group.
-- Lawrence
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The Defenestration Complication
It was a particularly drab Tuesday morning when a stout, unfortunately heavy, middle-aged woman found herself falling at goodness-knows-miles per hour out of the tenth-storey window of her building, right before she had a chance to water her peonies.
She didn't mean to fall out of the window, no more than you would mean to trip over in the street, or that you would mean to run over the neighbour’s cat — despite what Carol from Number 43 says.
The air around her felt both incredibly thin and incredibly dense all at once. Perhaps it was simply the sensation of falling, but her stomach seemed to be somewhere in the region of her throat, which is not the typical positioning of a stomach — and this woman was a very typical person.
Many thoughts rushed through her mind as she fell. Some of her husband, and what he would think of her clumsily falling out of a tenth storey window and dying — in the middle of the school year, no less! Her children would be so disappointed, as it was their quarter-birthdays in only a month’s time, and her daughter, Melee Attack, was so looking forward to it. She had bought a giant plastic dinosaur just for the occasion. Oh, and her poor, sweet little pussy cat would miss her so much. As would her other three kids, who may be dogs but would surely never get over the loss of their ‘Mommy'.
Pam from yoga would likely gossip about this silly mess-up for weeks.
“Did you hear? Rayman Origins’ mom fell out of a window! How embarrassing…"
How could she have let this happen? How could she, loving wife to the 302nd best golfer in America and, most of all, Employee of the Year at the New Hampshire Living Hardware Store, have been so careless?
This would surely ruin her reputation as a dedicated soccer mom. Rayman Origins and Melee Attack had soccer games and ballet recitals to be witnessed, and her husband could never be expected to attend them, what with his competitive golfing and being a man. Oh, husbands, such useless creatures. Good thing he had money, though! Hahaha.
The sky was as grey as a wild tornado. There was no sound. It was almost peaceful.
Perhaps if she prayed really really hard, a big fluffy memory foam mattress would appear beneath her, cushioning her fall. Although, if she were to survive, she would have to live with the embarrassment of having fallen out of a window so early on in the week.
She was starting to slow down. The air pushed against her body at last. She was defying the laws of gravity; she was flying.
What would the neighbours say? She wouldn't even get to see the results of the election. How could she die not knowing which angry white person would take the position of President of the most glorious country in the world? How could she die not knowing whether her vote truly counted?
Buildings began to tower over her as she neared the ground. The sky was no longer grey, it was now bone white, as was the whole world outside of the city. Where were the mountains? The flowers? Why couldn’t she hear the sound of people chatting, the sound of cars honking and revving? Why was it so cold?
She knew, then, that the time was coming. The time that she would hit the ground and it would all be over.
She didn’t say goodbye to anybody; she never had the chance to write a will, or to say her last words to her husband or children so that they could be relayed to her grandchildren when they are told of how their grandmother died.
She never watered her peonies.
As a whistling sound rushed by her ears, indicating that the end was well and truly nigh, a final thought floated through her mind. A regret — one that she hadn’t considered until now.
Moments before she hit the concrete below, she thought:
Should’ve gone to specsavers.
Warmth in Winter
Summer may be the hottest season of the four, but that does not necessarily mean Summer’s heat is pleasant.
Heat in Summer is stifling, a relentless oppressor that forces you to favour the cold, just as Winter causes you to favour the heat. You crave water like the essential life source it is, but this is an uncomfortable craving, and if you don’t satisfy it then you must endure the consequences. The relief from pouring cold water on your head after heating up is brief, costs you a lot of water that could be used for a drink, and can only be revived by wasting more water. If you don’t bring a bottle on your morning jog, you are forced to run around the block gasping and struggling to swallow the little saliva you have left. Heat in Summer is truly unbearable.
Conversely, warmth in Winter is like a fast-acting and long-lasting medicine. It spreads throughout your body like a wildfire, rather than in one shot of sensation, and settles there. Where Summer’s heat discourages you from going outside yet also discourages you from going inside, where all the heat is trapped, Winter’s warmth can be achieve by lying perfectly still, wrapped up in a blanket, or by running around and playing rough. Winter accommodates the introverts and the extroverts. Those who prefer to set up fort next to a radiator and drink hot chocolate while watching television can do just that, without problem. Those who want to go out on a Sunday morning and have snowball fights with their friends can do this, provided they have a pair of gloves and a high pain threshold. Warmth in Winter is a right, and it is one that can be easily achieved with a matchstick and a fireplace.
Now, of course, keeping warm in Winter isn’t always easy. If you aren’t careful, its nasty side creeps up on you without you even realising it.
The reason we love being cozy and warm in Winter is, obviously, because Winter is the coldest season of the year. Like in Summer, we crave what we don’t have, much like a child who isn’t playing with a toy one minute, but as soon as it is taken away they want it back. People who attempt to take their own lives often change their minds as soon as they jump. We are fickle creatures, always changing our minds with the times. One minute we’d give anything for an ice cold drink and a spot of shade, the next we want nothing to do with anything colder than room temperature and would die for a spot near a nice warm log fire. One minute we think we want one thing, the next we want its opposite. I hate when people do this. They should just make up their minds already.
If they really wanted to warm up that much, they wouldn’t have complained when I set the house on fire.
The Field
A Harrowing Tale
Afterthought
~