Portrait of a Woman (Short story.... please read)
Lulu @>--}-----
Hello :)
As several people have already mentioned, this is
alt.teens.poetry.*and.stuff*, so I guess I might as well post a bit of
stuff.
I wrote this short story a while ago. It's based on the memory of
every late night talk I've ever had with my mother.. or rather, every
time I was ever an audience to her midnight monolouges about how
suffocating her life was, and how she'd wish she could get away from it
all for just a day...
Portrait of a Woman
___________________
Being a man meant strength. It meant a position of independance and
freedom, and the ability to do anything imaginable.
Being a woman meant docility. Women don't *create*, they *reproduce*.
.
These were the ideals on which I was raised, and so it proved to be
true. I grew up, married, and moved far away from the family. In
time, I had children and my life was molded into an almost intolerably
predictable routine. Being female however, I was well trained to deal
with immense boredom - I spent my hours cooking, cleaning, running
errands and merely fantasizing about an existence different from my
own. For several years, I was satisfied with this dull routine. But
eventually, my life became a chain, trapping me in an endless cycle of
predictability. Afternoons which had once been filled with the wonders
of housework and make-believe now seemed never-ending, each second
lasting for an eternity. I found that I often dreaded my hours alone;
they merely served as reminders of the prison my very life had become.
Like a wounded bird unable to fly, I suffered from pangs of
claustrophobia within. Did it matter if I was a woman? I still needed
my freedom.
That's when I decided that I needed a vacation, a temporary escape
from realtiy. I recalled a short ad that I had seen in a magazine
once:
EXCITING TOUR OF NEW YORK!
5 Star Hotel
Fine Dining
Round Trip Air-Fare
Starting form $1000
Deciding that I couldn't afford a journey to New York, I took a trip to
the neighborhood coffee shop instead. I chose to leave at a time when
I knew my family would be asleep - this trip would be my own delicious
secret. As I crept out the door, I felt a sudden surge of emotion -
How spontaneous a woman I was! Outside, the wind was biting, and snow
was falling, but I was oblivious to reality. Blindly, I ran down the
street toward the coffee shop. Once I had seated myself and ordered a
beverage, I began the slow, careful act of drinking, gently savoring
the taste of my temporary freedom.
When my beverage was finished, I sadly proceeded to walk home.
Clump...clump...clump... I sighed as I made strange footprints in the
snow. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew the hat off my head...! Madly, I
chased the mass of red wool down the road. The knee-deep snow on the
ground filtered into my boots, making me regret that I had forgotten to
wear any socks.
After what seemed an infinite stretch of time, I finally collapsed,
exhausted, onto the street. Amid the silent falling of snow, I felt a
strange, unexpected pang of freedom. Sitting alone on the cold
pavement, I began to laugh...
_______________________________________________________________________
To those of you who've put up with my writing to this point, A MILLION
THANK YOUs!!!!! :)
I'd love any comments... you can post your thoughts on the NG if you'd
like, or you could email them to me at v...@netcom.ca
Nietzsche7
>To those of you who've put up with my writing to this point, A MILLION
>THANK YOUs!!!!! :)
You're a good writer so there wasn't much to put up with. I enjoyed the
story immensely. I like your portrayal of woman imprisoned in a home of
sexist steriotypes created by society -- ie cooking and cleaning. It's
realistic, and not phony. It convincing too.
The story takes a good turn and adds a little excitement when she
goes off for freedom ( to a coffee shop, desparate for freedom: I think
so. another good portrayal)
The end of the story is the best part. Stories should be thought
provoking and maybe a little ambiguous ( as long as it's not a idiotic
attempt to look profound by purposely making the story impossible, which
yours is not, so don't fret)
I don't know if it would be possible to tell a story with out a
single inconsistancy, but most of the coffee shops over here in Wa ( home
of starbucks) close around 9 or 10, so the protagonists family must hit
the hay early. But that doesn't really matter. Even Dostoyeski, praised
as being "the greatest novelist of all time" ( A. Gide and about a million
other critics) had some inconsistances in those big ass and awsome novels
of his. Its no problem, just my two cents.
I think its great we're opening this newgroup up to short stories and
other art forms as well.
Adam
The man who has been living in the cave of shadow, but now has seen the
real world and must go back into the cave.
P>S> If anyone else out there likes short stories, mine is posted on
here. the post is titled "My SHORT STORY: The electric chair" much
thanks if anyone could check it out and C & C for me.
The Gruff Hippo
This may be incredibly late, but everything he said I agree with. You go, girl!
The Gruff Hippo