Sep 13
2008The Chapters
Filed Under (Short Stories) by Gin de Loon on 13-09-2008
Note: I’m experimenting with prose, testing an idea born in part out of laziness and in part out of genuine curiosity. I call it “The Chapters”. It is a collection of short, at times, unrelated “chapters” about and around the same character. Each chapter is written independantly. Its all very..pieced together. I wanted to see if a story can unfold employing a variety of styles throughout the story-telling. As yet, I have no definite plot. What I want to do with The Chapters is create an amalgum of past and present experiences of the character, not necessarily told in chronological order. The fractured/snapshot feel of the story will be explained in one of the “chapters”. You will have to wait for it 
Anyhow, here is what I have so far. And I want feedback! Pretty please! 
The Chapters
Chapter 1
She walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge door, standing in a halo of light. A neatly stacked selection of identical, transparent containers displays itself, of which she picks one, opens it and examines the contents. A brownish sludge of what once must have been food is all that is left inside. She snaps the lid back on and stows it away, picking another container and doing the same. After scrutinizing the contents of five boxes, she reaches the sixth. From the sixth container, she empties three tablespoons of the distasteful brown soup and warms up her meal in the microwave. The darkness outside causes a partial reflection of her image to form in the kitchen window. She stares intently at herself - past herself - as she brings half-filled spoons of leftover broth to her lips.
After having eaten and washed, she puts the lone pink bowl she has been eating from back in its individual cupboard and leaves.
The bathroom door is closed and firmly locked. She keeps her eyes off the mirror and on her hands as she washes. Soapy foam slides off to reveal blue-green veins that snake like seaweed from her wrists to her fingers. She washes her face, dries herself, steals a glance at the mirror and thus begins her daily, unfaltering routine to nothing.
Chapter 1.2
Its raining inside.
She doesnt carry an umbrella anymore. Gray clouds make up for wallpaper and ceiling decor. Miniature lightening bolts strike corners in each room. There is always light. The floor she walks on is flooded. Her toes numb and blue from the cold. She used to wear warmer clothes when it began. Plumbers were called, heaters were installed. They couldnt fix anything.
She went to bed that night, drenched. Droplets fell on her, rain ceasing to drizzle as she slept. The water soaked through her blanket, clothes, hair. But her skin didnt wrinkle and the food didnt spoil. Water rolled off tables and papers as if it were nothing. It flowed from under doors, around the legs of chairs, but the wood didnt swell. The rain inside kept noise away. All she heard from then were her feet splish-splashing as she treaded, the tup-tup-tup of drops somewhere, the rush of a waterfall as it flowed down the stairs and the endless pelting of raindrops as they fell from the ceiling.
Then she came to love the rain.
Chapter 1.3
Clouds hang in the air like saddness, post-rain. Moisture, sweat and synthetic esters fuse to a fragrance she remembers from long ago (in a garden with a sprinkler and a dog and a little dead fish to bury).
She shuffles her feet to the shower
(We are gathered here today…)
Unzip. Unbutton.
(to honour the short life…)
Untie and brush.
(of Flappy the Fish…)
Undress.
(She was a joyful fish…)
Stand.
(with a heart full of love…)
Fidget.
(She led a full life…)
Scratch.
(and made our lives full…)
Draw water.
(…May she rest and peace…)
Whats done and said does not matter.
(…as she lived in it…)
Its always a happy-ever-after.
Maybe its time to switch perfumes.
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