Posting Fiction: A Quandary

There was an elaborate plan to post more fiction.  The recent post, which was supposed to be for yesterday, started out with a song, but not me singing (you can thank me for that), and the story flowed from there.  The concepts from recent posts had got my mind generating thoughts and ideas; the idea unfolded like a web, but everything connected delightfully.  To help keep the story moving, there was YouTube music incorporated to provide a soundtrack.  Unfortunately, the panic settled in and the idea was scrapped.


Throwing my hands up in the air, I announced:  “What the hell did I do?”  The undo button was quickly clicked, and my fingers were crossed.  The text, in it’s entireity, returned.  A fictitious dance was done, and I pasted my work to a new Microsoft Word document.  Of course, I cannot put the YouTube videos into the document, but the music is placed strategically.

So, without further ado, here is the beginning of the short story. I hope you enjoy! If you don’t, well, stop reading.

*     *     *

The night is astounding. The waning moon’s brightness tears apart the ends of the clouds in the sky, and it glows around the leaves upon the oak; the stars have retired for the evening as they’ve grown discouraged from the seasoned competition. The view scans and slides down the tree and through its branches, widening to the front of the clubhouse mansion. Any child driving past the place could confuse it with the actual White House; the mother and father, driving, would simply look at each other and smile before acknowledging their children’s unfamiliarity inspired ado. As a family’s sedan drives past, the guests were exiting their cars and drivers would speed away or hand their keys to the valet.

The late summer evening is on the cooler side, the women fancying themselves in dresses wear their light fur shawls, temporarily hiding pearls and diamonds. As the point of view approaches the door the steps up to the double doors have been graced with a red carpet and decorated a with black paisley pattern. A black Audi screeches minimally to a halt, (almost hitting the perceived camera) blocking the view to the door, and the staff swarm the car to welcome and guide the guests to the party. The view enters through the blackened rear window, and it follows the couple’s feet up the steps. The closer they approach the entrance, the view raises to only the couple’s holding hands, which immediately release from one another upon entering the foyer. The piano can clearly be heard, and its Beethoven is now apparent.

The point of view slides through the slightest gap of that couple’s hands, his fingers wiping the sweat beads off of one another, and focuses up and beneath the crystal chandelier. The camera turns to face the couple, who smile at each other and part in opposite directions. There is a hint of shared sneers. The doors to the mansion are held by two ushers, who simultaneously close the door. We get a quick look down the steps, over the carpet and between the gas lanterns, right before the doors close.

The pianist sits at his piano in the middle of the foyer, and two separate staircases span out and around, embracing her as if to hug, or–depending on how this all can be perceived–as arms with open hands to display what is temporarily within them. The pianist’s face is focused upon, but enough can be seen of her pearl necklace (which matches her earings) and the black straps of her dress that rest upon her shoulders. As her fingers glide over and press upon the keys–please take notice of that–her face clearly shows her becoming one with the music. Her eyes close and open slowly, but open only ajar. It’s hard to determine her greyish blue eyes unless you get comfortably close, which not too many men have. If you were to ask her, it’s the music, which is the most intimidating aspect of her; her talent creates a shadow over her personality, coating it with a cold exterior.

The foyer is seen in its entirety, and from the double doors atop the stairs exits (or enters?) a brunette in a blue dress, sleek and flowing out at the feet. She places her hands upon the railing and looks out over the foyer. A man, who is decked out in the standard tuxedo with a green bow tie joins her, placing his right hand upon the small of her back. She shudders upon contact, rolling her eyes. Wearing a wide grin he scans the growing party with satisfaction. He leans over to her and whispers something in her ear. She smirks, raises an eyebrow and turns away from him. She yawns and her hand lifts slightly, gracefully to her hair, removing a pin as she assures that her companion’s head is turned.

Beethoven continues to play, and the green tie man’s hand caresses the hand belonging to the woman in the blue dress. As his fingers caress her hand, the fingers of her free hand tighten around the pin. Spontaneity consumes him, and he places both hands upon her hips. His nose finds its way into her hair, and her body goes rigid. As his lips touch her ear, she turns and grabs him by the face, squeezing her fingers to dig into his cheeks. His reaction is to grab the railing next to him. Quickly, the pin from her hair is jabbed into his hand, which causes him to stumble backwards. Taking advantage of the opportunity she pushes him down the stairs successfully.

*      *      *

So, there you have it. There is more to this, but I’ve wanted to stop while I was ahead. Maybe I will share some more with y’all in the future. Always, please check out the my fiction blog, full of poetry, good and shitty poetry, at Sporadic Attic.

2 thoughts on “Posting Fiction: A Quandary

  1. I just found your blog and … well, I’m glad I did ! This is my kind of blog. You write with crisp elegance. Nice. I shall follow you now and make time to catch up. Mark

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