freakinwinky
kickbox
If you haven't allready guessed, I'm new and it's my first time posting here. This is a short story I wrote fairly recently inspired by one of my favorite paintings. Hope you enjoy!
I didn't understand why. He tried desperately to explain it to me, but I still couldn't put it together.
Maybe that's why I stood still and silent as I watched him walk away. Maybe that's why I didn't take my eyes off of him as the others gathered curiously around me, bombarding me with questions. Maybe that is why I didn't say what I know I should have said. What I know I must have felt. Maybe.
It was an ordinary day. There was nothing unusual about the way the clouds battled with the setting sun over the sky. There was nothing extraordinary about the way the door shut as I left my flat that evening. And the cold winter wind that blew my skirt up and slid through my coat on my way to work certainly carried no warning of what might happen.what was to come.
I arrived early. Just before sun set. I always arrive earlier than the other girls. They say that it's because I'm too young, too small, and too sweet. They say that it's because I don't get enough customers and make up for it with eagerness. They say I need to prove myself. That's not the reason.
The truth is, I like this place they call the brothell. It's well lit, comforting. It has it's own taste, scent, personality. I come early to be reminded that people live. That people still laugh and drink, even in the dead cold of winter.
He wasn't supposed to be there that night.
That night was a Friday. He came on Tuesdays and only to me. I don't know why.
He had tried to explain it the night we met. My first night at the brothel. I had been standing by the bar with the other girls batting my eyes and humming to myself. I was humming my mother's favorite lullaby when he walked up to me.
He said my face was interesting. Not beautiful or saucy like the other girl's. Just interesting.
He asked Madame Russco, who had hired me, how much I would cost. She told him, he paid, then Madame led us to one of the small rooms in the back, which was held on reserve for such things. It was a room I had never been to, with only one small bed and a window. I remember, there was a full moon that night. I saw it light the sheets when Madame Russco locked the door.
He came again the next week, and the week after that. The other girls flirted with him and bought him drinks, as they were taught to do. He talked to a few of them, but in the end, he always asked for me.
The more often I saw him, the more mysterious he seemed. He was a great contradiction in many ways. Almost as if he were two men.
Some nights he was gentle. He would speak tenderly to me and kiss me slowly and deeply. Those nights I felt as if I were the canvas of one of his paintings, being slowly and gently molded into something he liked, something he wanted.
Other nights he was not gentle. He would throw me onto the bed with out a word and kiss me quickly and franticly until my mouth burned. It was those nights that I could tell he was desperate for something. Something he thought that I could give him.
It was usually on these frantic, desperate nights that he stayed afterward and stared out the window.
"There are stars tonight." He said one night as I picked my sore body up from the bed and began to cover myself with a small red cloak.
"Are there?"
"Come and see for yourself."
I moved to the window.
"I can't see."
"Here." He picked me up and sat me on the small window sill.
"Do you see now?"
"Yes. They do seem bright don't they?"
"Brighter then usual."
Then he smiled somewhat.
"que tout va pour le mieux dans le meillure des mondes" I heard him mumble to himself.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"You wouldn't understand." He answered simply. Then he took me down from the window sill, placed a coin purse on the bed, kissed my cheek and walked out the door, leaving me alone with the stars.
(Continued in reply thread)
The Ivy and the Willow
I didn't understand why. He tried desperately to explain it to me, but I still couldn't put it together.
Maybe that's why I stood still and silent as I watched him walk away. Maybe that's why I didn't take my eyes off of him as the others gathered curiously around me, bombarding me with questions. Maybe that is why I didn't say what I know I should have said. What I know I must have felt. Maybe.
It was an ordinary day. There was nothing unusual about the way the clouds battled with the setting sun over the sky. There was nothing extraordinary about the way the door shut as I left my flat that evening. And the cold winter wind that blew my skirt up and slid through my coat on my way to work certainly carried no warning of what might happen.what was to come.
I arrived early. Just before sun set. I always arrive earlier than the other girls. They say that it's because I'm too young, too small, and too sweet. They say that it's because I don't get enough customers and make up for it with eagerness. They say I need to prove myself. That's not the reason.
The truth is, I like this place they call the brothell. It's well lit, comforting. It has it's own taste, scent, personality. I come early to be reminded that people live. That people still laugh and drink, even in the dead cold of winter.
He wasn't supposed to be there that night.
That night was a Friday. He came on Tuesdays and only to me. I don't know why.
He had tried to explain it the night we met. My first night at the brothel. I had been standing by the bar with the other girls batting my eyes and humming to myself. I was humming my mother's favorite lullaby when he walked up to me.
He said my face was interesting. Not beautiful or saucy like the other girl's. Just interesting.
He asked Madame Russco, who had hired me, how much I would cost. She told him, he paid, then Madame led us to one of the small rooms in the back, which was held on reserve for such things. It was a room I had never been to, with only one small bed and a window. I remember, there was a full moon that night. I saw it light the sheets when Madame Russco locked the door.
He came again the next week, and the week after that. The other girls flirted with him and bought him drinks, as they were taught to do. He talked to a few of them, but in the end, he always asked for me.
The more often I saw him, the more mysterious he seemed. He was a great contradiction in many ways. Almost as if he were two men.
Some nights he was gentle. He would speak tenderly to me and kiss me slowly and deeply. Those nights I felt as if I were the canvas of one of his paintings, being slowly and gently molded into something he liked, something he wanted.
Other nights he was not gentle. He would throw me onto the bed with out a word and kiss me quickly and franticly until my mouth burned. It was those nights that I could tell he was desperate for something. Something he thought that I could give him.
It was usually on these frantic, desperate nights that he stayed afterward and stared out the window.
"There are stars tonight." He said one night as I picked my sore body up from the bed and began to cover myself with a small red cloak.
"Are there?"
"Come and see for yourself."
I moved to the window.
"I can't see."
"Here." He picked me up and sat me on the small window sill.
"Do you see now?"
"Yes. They do seem bright don't they?"
"Brighter then usual."
Then he smiled somewhat.
"que tout va pour le mieux dans le meillure des mondes" I heard him mumble to himself.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"You wouldn't understand." He answered simply. Then he took me down from the window sill, placed a coin purse on the bed, kissed my cheek and walked out the door, leaving me alone with the stars.
(Continued in reply thread)
I liked your writing style - the short sentences, the simplicity and the repetition seemed to fit with this being something recounted by a young girl.
