So you were gone.
There was the knife, still on the counter. There was the empty egg carton. You had said you were going to the farm to buy me some golden duck eggs. Nothing less would serve. I believed you. I believe you still.
And in your place was an ancient woman with long silver hair, braided in many braids, and eyes as blue as the sea. She was once beautiful, I thought. Like a princess. Or like the coldest, starkest stone which could have been sapphire in another world. But her crown was nowhere to be found, nor the gems I knew must be hers, and she muttered as she ebbed and flowed. I cannot explain the ebbing and flowing, which had nothing to do with her movements. (There she stood at the threshold of the kitchen, between me and the afternoon light, which was caught by her shadow and turned back where I could not touch it.)
The ebbing and flowing had more to do with who she was inside. Advancing, retreating. Giving, taking. Unsettled. Nothing final. Nothing you could count on, except that the rhythm of advance-retreat would continue. All without words. I felt she was like a fairytale, with some kind of terrifying magic you could not see, could only feel, the way you feel the paradox of burning when you sit in winter on icy ground.
I stood very still, and then she moved. No, barged. As if I were not actually in the room. But also as if she was trampling into my soul. My grandmother’s white china with the silver edges was suddenly in her hands. Your silver spoon. Into the trash they went.
“You won’t be needing these, ” she turned and said.
Then she reached into the folds of her voluminous robe (who wears a robe when coming to a stranger’s home?) and pulled out a green velvet bag. I watched her pry it open with thick fingers. She produced a wooden tile, blank. The kind of tiles you always hope will come your way when playing Scrabble.
But there was no hope in the room. And I did not want to play.
Photo by diastème, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by L.L. Barkat, author of The Novelist.
The Novelist is a pleasurable escape into the known and unknown world of Laura’s inner journey. Barkat’s ability to weave poetry into prose makes it impossible not to sink into her beautiful writing. It’s one of those rare books you’ll finish but leave on the nightstand.
—Darrelyn Saloom, co-author of My Call to the Ring: A Memoir of A Girl Who Yearns to Box
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Katie Andraski says
This is absolutely gorgeous writing. I want to know what happens next. There is so much mystery here as well as accurate perceptions into the woman’s personality and power.
L. L. Barkat says
Katie, thank you so much. I haven’t felt inspired to write fiction in forever. Sometimes a character just comes on the scene unexpectedly, and off we go. I wish I knew what would happen next! It’s not a planned series. Though I’ll say, she did keep the writer in me up last night, wondering.
Katie Andraski says
Well I hope you listen to your people here and see where they take you and what they teach. There is the wisdom of the dream in this,maybe for you, me, your readers….
Megan Willome says
I like this. I’m drawn to middles right now more than endings.
L. L. Barkat says
Middles are times of possibility. They are also vulnerable times, paired with great potential for change or regress. I’m not sure what I’ll do with this series, if anything at all, but I was compelled to jump into the middle and see what stirred.
To you, what are the defining qualities of “middles”?
Donna says
Me, too, Megan. I like this quite a lot. It’s mysterious and beautiful and even scary in parts.
LL I love what you say here about the middles being times of possibility – also the vulnerable times. Yes, even more vulnerable that the beginning I think – like when cells divide, exposure is required.
I hope there will be more. 🙂
SimplyDarlene says
How do we know it’s a middle? And not a beginning or even an end? Maybe the “beginning” will lay its tracks in flashbacks, memories, or wonderings.
I like the vagueness of time.
Fiction is how I rattle out memoir truth – because really, who are we accountable to with fiction? Don’t you find it freeing? I do – especially in flash fiction, short stories, or scenes, like yours.
L. L. Barkat says
Indeed. My eldest said you could call this a “beginning.” And we discussed how every chapter in a book should sort of feel that way, with its own sub-arcs of beginning-middle-end.
Funny you should mention that part about Time. It’s something I might play with a little if I write more of this one.
So cool that you find it freeing. 🙂 I find fiction-writing nerve-wracking. It’s not about memoir for me. It’s about digging into the human psyche, and that… feels like a dangerous, tentative, albeit exciting and sometimes healing, place. And I do feel very accountable when I write fiction. There are types of fiction (and poetry and prose) I wish people would not bring into the world. There are dreams to be dashed or made. We story writers are, to me, Mary Shelley, making monsters or freeing them. Searching for or creating something that is worthy to hold.
SimplyDarlene says
I should’ve explained my memoir comment… when I’m at a sticky place with my memoir, I write fiction.
Sometimes it’s just plain hard for me to tell the truth in a way that gets it from heart to mind to ink and still retain my heart. But with fiction, although it’s reflective of life & psyche, it’s more freeing because I’m not constraining my own self. (Make sense?)
Great conversations about this piece.
SimplyDarlene says
Oh great, I may have muddled it even more… 🙂 I take a break from the memoir and write a piece of fiction. I don’t start making up stuff and somehow cram it into the memoir! Ha.
L. L. Barkat says
I understood what you meant, no worries.
That’s a great trick to deal with your writer’s block. Do you share these fictional pieces, then? Or do you let them do their vital work, without feeling a need to show them to the world?
SimplyDarlene says
Both – some I post on my site, some are written on scraps of paper and shoved to the bottom of a drawer.
And, not too long ago, I reread the ones I could find and realized that even though they were written years apart and independent of one another, some of them could now be strung together in a novel. Ya never know what’s to be found in a drawer!
Elizabeth Marshall says
Im so glad you ‘went there’.
Because I, too, did not feel it felt contained by a definition of middle.
I Recently completed “All The Light We Cannot See.” This novel does not unfold chronicologically (word choice?spelling?)
Very beguiling and mysterious that way.
Marcy says
This is all very interesting, first the above story, that was haunting with a bit of mystery as to what happens next. Sounds like you are about to deal with Mother Nature or The Wind. Then the conversation between L.L. & S.Darlene, even more profound. My life has always been weird, like I wake-up from having a dream, remembering it fully, it’s someone I know so I call them. Each time something bad has happened in their life. One was my cousin & her brother had just shot himself, he died. Another a friend I worked with, she had just come home from the hospital after having a heart scare. So many others, I’m afraid to call anyone. Then you know how you go in these big box stores and they give stuff away. You enter, fill out a slip and shop. They shout it’s time for a drawing & I start walking to the front. Why? There’s this tinkle I get that always let’s me know I’m going to win. You cannot believe all the stuff I’ve won, but it’s always this little feeling first. It comes in other area’s of my life, like I always know when someone is not telling the truth. I’ve seen things but I won’t get into that one.
Marcy says
Light shines off uneven stones, suddenly my feet come to a halt, the pathway ends. The sound in my heart is beating wildly against the chambers of my chest. They all look alike, I scream. These narrow streets in Paris with sudden ends that lead to no where. It was him, I know it was him, that hair, those eyes, why, he looked right at me. Yes, years have passed, way too many and questions unanswered but our eyes touched, we both felt it. He’s never left Paris and I’m here now, rushing, running to where I saw him standing last. Pushing, making my way through the crowd, I can barely caught my breath. Suddenly I stop, which way did he go? There, yes there, in the distance, he’s just rounded the corner, I must hurry to catch him. Running I get to the path of stones, uneven, wet from rain. Looking up I see him, he’s at the last door on the left, he goes in closing that door. Looking behind me, there is no one so I proceed on those wet paved stones. Finally I’ve reached the place he last stood before disappearing, I want answers this time. My hand is on the door, do I dare just walk in, beads of sweat roll down my face, my heart is going to explode. I’m going in, nothing can stop me from opening this door.
Marcy says
Hey Laura B.
After reading your beginning, middle, where ever you decide to put this in your book I got a bit inspired. So I wrote the second comment, a story about two lost lovers, one leaving for no reason, one returning in hopes to get answers why? Just wondering what you thought of it? You guys are the only ones I can run things by. Thanks Marcy
L. L. Barkat says
Interestingly enough, I might start this piece closer towards the end. My first sentence might be…
“I want answers this time.”
From there, I might go backwards and then move forwards again.
***
While we can give you some feedback on your work given our limited time, I think the intensity you’re searching for might be best found in a local writer’s group. Have you thought of starting one or attending one that already exists?
Marcy Terwilliger says
Laura Barkat,
Many thanks for the advise, I have a lot of these that I’ve started but not finished. I do appreciate you taking the time to read it and let me know what to do next. Nashville is full of writers but they are Country Music, looking for that hit song, got a couple of them living out in the country here with me. Big black iron gates, homes sitting way on top of giant hills. I’ll look online for something. Walking has become even harder these days than before, not having any strength and being tried all the time keeps me at home. Pain levels are up, so I love writing so much, it’s one thing I can do at home, and it makes me happy. Time is not my friend anymore these days. So I’m trying hard to get my words out there.
Donna says
The ebbing and flowing is a powerful image for me. Looking forward to finding out about that wooden tile, and the green velvet bag. 🙂
L. L. Barkat says
Well, gee. Me too. I hope I discover the necessary details 😉
(Thanks so much for your encouragement! I so rarely write stories. Not sure why.)
Donna says
Ha! You will!! Just begin. 😉
Elizabeth Marshall says
I suppose everthing is a middle.
Everthing has come before right now.
And everthing comes next.
I love this even if you remove the title or banner or branding of middle.
I love the “what it is”.
Mysterious. Everything has an element of mystery.
Intrigue.
Suspense.
Beauty.
Are middles just the perfect metaphor.
Possibly.
I love the ebb and flow for obvious personal reasons. And yet here it seems to allude to blood flow and breathing.
Lovely and artful. And I knew it was you….your voice before reading the by line. Always marked, your writing, by your unique style.
Love this.
Dolly@Soulstops says
Laura,
Your writing drew me in with its beauty and then I wondered, who wrote this? And I found out it was you 🙂