Bodies

a/n: another flash. this is a weird one

--

Bodies

Her dress is torn. It was a dress with flowers on it. It is ripped down the middle so that I can see her stomach, which is still and very white. There is a lot of blood. Red tangents of blood that glisten like an old radio song from better times. The blood is black, she is stirred. She is stirred like paint. I can see her all over the place. There is her purse. The contents confessed, cosmetics blurted, two little white gloves like poisoned mice. She is pretty and thin. Her dress went above her knees. It was basically a white dress with flowers on it. She has been stabbed many times. The stabs are quick and loud. Her mouth is open. It is a small mouth with little, tasteful daubs of lipstick. I look sideways at it. It is not in an expression of surprise. Her face is loose, easy.
She is missing a shoe. I can't see it anywhere. I love her feet. They are small and she could have danced very easily on them. I like dancing. Maybe that's what she had been doing earlier tonight. Maybe she had been out dancing in a nice white dress with cornflowers on it and white shoes that would slip across the dancefloor like a hot dry summer wind that is not altogether disagreeable.
I light a cigarette. It is what I came out to do before I found this woman on my doorstep missing a shoe.
I wonder why I'm not more concerned. There has been a murder outside my back door after all, near the dumpsters. He did not even bother to throw the body in the dumpster. I wonder why I do not scream, yell. As she might have. I didn't hear anything, and I've been at home all day, so she probably didn't scream. I guess it's not everyday that you see a corpse on your doorstep, and a pretty corpse anyway. You only get to see these things on TV. On CSI and Law and Order at eleven o'clock at night when you can hear the even prairie of ticks from the clock down the hall and the house still smells like the hotdogs you boiled and cut up for the kids on the stove, or Macaroni and Cheese. It is not everyday that you get to see something like this.
I smoke my cigarette. Put my hands in my pockets. I get closer. Heat wave of distant sirens. Old, jittery streelights who's light pouts and juts like an underlip. It is a full moon and she is in the moonlight. I want to go check her purse. Find her license, look at her name, maybe a picture of her before her face was covered in blood and bruised, when she was tight and beautiful and went out dancing. It is interesting to think that thirty minutes ago she might have been dancing – muscles grouping, tugging, mid-sprawl. Smiling, little cotton buzz of cocktails. She could feel the bass notes saddle through her slick, nuzzled heart. Now she is dead. She is not dancing. She is stopped and just meat. She will start to rot.
How could someone who was dancing thirty minutes ago begin to rot.
It is kind of exciting, I guess. I am the audience. No, this is more a painting. Audience is plural. Paintings are for the single, museum viewer. This is a sunset, she is hand-peeled like a sunset, which is for two people. With splashes of red and the peach of flesh. She is a red sunset that you watch from a balcony. You can almost see as the dusk of liver mortis sets in. I remember taking a forensic science course in school. I try to remember the steps of decomposition. The body cools like a marriage. Forensic scientists stick thermometers into people, to tell the time of death, because time still matters here. We all lose heat at the same rate. We are made up of waves and radiations, half-lives. The unplugged warmth of her body as he stabbed her – a cardiac transmission, broadcast.
into the night out of the night.
Now she spills into the alley, from out of the night.
Her hair spills into the alley. I think it is red. She reminds me of Suzanne. Suzanne is not my wife, she has red hair. My wife is Margaret. I don't justify it. Things like this just happen. It is a non-smoking room and she is smoking a cigarette and it is folded between her fingers with the poise of origami. I think I only ever loved her for her hair, which razes the bed. Her hair like spun fire, if you could make thread and yarn out of flame. Suzanne's malarial heat. You sweat out a fever. You starve a cold. You feed a fever.
Suzanne likes to dance. Margaret is pregnant.
We are thinking of a name for the baby, which will be a boy. I have always liked the name Peter.
I want the pretty corpse to be Suzanne.
I want to name the boy Peter. My lips are chapped from her hair, and from saying the name Peter, reminding myself.
I throw the cigarette away. The body is starting to smell I think. Not badly. She smells like Suzanne in the non-smoking room, folded, the nightly planetarium of her freckles. Is this the smell of rot? Or is this the smell of dancing? Is this the smell of all things impermanent. All things that are washed away in rain.
She spills down a drain.
I walk back to the door and go inside. Margaret is sitting on the couch. She is watching television and sweating. She may be watching a murder on television. The dispassionate, ugly scene of a broadcasted murder. It is made terrible, because there are other televisions tuned to the same channel and everyone is quiet on the couch as the forensic scientists photograph the cold porn of a knife victim. Brady and Tori are working on art projects for school at the kitchen table. They don't even look up as I come in. They are sharing crayons. The house still smells like dinner. It is warm inside.
Nothing is spilled.
Nothing on fire.
I have the sudden impulse to dance with Margaret in celebration.
I think of the consequences if we do not.

Hiya,

So this was an interesting piece that's unlike everything I've ever read before. You have a neat style and way with words, and you really build up the setting and make the reader feel like we're actually there. There were a few things that bothered me, though.

Her dress is torn. It was a dress with flowers on it. It is ripped down the middle so that I can see her stomach, which is still and very white. There is a lot of blood. Red tangents of blood that glisten like an old radio song from better times. The blood is black, she is stirred. She is stirred like paint. I can see her all over the place. There is her purse. The contents confessed, cosmetics blurted, two little white gloves like poisoned mice. She is pretty and thin. Her dress went above her knees. It was basically a white dress with flowers on it. She has been stabbed many times. The stabs are quick and loud. Her mouth is open. It is a small mouth with little, tasteful daubs of lipstick. I look sideways at it. It is not in an expression of surprise. Her face is loose, easy.

I quite like this. You've got some good imagery here and you also do a pretty good job of setting the mood of this story right here. However, it might work better if you added some emotion on the narrator's part. How long has it been since he's discovered the body? What was his initial reaction? Shock, fear, anger? We do get a sense of curiosity, not just in this paragraph but throughout the whole story, but it doesn't feel like enough. I mean, it's not every day that you discover a dead body in your backyard. I know you address these issues later on in the story, but I still don't feel quite satisfied. If he's confused as to why he's not acting like he feels would be traditional, expand on that a bit more.

Second, the whole Suzanne thing confused me somewhat. Who exactly is she, and what was their relationship like? Why, besides dancing and having red hair, does the narrator think of her when he sees the dead body? If he did really love her long ago, why did he want the corpse to be her? And correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm getting somewhat of a sense that the narrator is the corpse. If that is so, wouldn't he recognize her? I'm so confused--you might want to add a little detail toward that.

Overall, this is a good piece that could be polished a bit. PM me if you have questions.

-Elinor x

Hi Kylan, Pink here

Red tangents of blood that glisten like an old radio song from better times. The blood is black, she is stirred

Alright, so I'm a bit confused here because you first describe the blood as red and then say black.

She is missing a shoe. I can't see it anywhere. I love her feet.

This is just a suggestion, but I think you should put the 'I love her feet' in italics because it's his thought at the moment. Although, you're free to do as you please

She is stopped and just meat.

I find this part a little weird to relate to. Does he mean as in 'dead'? Like a stopped heart beat or something of that sort.

Overall, I throughly enjoyed reading this. It's dark and you did a good job at building up the atmosphere. Honestly, at first I was bit angry that his thoughts were so sharp and short. That they didn't expand that deep and he would just stop and state something like he likes to dance or something. But as I continued, it was better and I could see how it all fit into the personality of this. Now, I do agree with Elinor with who Suzanne is. I wish you explained the little things a little more, even though this is a short read, it wouldn't hurt to feel as close to the character as possible so I can feel the full effect of this piece. Anyway, I do wish you added a little bit more of an explanation to the events, especially the ending.

I walk back to the door and go inside. Margaret is sitting on the couch. She is watching television and sweating. She may be watching a murder on television. The dispassionate, ugly scene of a broadcasted murder. It is made terrible, because there are other televisions tuned to the same channel and everyone is quiet on the couch as the forensic scientists photograph the cold porn of a knife victim. Brady and Tori are working on art projects for school at the kitchen table. They don't even look up as I come in. They are sharing crayons. The house still smells like dinner. It is warm inside.

When I read the last part I thought it was him, who killed 'Suzanne'. Seeing as what was on TV but then again, why would the body be on his front door step and I was suddenly very confused. Also, with his personality and his connection with the dead girl as Suzanne, why doesn't he take the liberty to call the police or anything? Mostly, I'm asking why his behavior is the way it is, I want to know because I find it interesting.

Anyway, this was a pretty cool read and I enjoyed it nonetheless.
Cheers,

~Pink

Hey Kylan –

Something it took me about two weeks of (intermittent) thinking to realise about your writing in the flash of space between thought and dream – something you mentioned to me yourself: that you ‘rarely write from the intended perspective of a man.’

Forget the poetry for a moment. In your short fic, I can see why that above statement might apply. Your female characters are, on the whole, more engaging than your male ones. That said, there are exceptions – in Familial and Revenant, for one – where you have a somewhat Russian male protagonist, by which I mean that his thoughts/feelings are played out similar to a woman’s – uninhibited, with no need to uphold the stoic male stereotype. Postmortem, Small Tremors and Bodies are a bit more on the blank side.

Of course, you will argue that this is an experiment in blankness, in neutrality. If that is so, I’d like to see you write a realistic/believable/engaging female protagonist in this way.

One big issue I had with this piece was the short sentences. They were very, very annoying when used that much, and in such rapid succession. I hinted at this in Familial, I recall, but there you got away with it since they weren’t used quite as often. Plus, the character was amusingly conflicted, which drove the piece. Here:

Her dress is torn. It was a dress with flowers on it. It is ripped down the middle so that I can see her stomach, which is still and very white. There is a lot of blood. Red tangents of blood that glisten like an old radio song from better times. The blood is black, she is stirred. She is stirred like paint. I can see her all over the place. There is her purse. The contents confessed, cosmetics blurted, two little white gloves like poisoned mice. She is pretty and thin. Her dress went above her knees. It was basically a white dress with flowers on it. She has been stabbed many times. The stabs are quick and loud. Her mouth is open. It is a small mouth with little, tasteful daubs of lipstick. I look sideways at it. It is not in an expression of surprise. Her face is loose, easy.

You don’t need me to tell you how clipped the sentences are – I know you have probably done this on purpose. What, may I ask, was the intended effect? Whatever it was, it’s not working. You’ve just thrown your fluency out of the window in an attempt to be pointed in every line, even if this disconnected way was the way he noticed her appearance – which I highly doubt it was, since we tend to take in everything at once, not in this neat, bulleted, grocery shopping list of details at the scene of crime. This does not feel real, nor is it enjoyable to read. Lengthen out every other sentence, provide some more variety.

I love her feet.

Really? The man is seeing her for the first time – or so we assume at this point in time – and he ‘loves her feet’? An entirely bizarre perception on his part if this is indeed the first time he’s seeing her. If it isn’t, then I couldn’t think of anything more heartless to say here. She’s dead on his doorstep, and he’s thinking about how he ‘loves her feet’. Appalling. And entirely unbelievable. I have more connection with your corpse at this point than your main character.

They are small and she could have danced very easily on them. I like dancing. Maybe that's what she had been doing earlier tonight. Maybe she had been out dancing in a nice white dress with cornflowers on it and white shoes that would slip across the dancefloor like a hot dry summer wind that is not altogether disagreeable.

This is shocking. He continues to consider her dancing. Upon reading this, I wondered exactly how much distance you wanted to drive between your MC and your reader. I feel mildly amused at his consideration of her feet and thoughts on her dancing, but mostly, I am disbelieving. If distance was your intention, you’ve managed it; he’s obviously not jumping up and down in alarm at finding a dead body on his back door. The lack of that cliché here is what I am trying to decide is what makes it interesting, or what ruins the emotional credibility of the MC.

Sure, I mean, experiment with bizarre psychologies and neutrality all you like – I just want to tell you how much more engaging I find your characters that are so deeply characteristic of human nature. You have a mastery of conflict that appeals to me both intellectually and emotionally, beyond the text and within it, while this, on a personal note, has much less impact.

Maybe it’s a connection thing. I like connection. Something to hold on to, to not only watch unfold but to also deeply care about. Perhaps a flash fic is too short a space to explore the odd mentalities and to actually make the reader care about the major character, to become them. I am a close observer, yes, but an observer only. I want to get inside.

On a different note, I wonder if you have read Lolita. It’s got a protagonist that is what most would call ‘abnormal’ – psychologically – but the very Russianness of the writing brings out the emotional drama. Vladmir Nabokov. Dark comedy, abundant description - right up your alley.

I wonder why I'm not more concerned. There has been a murder outside my back door after all, near the dumpsters. He did not even bother to throw the body in the dumpster. I wonder why I do not scream, yell. As she might have. I didn't hear anything, and I've been at home all day, so she probably didn't scream. I guess it's not everyday that you see a corpse on your doorstep, and a pretty corpse anyway. You only get to see these things on TV. On CSI and Law and Order at eleven o'clock at night when you can hear the even prairie of ticks from the clock down the hall and the house still smells like the hotdogs you boiled and cut up for the kids on the stove, or Macaroni and Cheese. It is not everyday that you get to see something like this.

You are echoing the readers’ thoughts. I also wonder why he is ‘not more concerned.’ Of course I will assume there is something wrong with his mental faculties. Some glitch in his brain that I missed you hinting at earlier. I take the phrase, ‘a pretty corpse, anyway’ to be important, since about now, that’s the only way I can rationalise his lack of emotion, empathy – his paralysis. He seems – and forgive me if I am wrong – somewhat mesmerised by her appearance. The only way I could explain his stillness.

Also – small notes – no need to say ‘scream, yell’ together; one will do fine. And your long sentence bolded is wonderful – it adds just the variety and the rush of thought one needs. It’s one of the few lines where I’ve felt any sort of connection with this guy.

I smoke my cigarette. Put my hands in my pockets. I get closer. Heat wave of distant sirens. Old, jittery streelights who's light pouts and juts like an underlip. It is a full moon and she is in the moonlight. I want to go check her purse. Find her license, look at her name, maybe a picture of her before her face was covered in blood and bruised, when she was tight and beautiful and went out dancing. It is interesting to think that thirty minutes ago she might have been dancing – muscles grouping, tugging, mid-sprawl. Smiling, little cotton buzz of cocktails. She could feel the bass notes saddle through her slick, nuzzled heart. Now she is dead. She is not dancing.

Repetitious, with the dancing mentions. Find a way to put it differently, or don’t devote so many words to it. I’m losing interest here.

She is stopped and just meat. She will start to rot.
How could someone who was dancing thirty minutes ago begin to rot.

‘Just meat’ – I understand you perfectly; I just want you to phrase this less oddly. And bolded line – great. Kind of ridiculous, since she won’t start to rot – the irony here is what I like. Your character is ridiculous. The unintended irony of him acknowledging the ridiculousness of his own thoughts is entertaining.

It is kind of exciting, I guess. I am the audience. No, this is more a painting. Audience is plural. Paintings are for the single, museum viewer.

Now I feel connection. Exciting. A loaded word, but so true – despite the horror of a corpse, there is a certain excitement to it, that your escalating sentences capture perfectly. Here is where short sentences are appropriate, I would say.

This is a sunset, she is hand-peeled like a sunset, which is for two people. With splashes of red and the peach of flesh. She is a red sunset that you watch from a balcony. You can almost see as the dusk of liver mortis sets in.

Can you do better than this? Yes. You can do much better. I have seen you do better. This – this is nothing; a sunset, a cliché. Boo.

I remember taking a forensic science course in school. I try to remember the steps of decomposition. The body cools like a marriage. Forensic scientists stick thermometers into people, to tell the time of death, because time still matters here. We all lose heat at the same rate. We are made up of waves and radiations, half-lives. The unplugged warmth of her body as he stabbed her – a cardiac transmission, broadcast.

Did not particularly appreciate this part. ‘Forensic course in school’….akin to that ‘learnt about viruses in school.’ And school…no. Not here; don’t drag school in here like this. You had this wonderfully emotional drama escalating, escalating and all of a sudden…that ^. Dry academia. Integrate emotion into this to make it palatable, or rephrase to purposefully withhold from the reader that excitement. Make it clear which you’re doing – both can work; as it is, I would say you found the facts interesting and wanted to throw them in in narration.

Her hair spills into the alley. I think it is red. She reminds me of Suzanne. Suzanne is not my wife, she has red hair. My wife is Margaret. I don't justify it. Things like this just happen. It is a non-smoking room and she is smoking a cigarette and it is folded between her fingers with the poise of origami. I think I only ever loved her for her hair, which razes the bed. Her hair like spun fire, if you could make thread and yarn out of flame. Suzanne's malarial heat. You sweat out a fever. You starve a cold. You feed a fever.

Contrary to previous reviewers, I had no problem with Suzanne and Margaret. In fact, I rather liked it. Infidelity. But I do want to know who the ‘she’ refers to when you say ‘she is smoking a cigarette…loved her for her hair…like spun fire.’ I want to know whether it is Suzanne or Margaret who has the red hair. I think the line, ‘Suzanne is not my wife, she has red hair’ is rather ambiguous. Who has red hair?

Suzanne likes to dance. Margaret is pregnant.
We are thinking of a name for the baby, which will be a boy. I have always liked the name Peter.

A lovely loss of focus. Mention of others seems to intrude on this moment of observation, however, but it’s background. And your MC loses that blankness here as well as below:

I want the pretty corpse to be Suzanne.
I want to name the boy Peter. My lips are chapped from her hair, and from saying the name Peter, reminding myself.

The ambiguity of whether it is or isn’t Suzanne could have been played out for a bit longer, I think. But I guess, if you don’t want your reader to doubt your credibility too much (I mean, were you to play with our confusions then I would have wondered if the first paras of contemplation on her dancing and all that ‘wondering’ he seemed to be doing were a lie or not), then you could concrete it this quickly. He wants the pretty corpse to be Suzanne. That immediately asserts she is not.

Small plot details that I now wonder at: who is she, and why would a murderer have chosen his doorstep to leave her there. Of course, entirely irrelevant.

Is this the smell of all things impermanent. All things that are washed away in rain.
She spills down a drain.

Thematically, this piece played symbols much more in movement than in stillness, despite the physical and emotional stillness of your character. By that I mean that they weren’t stationary symbols – they slipped in with his thoughts, by the ‘back door.’ I see mention of dancing and rotting – I take this to mean a kind of irony being set up by the fact that no dancing = no movement = no life, but death is not still, either; death is a kind of change, too. Death is not permanent – similar to that poem that talks of grapefruit in such a startlingly revolting manner.

Nothing is spilled.
Nothing on fire.
I have the sudden impulse to dance with Margaret in celebration.
I think of the consequences if we do not.

If I ever doubted you at the beginning, I do not at the end. There are layers within layers of meaning to nothing being spilled or on fire. It’s as if he’s trying to assert his marital and familial harmony, on the simplest level. Like he’s trying to wipe away the past, the ‘spills’ and memory of fire (hair) – forget it, disregard it. He’s seen the impermanency of death and that frightens him more than the permanency of it. Something of a character change; but not entirely – you leave us with a last, academic chill – despite the spontaneity of the impulse – with the repeat of dancing. He wants to dance with his wife; exactly what he envisions the corpse having done half and hour ago. Of course, he might mean it entirely in a reunion-way, but there is a distinct undertone of something more terrible and cold.

By the by, I did read '19 bodies and a bag of oranges' also, out of interest. And I can see the evolution of your writing clear as day; you're much more integrated with your description and action than you were previously. Obviously, I far prefer this version of your writing than that - but you knew that anyway. Change - in your case - seems to work for the better.

And in a year's time, I can't begin to imagine the difference I might see.

Thanks for the read - and for your patience. I've been somewhat swept up in exams; only just got free. Apologies for the delay.


Navita