Reimagining
Aug. 2nd, 2025 06:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
muchtooarrogantLJI Week 6: Re-imagine another contestant's entry
In the second week of our competition,simplyn2deep wrote a beautiful poem about the breakdown of communication in a relationship. Below, I have attempted to write about a similar breakdown of communication in prose.
The morning sunlight dappled her sleeping form, dusky strands of hair fanned out across the pillow, overflowing on to the empty one beside it as well. The window blinds were closed, but a few of the metal slats had been bent, allowing the light to ingress. The bedroom, the entire apartment around her was silent, and only the gentle whisper of her breath marked out time between now and some point in the future.
After the fight and his departure she had indulged in a frenzy of activity. She desperately wanted stability, closure, a way of preventing any more broken interactions between them. Would the pain end if she excised his clothes from the closet, his books from the bookcase, his favorite foods from the pantry? If she packed all of his possessions away into boxes, could she somehow tether a piece of her emotional distress inside each container as well, to eventually be lifted and carried away, exiting her life forever?
At first it had been simple. Discarded possessions were hurled into the air, took flight briefly, only to nose dive into a disorderly pile on the bedroom floor. Boxes, she decided, could wait. She would accumulate everything first and pack later.
Except ...
It had never been a particularly large closet, and neither one of them had adhered to a strict boundary of demarcation. There was one rack with a raised rod that was hers and held mostly dresses, but the other rods seemed to hold a mixture of both their clothes. Then, she realized what the problem was. This t-shirt was his, except she wore it more than he did. Another one. A third. She wore these faded and stained warmups of his around the apartment while cleaning. Here was one of his sweatshirts she wore to bed when the apartment's heat couldn't adequately warm their bedroom. As she sorted she realized that certain pieces of his clothing had become like a second skin to her, and if she threw them away, it would feel as though a piece of her would go with them.
The bookcase was worse. There were a few bound collections of pages she could toss pileward with little or no hesitation, but the rest held not only the written story within, but a shared story of love they had written together. There were books they had urged each other to read.
"You never read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?"
"I mean, I saw the Narnia movies."
There were books they had read at the same time, or tried to anyway.
"Why are you already on chapter ten?"
"You were talking to your mom on the phone, and I had to do something."
There were books they had argued over.
"I like the way time travel works, but the women are a little two-dimensional don't you think?"
"It was the 1880's. I think he was just trying to be realistic to the time."
The print stories were so intertwined with their own stories of discovery and love, could she ever read any of them again without replaying the conversations they had shared?
As a child, she had been one of those increasingly rare unicorns, someone whose parents weren't divorced or planning a breakup. They fought sometimes, but would generally keep the arguments behind closed doors, away from her and her brothers. She had occasionally poked fun at them for their little code words, shared expressions sometimes accompanied by subtle gestures that only the two of them understood. Other times, when they kissed in front of her, she would fake gagging noises and run away. And yet, even while teasing and pretending to flee from their displays of affection, she had absorbed what they were modeling, learned the lesson that when you loved someone, you did it completely. When you made a commitment to someone else, it meant you were forfeiting any claim you had to a solitary existence.
No surprise then that in her first long term relationship she had followed her parents' example. Learned to speak in shorthand, glances that could communicate entire paragraphs, a gentle touch to the small of the back that said, "I'm here." What she hadn't known, had never learned, was how painful it was to break those bonds.
Tonight's fight had been brewing for weeks, threatening thunderheads on the horizon of their relationship, with only an occasional flash of lightening between them to presage the eventual storm. Both of them had known it was coming, and each of them had played double-agents to their own destruction; sometimes rehearsing and delivering sincere apologies, and sometimes watering the roots of misunderstanding and resentment by simply saying, "I'm fine."
When the storm had finally arrived, she felt, and thought she had observed in him as well, a giddy sense of relief. No more waiting, no more creeping about, no more wondering if the next off-hand comment would be taken out of context.
He had just gotten home from work, and was sprawled in a chair by their bedroom window.
"Hey, would you mind looking over my PowerPoint one last time? I'm presenting it at our team meeting tomorrow."
He sighed, and lowered the book he had just picked up. "Okay, I guess."
She looked away, "Never mind."
"Jesus, I said okay."
"You obviously don't want to, so never mind."
He fumbled with the book in his lap for a second, as though uncertain what to do with his hands, and then suddenly threw it over his shoulder. Transfixed, they both watched as it crashed into the metal blinds, impacted the window behind them with a dull thud, and then skated down the metal slats to the windowsill and floor, leaving several bent metal pieces in its wake.
"It's not about you," he spat at her, "would you get that through your head? You always assume it's about you, but it isn't! I'm just tired!"
"You're not the only one who works you know. I have my regular job, but I'm also working on this." He opened his mouth to say something, but she rolled over him. "Why am I doing that? Because someone's always bitching that we don't have enough money. Bitching that he wants to go out and party, but we can't afford it."
"You'd rather I ..."
"If you listened to me you'd know that I've been working on this shit for days because maybe, just maybe, my boss will like it and I'll get a raise. All of that effort just so pretty boy can party with his friends and flirt with ..."
He was on his feet now, shaking a fist at her. "You jealous bitch, I don't flirt with anyone! How could I, you're always there with your claws in me!"
She could've waited, could've let him chill for a while before asking for his help, but had been afraid that he would fall asleep, and in the morning there wouldn't be time. Their argument had raged on, increasingly absurd accusations thrown back and forth, the sense of relief she was now convinced they had both felt spurring them to blame each other for every petty frustration in their lives. Finally, he had left in a fury, slamming the apartment door behind him.
Her own fury had eventually boiled away as well, leaving her collapsed in an exhausted heap on the bed. In the end she had excised nothing. She had picked at the scab of their relationship, in the process hurting herself more than the preceding fight had, only to discover that she didn't have the strength to discard items they had both loved. It was past time that she slept, got some rest so that in the morning she could present her stupid PowerPoint.
The morning sunlight dappled her sleeping form, dusky strands of hair fanned out across the pillow, overflowing on to the empty one beside it as well. There was a sound. A key turning in the lock. His key.
He entered the bedroom, stopped when he saw the mess on the floor, glanced at her unmoving figure, and then began digging through his clothes. After about fifteen minutes he had managed to assemble a few outfits, and walked into the closet. He came out with an overnight bag, stuffed his clothes inside, and zipped it shut. The closing zipper was the loudest sound he had made up to that point, and he stared at her for a moment, waiting for any reaction.
When she didn't move, he crossed to the bed, bent over her, and gently kissed her forehead.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The bedroom, the entire apartment around her was silent, and only the gentle whisper of her breath marked out time between now and some point in the future.
"Please stay."
In the second week of our competition,
simplyn2deep wrote a beautiful poem about the breakdown of communication in a relationship. Below, I have attempted to write about a similar breakdown of communication in prose.The morning sunlight dappled her sleeping form, dusky strands of hair fanned out across the pillow, overflowing on to the empty one beside it as well. The window blinds were closed, but a few of the metal slats had been bent, allowing the light to ingress. The bedroom, the entire apartment around her was silent, and only the gentle whisper of her breath marked out time between now and some point in the future.
After the fight and his departure she had indulged in a frenzy of activity. She desperately wanted stability, closure, a way of preventing any more broken interactions between them. Would the pain end if she excised his clothes from the closet, his books from the bookcase, his favorite foods from the pantry? If she packed all of his possessions away into boxes, could she somehow tether a piece of her emotional distress inside each container as well, to eventually be lifted and carried away, exiting her life forever?
At first it had been simple. Discarded possessions were hurled into the air, took flight briefly, only to nose dive into a disorderly pile on the bedroom floor. Boxes, she decided, could wait. She would accumulate everything first and pack later.
Except ...
It had never been a particularly large closet, and neither one of them had adhered to a strict boundary of demarcation. There was one rack with a raised rod that was hers and held mostly dresses, but the other rods seemed to hold a mixture of both their clothes. Then, she realized what the problem was. This t-shirt was his, except she wore it more than he did. Another one. A third. She wore these faded and stained warmups of his around the apartment while cleaning. Here was one of his sweatshirts she wore to bed when the apartment's heat couldn't adequately warm their bedroom. As she sorted she realized that certain pieces of his clothing had become like a second skin to her, and if she threw them away, it would feel as though a piece of her would go with them.
The bookcase was worse. There were a few bound collections of pages she could toss pileward with little or no hesitation, but the rest held not only the written story within, but a shared story of love they had written together. There were books they had urged each other to read.
"You never read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?"
"I mean, I saw the Narnia movies."
There were books they had read at the same time, or tried to anyway.
"Why are you already on chapter ten?"
"You were talking to your mom on the phone, and I had to do something."
There were books they had argued over.
"I like the way time travel works, but the women are a little two-dimensional don't you think?"
"It was the 1880's. I think he was just trying to be realistic to the time."
The print stories were so intertwined with their own stories of discovery and love, could she ever read any of them again without replaying the conversations they had shared?
As a child, she had been one of those increasingly rare unicorns, someone whose parents weren't divorced or planning a breakup. They fought sometimes, but would generally keep the arguments behind closed doors, away from her and her brothers. She had occasionally poked fun at them for their little code words, shared expressions sometimes accompanied by subtle gestures that only the two of them understood. Other times, when they kissed in front of her, she would fake gagging noises and run away. And yet, even while teasing and pretending to flee from their displays of affection, she had absorbed what they were modeling, learned the lesson that when you loved someone, you did it completely. When you made a commitment to someone else, it meant you were forfeiting any claim you had to a solitary existence.
No surprise then that in her first long term relationship she had followed her parents' example. Learned to speak in shorthand, glances that could communicate entire paragraphs, a gentle touch to the small of the back that said, "I'm here." What she hadn't known, had never learned, was how painful it was to break those bonds.
Tonight's fight had been brewing for weeks, threatening thunderheads on the horizon of their relationship, with only an occasional flash of lightening between them to presage the eventual storm. Both of them had known it was coming, and each of them had played double-agents to their own destruction; sometimes rehearsing and delivering sincere apologies, and sometimes watering the roots of misunderstanding and resentment by simply saying, "I'm fine."
When the storm had finally arrived, she felt, and thought she had observed in him as well, a giddy sense of relief. No more waiting, no more creeping about, no more wondering if the next off-hand comment would be taken out of context.
He had just gotten home from work, and was sprawled in a chair by their bedroom window.
"Hey, would you mind looking over my PowerPoint one last time? I'm presenting it at our team meeting tomorrow."
He sighed, and lowered the book he had just picked up. "Okay, I guess."
She looked away, "Never mind."
"Jesus, I said okay."
"You obviously don't want to, so never mind."
He fumbled with the book in his lap for a second, as though uncertain what to do with his hands, and then suddenly threw it over his shoulder. Transfixed, they both watched as it crashed into the metal blinds, impacted the window behind them with a dull thud, and then skated down the metal slats to the windowsill and floor, leaving several bent metal pieces in its wake.
"It's not about you," he spat at her, "would you get that through your head? You always assume it's about you, but it isn't! I'm just tired!"
"You're not the only one who works you know. I have my regular job, but I'm also working on this." He opened his mouth to say something, but she rolled over him. "Why am I doing that? Because someone's always bitching that we don't have enough money. Bitching that he wants to go out and party, but we can't afford it."
"You'd rather I ..."
"If you listened to me you'd know that I've been working on this shit for days because maybe, just maybe, my boss will like it and I'll get a raise. All of that effort just so pretty boy can party with his friends and flirt with ..."
He was on his feet now, shaking a fist at her. "You jealous bitch, I don't flirt with anyone! How could I, you're always there with your claws in me!"
She could've waited, could've let him chill for a while before asking for his help, but had been afraid that he would fall asleep, and in the morning there wouldn't be time. Their argument had raged on, increasingly absurd accusations thrown back and forth, the sense of relief she was now convinced they had both felt spurring them to blame each other for every petty frustration in their lives. Finally, he had left in a fury, slamming the apartment door behind him.
Her own fury had eventually boiled away as well, leaving her collapsed in an exhausted heap on the bed. In the end she had excised nothing. She had picked at the scab of their relationship, in the process hurting herself more than the preceding fight had, only to discover that she didn't have the strength to discard items they had both loved. It was past time that she slept, got some rest so that in the morning she could present her stupid PowerPoint.
The morning sunlight dappled her sleeping form, dusky strands of hair fanned out across the pillow, overflowing on to the empty one beside it as well. There was a sound. A key turning in the lock. His key.
He entered the bedroom, stopped when he saw the mess on the floor, glanced at her unmoving figure, and then began digging through his clothes. After about fifteen minutes he had managed to assemble a few outfits, and walked into the closet. He came out with an overnight bag, stuffed his clothes inside, and zipped it shut. The closing zipper was the loudest sound he had made up to that point, and he stared at her for a moment, waiting for any reaction.
When she didn't move, he crossed to the bed, bent over her, and gently kissed her forehead.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The bedroom, the entire apartment around her was silent, and only the gentle whisper of her breath marked out time between now and some point in the future.
"Please stay."
no subject
Date: 2025-08-02 11:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-08-03 02:45 am (UTC)Thank you, and I'm glad you liked the ending.
Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-08-06 06:00 pm (UTC)You did a terrific job of re-imagining it!
If she packed all of his possessions away into boxes, could she somehow tether a piece of her emotional distress inside each container as well, to eventually be lifted and carried away
I loved this description. I can understand why a person might hope for that.
The story does start with her asleep though, and at the end she only thinks about sleep and then suddenly, he's back. Might want to tweak that last part? You still have time. :D
no subject
Date: 2025-08-06 06:40 pm (UTC)Thank you. I decided to do more describing of the fight than recounting it since the recounting felt very raw. I'm glad you liked that part, I'm fond of it too.
"The story does start with her asleep though, and at the end she only thinks about sleep and then suddenly, he's back. Might want to tweak that last part?"
The narrative does jump around a bit. It starts with her asleep in the morning, goes back to recount the fight and her attempt to pack his possessions afterwards, and ends with her exhausted and falling asleep. Next, he comes back to the apartment to pack some of his clothes, but we don't really know how long she's been asleep. After he kisses her forehead and apologizes, I repeat the paragraph from the morning where we first met her, as a hint that we've now come full circle back to the beginning. I'll have to think about whether it would be better to move that callback to be in-between where she falls asleep and he returns ... Originally, I put it between his kiss and her "please stay" to introduce a bit of ambiguity as to whether he's still there when she says that.
Great feedback, thank you!
Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-08-06 06:55 pm (UTC)Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-08-06 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-08-06 10:06 pm (UTC)I appreciate your kind comment, and am glad you enjoyed my reimagining. :)
Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-08-07 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-08-07 03:26 pm (UTC)Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-08-08 08:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-08-08 08:14 pm (UTC)Thank you for your kind comment.
Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-08-10 03:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-08-10 06:27 pm (UTC)* In the bedroom setting, I thought the blinds should be closed, but wanted some light to come in, and thought about the possibility of bent slats in the blinds. Ah, but just how did they get bent?
* I wanted my female character to have some time alone after their fight, so I had the dude storm out.
In the end, he comes off as having some anger management issues.
I'm very glad the interactions still felt real and balanced to you. We humans are very prickly creatures, but writing realistic conflict scenes is still a challenge.
Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-08-10 07:33 pm (UTC)I hope if these characters stay together, that they can learn new habits and perspectives.
I especially loved this part:"The print stories were so intertwined with their own stories of discovery and love, could she ever read any of them again without replaying the conversations they had shared?"
For me, I find this is true of not only books, but also songs, movies, even clothes. The scent of memories lingers within the items of our lives.
no subject
Date: 2025-08-10 07:46 pm (UTC)Those damned preconceived notions get you every time, don't they? It's a bad habit I still suffer from if I'm not careful, and I imagine it's even ore prevalent for kids in their first "real" relationship.
You're so right about the cent of memories. When I'm in bed and Lizbeth has gotten up, I love the smell of her pillow because it has the cent of her hair. :)
Thank you so much for reading and commenting.
Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-08-11 11:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-08-14 02:27 am (UTC)Beautifully rendered, Dan. Amazing piece.
no subject
Date: 2025-08-14 02:36 am (UTC)Dan