Story arc
After posting my first entry to theinkwell's Short Story Writing Prize, I liked how @shanibeer left a 'challenge' in the comments. Explaining that the main criteria for this competition is for entries to have an explicit story arc. And leaving the invitation to try again, with another entry, if I felt I could do better on the story arc aspect. Well, challenge accepted :). I think in what I've written below, the story arc is more defined.
For those readers who are willing to do me a favour, there are two specific things I would really love some feedback on. In this short story, I tried experimenting with flashbacks for setting the context. Which was fun to do, but I hope it didn't complicate the timeline too much. Personally, I like it when a story gives me a little to puzzle on - what happened when, and in what sequence. But too much of it can be distracting.
Secondly, I feel that in switching between past and present tense, I'm kind of pushing the limits of my English skills. If you come along any strange or faulty use of verbs and grammar, I would really appreciate it if you let me know.
The illustration I added is a small sketch I made to go with the story.
Enjoy the read!
Short story:
Personal Treasure
It’s the middle of the day and the heat is stifling. Olivia’s khaki blouse is soaked, the hair underneath her safari hat is heavy with sweat. She uses the big, curved blade to slash away the jungle bush. The machete was a gift from her father. He gave it for her twenty third birthday, not long before he passed away. When he handed it to her, he said: “Your mother, God rest her soul, raised you to be a decent young lady. But believe me baby girl, playing by the rules doesn’t always get you where you need to go. The world is bigger than England, and it holds a lot of treasures. Even very personal ones.”
It had been quite the speech to go with the African jungle souvenir. She had meant to ask him about it, but at the party there were too many guests to attend to. And then she was too late.
Olivia hacks away at the bamboo and the ferns. Her right hand is covered in blisters. She switches the blade to her left hand now and then, without slowing down. Her muscles are aching, she has been going on for hours. But a fresh surge of energy hits her every time she remembers that moment in the living room of their old Victorian home, now six weeks ago. Peter had been standing in front of the marble mantelpiece, his hand resting close to their leather bound wedding picture, his ring still on his finger. He told her straight to her face that she wasn’t enough for him. He admitted, without even a hint of guilt or remorse, that there were other women in his life. That he was doing his best to get them pregnant, so that he would at least be able to pass on his genes to the future generation.
Peter even had the nerve to expect her to understand his situation. “You must be realising by now, as I’ve done for years, that you’re barren and will never fulfil your duty as a wife,” were the exact words, with which he explained himself. Olivia had picked up an antique Egyptian vase, which had been a gift from Peter’s uncle, and flung it at him. She missed, but shattered the vase, which was at least something. Then she took a few clothes, took the machete, and went to her sister’s house.
Olivia raises her arm, and brings it down again. Slashing, hacking. She doesn’t know where she is going exactly. She just couldn’t stay back in England. Drinking tea with the her sister’s friends. The book club, the aristocrats, the nonsense. Once the fire of her anger really took hold of her, all she could think of was to board a ship and to travel to some far side of the planet. To find a remote jungle, and then to struggle through it, till the fight in her would calm down.
She picked Rwanda because it was one of her father’s favourite places. In the four years since his death, Olivia had missed him dearly, every day. But the missing intensified after her break-up with Peter. Her family and acquaintances all advised against a divorce, said it didn’t suit a lady to leave her husband and be on her own. She knew her father would’ve stood up for her, would’ve supported her. Going to Rwanda was as much as she could do to be a little closer to him.
Her father’s life work, as a biologist, had focussed on primates, gorillas in particular. Especially in the years leading to his death, he spent a lot of time in these hills. For all she knew, he had walked in this same area, had been slashing his way through this dense forest undergrowth. Or maybe he took along an assistant, someone to do the heavy work for him, while he worked on his notes and analyses. Olivia switches the blade to her left hand again, the blisters on her right are bleeding.
Her father would be gone for months at a time for his research. But he would make up for it by taking home pictures of gorillas, including the cutest black and white images of babies cuddling with their moms. Olivia had had those on her walls for years, when she still lived in her parents’ house. But when she moved in with Peter, his face paled with even the mention of putting pictures of gorillas on the same walls as the ancestral portraits.
One afternoon, when Peter went hunting with his brothers, Olivia had taken out the box with her father’s photographs again. That time, when she was looking through them, she noticed something that had never really caught her attention before. In the pictures, the same lady occurred again and again. Sometimes just an arm, as she was holding hands with one of the impressive primates, or her figure from the back, showing her beautiful blond hair. But other pictures were more close and personal. Pictures of her laughing, while one of the gorilla's tried on her safari hat. Close-ups of her face, looking down on a baby gorilla she was holding.
When Olivia had asked her father about it, he told her the lady was his colleague. That she was an amazing scientist with an incredible understanding of the social life of gorillas. He told her that he would introduce her to the family on the night when they’d present their research to the Oxford University board, and with her curiosity raised, Olivia had been looking forward to meet her. But she never did. It was only when Olivia got to Oxford that she learned about the terrible accident her father and his colleague, the blonde lady, had been in.
The handle of the blade is slippery with blood and sweat. She’ll need to wrap her palms with some strips of cotton. Olivia finds a small opening between the trees, there is even a large rock to sit down on. After drinking some water and tending to her hands, she takes her lunch from her backpack. Suddenly, while unpacking her sandwiches, she freezes. Did she hear something? Was it a bird?
She hears it again. A rustle in the leaves on the opposite side of the clearing. And then, without any further warning, a black, hairy arm, thick as a chimney, strikes away the bushes right in front of her. She gasps for air. Her sandwiches drop from her hands. A long, serious face, with beady black eyes, appears. With three slow steps, a massive mountain gorilla, a silverback, pushes his way through the dense jungle shrub and into the little resting zone Olivia had found herself.
Fear washes over her. Her father always talked about respecting gorillas. How not to get too close all of a sudden, how to allow the wild animals their space. But what can she do? Here he is, an enormous silverback, stepping right into her personal space. And the way he is facing her, watching her. It gives Olivia the bizarre impression he is here with a purpose.
The silverback takes a few more steps towards her. Olivia sits on her rock, completely at a loss as to what to do next. He is so close that she can smell him. With the way he is sniffing the air, Olivia guesses he can smell her too. She feels the sweat running down from the back of her hair into the collar of her blouse. There is so little distance between them now, that the gorilla's enormous shoulders, wide as a double patio door, block her entire view.
There is something unusual about those shoulders, something she needs to check out. It takes a lot of effort, but she finally tears her eyes away from the massive face, looming in front of her, and looks up. On the gorilla’s back sits a boy, maybe seven years old. Scrubby looking, skinny, tanned, naked. A human boy, his face a mix of surprise and delight. He doesn’t look afraid. He doesn’t look like he is in any kind of danger. What is this boy doing here? What is he doing in the middle of this Rwandese jungle, on the shoulders of this double patio door silverback?
The boy climbs down from the mountain gorilla’s shoulder. His little hands firmly grip a few tufts of hair, he makes his way down like he’s done it a million times before. When he’s on the floor, he comes even closer. He looks back at the gorilla, who stretches out his arm and gives him an approving little push.
Olivia is stunned. All she does is stare at the boy. He comes a little closer again, and gently touches her knee. Then he points at the sandwiches on the floor. He looks at her, questioningly. Almost like he’s asking her. Olivia gives the tiniest of nods. The boy picks up both sandwiches, one in each hand. He sniffs at the one in his left hand, then takes a little bite. He holds the other out to Olivia. She takes it, and with a satisfied look on his face the little boy drops down to a comfortable cross-legged position, hardly a few inches away from her.
Here she is. In Rwanda. In the jungle, where her father spent so much of his time. With the mountain gorillas. With his colleague. She looks down at the boy in front of her, eating her sandwich. She stares at his face, at his features. Yes, she sees her father in him. And from what she remembers, he has the blond lady’s nose.
She looks up to see the silverback slowly turning around and disappearing between the bamboo and ferns. The little boy looks up and sees it as well. He faces her again, and smiles. As if to tell her that everything worked out.
Hi @amritadeva! I definitely adore the little sketches that accompany the stories. My favorite story is The Secret to Outliving Everyone, because I liked the turn of events that dislodges us when we leave the image of the "good old lady." I also like to be a little "playful" when I write, hehe. Thanks for such a great writing!
Thank you for your feedback! I'm happy you like the sketches, I really enjoy drawing them also :).
I had fun writing both stories. But I think I agree with you that the one about the lady is a little more subtle. Maybe not as easy, but more surprising.
Will have a look at your playful stories!
I like both your stories Amrita. They've got flow and you're defo a natural :D
Thanks for your very kind words. And for taking the time to read the stories!!
I read your second story (this) first and didn't see the 'challenge' in the comments until I got to the first one. Impressed you went for it!
Also had meant to say here that the flashbacks are nicely woven into the story and really add to it.
As for: "I feel that in switching between past and present tense, I'm kind of pushing the limits of my English skills."........such modesty :) - I think your use of tense works very nicely with the flashbacks. Pretty sophisticated IMHO!
Ah wow, really appreciate the feedback! Thank you for taking the time to reflect on the questions I put out :). I guess not being a native speaker means that sometimes I look at my sentences, and I first try it this way and then the other, and then I'm not sure which way is correct, lol.
But it's great to have a platform like this, and great having people like you out here who provide valuable feedback! Glad the flashbacks worked out!
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