fiction

Move [Part I]

“Again!”

Frowning in concentration, Marianne wiped the sweat from her brow, took a deep breath and tried once more. The grain of rice on the table in front of her was her challange, her goal, and she had to conquer it. She had to master it. She couldn’t let her thoughts wander at all. She tried once more to believe, with all her mind and heart, that the grain was rising from the table, that the grain, lighter than a feather, could easily defy gravity. Marianne’s upper lip and forhead began seeping with wetness again as she gazed fiercly at the tiny grain of rice and tried with all her might to make it rise.

She almost had it, she felt, so close – but then her thoughts began to wander again, despite her best efforts, and she thought sullenly Why am I even doing this? Why am I doing what they tell me? In a moment, she collapsed in a heap on the floor, exhausted, and felt as if she had been wrung out like a sponge. She sat there, on the cold, metal floor, and tried to organize her thoughts again. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know how long it had been, but she knew it must have been some weeks – it seemed so endless. She fingered the white hospital-type bracelet circling her left wrist. It read “NOVICE  #824: MARIANNE” in big block letters, with no more indication than that.

“Again! Try again!” Came the cold voice over the loudspeaker. Marianne didn’t even see where the speaker was in the room, but she’d learned to hate the crackle of it, that little “Ffff…” before the person, who she couldn’t recognize as male or female, spoke. The voice was as present in her current situation as the sweat on her brow. It was the voice that awoke her from her restless sleep, the voice that commanded her to take the food from the odd, metallic dumbwaiter and eat it, the voice that told her relentlessly, over and over “AGAIN!”

As she had nothing else better to do, and she’d almost been convinced that maybe something would come of this, and also because she had learned what happened when she refused, Marianne rose to her feet, walked to the table with the grain of rice on it, and tried again. For a moment, for no reason at all, her mother’s face flashed before her eyes as she was concentrating on the grain. Blinking away the vision, Marianne stared at the reality in front of her. The grain of rice was hovering a full foot off the table. She coughed, and the grain clattered onto the metal table.

“Finally.” Said the voice over the loudspeaker. Marianne looked up at the wall, as metal and unadorned as the rest of the room, and tears filled her eyes.

Royals and Celebrities

I am currently reading “The Constant Princess” by Philippa Gregory. I also read her book that was made into a movie, “The Other Boleyn Girl” and loved it, which is why, when I was last in a proper bookstore, I picked up a couple more books by her. Her novels are historical fiction, many focusing around the lineage of the Tudor family, one of the more scandalous and dramatic royal lines in England apparently, as there is such an obsession surrounding them – there’s even a mini-series which I’m dying to see called “The Tudors.”

This got me thinking though. First of all, what parts of Gregory’s books are based on actual fact? Oh, who married who and what they named their children is obviously true, but what about the smaller events? I assume there are historical diaries and letters and such from the period that hold gossip and information about what was going on in the royal court, but obviously all the feelings and thoughts of the characters in the book are fictional and speculative. Unless there are diaries of Catalina, Infanta of Spain and eventually Katherine, Queen of England herself then Gregory merely uses her imagination to write her feelings and thoughts over the hardships she endured and ambitions she harbored.

This got me to thinking something else. Look at this fascination so many people, myself included apparently, have with royals, with these celebrities of centuries past. Will people still be fascinated with such celebrities in, say, three hundred years time? Will there be novels written about people like George Bush or will it be novels about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie? Or will humanity finally realize that celebrities, whether in power or not, are still just people and stop obsessing over their lives?

Anna

Curled up like a ball, hands clutching her knees close to her body, she huddled in a corner, blankets heaped over her form. She felt as if she were blowing away. The room swayed around her, lurching, trying to get her to move, to give up on herself. She couldn’t do it. She wanted to, so bad, but she couldn’t. She wanted to keep what little of herself she managed to retain in that little corner.

The room whispered to her all manner of things – promises of the good to follow when she let herself go, unveiling of the beauty she’d find, guarantees of the necessity of the situation. She tried not to listen; she tried to convince herself it wasn’t true. She knew the room’s urging voice would only sabotage her. She knew she had to concentrate on holding on, and it would have to be enough.

But she couldn’t help hearing the whispers, and she didn’t know how long she could hold herself before she’d break, letting her flesh go to waste, dazzled by false beauty and empty promises.

Normalcy in the Face of Grief

She stared around with her currently dull, sleepy eyes. She saw everyone around her, but also seemed to see through them, see their intentions. They all stared eagerly ahead, so intent on understanding, so intent on impressing, on seeing who was knowledgeable and who wasn’t. Eager, all so eager. She slowly shifted her gaze over them all. Why are they acting like this? She thought. What do they gain from it?

She was presently struck again with how much her grief distorted her perspective and views on life. Nothing seemed so important anymore. As long as you keep living, even in total numbness, what does it matter what your future holds? What does it even matter what the present holds? What’s the use of striving to greatness or even comfortable mediocrity? She didn’t care what would happen in her life anymore, as long as she kept living somehow.

This sprang to my mind at work today, and I quickly wrote down the words on my little pad of paper that I carry in my bag everywhere. Dramatic, perhaps, and quite depressing to tell the truth, but I just started thinking about writing this, so I did. I will resume my usual nonsensical posts on the morrow.