Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

A to Z Challenge: A is for Antediluvian

Hey guys! I'm going to be doing the A to Z Blogging Challenge this year even with my new job and my #ClassicsProject. Am I crazy? I'll let you know. Each entry will revolve around a single word and be an original piece of flash fiction.


Antediluvian

The flood swept me away when I was ten. It came roaring through my living room and picked up the toys I'd left behind. A doll. A set of blocks. It took my childish things and left me empty, soaked. Saturated with salt water and blood.

They tore the house down. I never saw it again. For me, it only exists before the flood.

The wallpaper was warm like honey. Momma read her books and listened to the blues. Daddy... Daddy was like the water. Soft and calm on the heavy, humid days. Terrifying and unpredictable when the morning sky turned red.

He painted the walls with his emotions. Our kitchen was yellow and bright. He'd done that room on a good day. The living room was a heavy red-purple. He painted the living room on my ninth birthday. Then he came to my room and painted my walls with blood.

There's a before and there's an after and there's a vast ocean of crashing water between them.

Momma and I live with her momma now. Grandma is old like an ancient oak tree. Her face shows the lines of the lean seasons and the floods. She smiles like she means it, and nobody says Daddy's name anymore. The one time Momma talked about him, she said he'd been swept out to sea with the levies. Grandma spat on the dirt yard and said "Good riddance."

So that's how I see him. He was the flood. He crashed through our lives and settled back into the abyss.

And now there's only an empty room. The toys are gone and the honey wallpaper bulges with decay. This room exists in my belly. My childish things are gone, swept out to sea, and I am alone in this room of salt water and blood. But I smile and don't mention Daddy.

He tore me down and I never saw him again. For me, I only existed before the flood.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Book Review: IQ84 by Haruki Murakami


1Q84 by Haruki Murakami is an asymmetrical, deeply intriguing fairytale. Told from radically different perspectives, Murakami weaves together a picture of the past, present, and possible futures. He places the story in the past (1984) while simultaneously creating futuristic events and an alternate timeline, namely the world of 1Q84. This juxtaposition of a pre-mobile phone world and post-modern philosophy creates a captivating and poetic style.

While at points the plot can drag – and I’m still not certain why American publishers decided to print three books as one gigantic volume – the premise proved interesting enough to keep me going.

The main characters, like the world itself, can at times be both relatable and frustrating. Tengo, an oblivious aspiring-author, seems to wander through his world unable to grasp the indefinable strangeness around him until he meets Fuka-eri. A high-schooler with an improbably good story to tell, the eccentric Fuka-eri breaks into Tengo’s dull life like a wave crashing into a sandcastle. He is transfixed by this unusual girl and falls in love with her story more than with her. He becomes her ghost-writer, an act which wrenches him out of his casual, uninteresting life and lands him squarely in a world that is quite literally stranger than fiction.

Meanwhile, Aomame, a fierce yet flawed character who at first appears utterly detached from the main story descends into the world 1Q84 in an abrupt and observable fashion. Reflecting the two worlds she inhabits, she leads a dual life of energetic fitness trainer-cum-righteous assassin. Slowly, her own life becomes more and more entangled with the parallel stories of Tengo and Fuka-eri.

Aside from a single shared moment in their childhood, Tengo and Aomame have in common a deep and unsettling emptiness. Both have tried to fill it in their own ways, Tengo with words and Aomame with deeds, but both remain unsatisfied. As they attempt to navigate the world of 1Q84, they come closer and closer to each other and fulfillment.

Fuka-eri herself is actually not so much a character as a convenient plot-device. Her behavior is strange and her responses unpredictable and emotionless. Rather than being portrayed as the abused child that she is, she’s set up as some sort of spiritual receptacle. Here Murakami dives into a deeply disturbing plot twist that forces the reader to reconsider their basic moral ideas.

As a reader, I was both profoundly revolted and unrelentingly curious. Did I actually fully grasp the concepts presented to me? Was I capable of forming moral judgments on something so entirely foreign? I’m still not comfortable with the aspects of sexual exploitation and abuse that are addressed by this book, but perhaps that was the writer’s goal. Murakami’s magnum opus constantly circles in on itself taking the reader to deeper and deeper levels of plot and morality. The cyclical nature of change and duality, of both the world and the characters, is captured in a single well-illustrated metaphor: the double moon in the sky of 1Q84.

Although there are times when it feels as if the writer wanders through his world as unwittingly as his character Tengo and many instances where Murakami failed to “kill his darlings,” the prose is ultimately successful.  The writing, as strange as the story itself, is perhaps a result of translation from the original Japanese, but with his startling and unusual style of prose, Murakami surpasses any language barriers. The writing became itself a character in this intricately crafted story. Murakami’s world and lyrical use of language mesh inextricably.


For those of you willing to devote a significant amount of time and brainpower to this book, you will be rewarded with a world of unflinching strangeness and beauty that forces you to question your own concepts of religion, love, and even reality. What would happen if one day you descended into a world that, while similar to you own, was ever so slightly different? What would you do if you looked up to find two moons in your once familiar sky?

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Writing Prompt: Do You Confront Him?


Prompt: You know the person with whom you're talking is lying. Do you confront him or let him continue?

Response:

The lie was written across his face. His tears and heartfelt pleas felt as honest as fool's gold. The reporters pretended to be concerned, sympathetic. The police chief issued a statement of support. The T.V. flickered, the only interruption in the continuous coverage of this so-called tragedy. I knew he was guilty. The memory of his hands crept up my arms. I knew her pain. The missing girl was another version of myself. I knew he was guilty and I knew they would never find her.

Copyrighted to Grace Wagner. Do not replicate without out written permission. 2013


This one was a lot shorter. This book has them split into four different sizes: full page, half page, third of a page, and a quarter. The lengths when handwritten of course end up longer, but I thought I'd upload a couple of the shorter ones. This prompt was a third of the page.

Let me know if you have any questions or if you want to join in!