Party Dress
Okay, buddies! This is a short story that I wrote for my english class-- therefore, not my best work. By the end, I was on the "okay. fuck tina." side. Please read and please leave a comment. Thanks in advance and thank you for putting up with the lack of updates.
The lady’s hand ruffled Tina’s hair. “Oh, you’re so pretty, little girl!” the lady cooed, inbetween gurgly laughs, powdered face flushed and breath stringent. A box was in the corner. It hadn’t been there before, and Tina remembered her father hauling it to the kitchen: “MJ TENSON WINERY” it said on the plywood face. There were bottles littered all over the table, champagne-hued foil laying in tatters on the laps of the drunk.
In the corner, two women clad in black talked while gripping the wall for stability.
“Oh, I know!” the brunette one enthused.
“Good things must come in small packages.” Pursed lips from the redhead.
The brunette gulped her wine, and sighed “Just adorable.”
Someone raised her up underneath the armpits before she could hear the rest of the conversation. “Oh, you’re gorgeous” he breathed in her ear. “Want a drink?” Tina wriggled from his grasp and stumbled into her father’s lap. “Daddy? I’m going now.” she whispered.
Tina picked her way through the dining room. A big man, chair pushed back, tie lying on the floor with a pasta stain-- her mother, picking at her still-full plate and dangling the spaghetti into her mouth like a praying mantis feeding itself an aphid.
The wooden back door cracked open, and the glow of the night grabbed Tina, diamond-bright claws ripping at her lamplight adjusted eyes. She blinked twice and extended her leg, prodding the wet moss that covered the granite stoop with a toe. A chill enveloped her body (she was wearing her best pink posie party dress) and the air, comparable to a dozen topaz daggers, stabbed at her stale-air-accustomed throat. The ivy hung low, and the rhododendrons where the darkest red. Tina’s mother used to fantasize about deep red rhododendrons. They had something to do with a lady named Rebecca. Maybe one of her mother’s “wild intellectual” friends from “Out East,” as Tina’s father referred to them. Tina’s mother would sigh, lean heavily on her arm, and say “Oh, the rhododendrons. Like in Rebecca.” There was probably an entire novel’s worth of words somehow incapsulated in those eleven syllables, but Tina was at a complete loss to understand them. Tina had almost been named Rebecca-- and Tina suspected that if that had been her name, she would know more about Rebecca. Rebbecca, of course, is a gothic novel-- but there is no way that our heroine would have understood that if she hadn’t been told.
There was, however, one thing that Rebecca was aware of, and that was her premature “beauty.” Being informed of it constantly, it would have been quite a feat to have remained completely unawares. It was probable that Tina was only considered to be so pretty because of her youth-- there were not, it was true, very many elementary schoolers in their cloistered, expensive Silicon Valley suburb. It may also have been the distinct scandinavian features that she seemed to exhibit-- white blonde hair, big blue eyes, lips the color of the inside of an eyelid. An anemic eyelid. The other possibility is that other than the author of this story, every single adult in Tina’s presence was blind, or insensitive to an overtly large nose, chapped and bitten lips, gaunt cheeks, and the unnaturallness of a six-year-old in mascara.
Tina was still in the garden. She sat on the mildewed bench, fingering the leaves of a tree that dipped into her lap, invading her human bubble. Being pretty made her noticable. Too noticable.
There was a weak board in the fence. tina checked it. She had never gone through before-- but that was alright. She drifted through the opening, barely needing to alter the formation of her body to glide through the roughness.
Hard asphalt hit the bottom of her flip flops (only the best pink plastic sequins). Breeze that hadn’t been able to penetrate the emerald foliage of the garden whipped her, blowing her dress to form cut-outs of her body. A vehicle sped, the driver giving Tina a wide-eyed look. Why was this little girl here, standing on the road? Where was her jacket? It was winter, even if it was California. She should be at home. But the car sped on anyway. There was another one behind it. Tina wondered what it felt like to be hit by a car. Tina wondered what it felt like to not be told she was gorgeous. And with that thought, Tina jumped into the road.
The lady’s hand ruffled Tina’s hair. “Oh, you’re so pretty, little girl!” the lady cooed, inbetween gurgly laughs, powdered face flushed and breath stringent. A box was in the corner. It hadn’t been there before, and Tina remembered her father hauling it to the kitchen: “MJ TENSON WINERY” it said on the plywood face. There were bottles littered all over the table, champagne-hued foil laying in tatters on the laps of the drunk.
In the corner, two women clad in black talked while gripping the wall for stability.
“Oh, I know!” the brunette one enthused.
“Good things must come in small packages.” Pursed lips from the redhead.
The brunette gulped her wine, and sighed “Just adorable.”
Someone raised her up underneath the armpits before she could hear the rest of the conversation. “Oh, you’re gorgeous” he breathed in her ear. “Want a drink?” Tina wriggled from his grasp and stumbled into her father’s lap. “Daddy? I’m going now.” she whispered.
Tina picked her way through the dining room. A big man, chair pushed back, tie lying on the floor with a pasta stain-- her mother, picking at her still-full plate and dangling the spaghetti into her mouth like a praying mantis feeding itself an aphid.
The wooden back door cracked open, and the glow of the night grabbed Tina, diamond-bright claws ripping at her lamplight adjusted eyes. She blinked twice and extended her leg, prodding the wet moss that covered the granite stoop with a toe. A chill enveloped her body (she was wearing her best pink posie party dress) and the air, comparable to a dozen topaz daggers, stabbed at her stale-air-accustomed throat. The ivy hung low, and the rhododendrons where the darkest red. Tina’s mother used to fantasize about deep red rhododendrons. They had something to do with a lady named Rebecca. Maybe one of her mother’s “wild intellectual” friends from “Out East,” as Tina’s father referred to them. Tina’s mother would sigh, lean heavily on her arm, and say “Oh, the rhododendrons. Like in Rebecca.” There was probably an entire novel’s worth of words somehow incapsulated in those eleven syllables, but Tina was at a complete loss to understand them. Tina had almost been named Rebecca-- and Tina suspected that if that had been her name, she would know more about Rebecca. Rebbecca, of course, is a gothic novel-- but there is no way that our heroine would have understood that if she hadn’t been told.
There was, however, one thing that Rebecca was aware of, and that was her premature “beauty.” Being informed of it constantly, it would have been quite a feat to have remained completely unawares. It was probable that Tina was only considered to be so pretty because of her youth-- there were not, it was true, very many elementary schoolers in their cloistered, expensive Silicon Valley suburb. It may also have been the distinct scandinavian features that she seemed to exhibit-- white blonde hair, big blue eyes, lips the color of the inside of an eyelid. An anemic eyelid. The other possibility is that other than the author of this story, every single adult in Tina’s presence was blind, or insensitive to an overtly large nose, chapped and bitten lips, gaunt cheeks, and the unnaturallness of a six-year-old in mascara.
Tina was still in the garden. She sat on the mildewed bench, fingering the leaves of a tree that dipped into her lap, invading her human bubble. Being pretty made her noticable. Too noticable.
There was a weak board in the fence. tina checked it. She had never gone through before-- but that was alright. She drifted through the opening, barely needing to alter the formation of her body to glide through the roughness.
Hard asphalt hit the bottom of her flip flops (only the best pink plastic sequins). Breeze that hadn’t been able to penetrate the emerald foliage of the garden whipped her, blowing her dress to form cut-outs of her body. A vehicle sped, the driver giving Tina a wide-eyed look. Why was this little girl here, standing on the road? Where was her jacket? It was winter, even if it was California. She should be at home. But the car sped on anyway. There was another one behind it. Tina wondered what it felt like to be hit by a car. Tina wondered what it felt like to not be told she was gorgeous. And with that thought, Tina jumped into the road.
posted by mai at 6:56 PM
1 Comments:
I love it. Seriously. This is how I imagine short stories. I believe Anne-Marie would have loved it. But what do I know. It reads a little choppy at first, and I don't know if that's your style or the way you intended it, but yah. Tis grand, babe.
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