Sara Rodriguez-Fiction Piece 1: "Sundays"

Sara Angela Rodriguez

A415-002/Chambers

Fiction Piece #1

1/17/2013

I was inspired to write this piece after reading the article “On Realism and Art” by Roman Jakobson. In his article Jakobson gives different definitions of what realism is (ranging from a movement of art defined by an individual group to an expression of “true life” which can be seen by an individual reading, watching, looking at, or analyzing any type of art) and who uses these definitions. In fiction exercise I decided that I would use his definition of “intent to render life as it is” through literature in order to write this short story which describes what a Sunday is like to this woman who I image has lost her way in life and has ended up living in a trailer park somewhere in some random state that is forgotten, even during election time; like Wyoming or maybe Missouri.

                                                          

Sundays

It was one of those midsummer Sundays when everyone sits around saying, “I drank too much last night.” It’s only natural. What else is there to do here but drink; to drink when there’s a birth, to drink when there’s a death, to drink to remember, to drink to forget, to drink. The hours here are counted by black bags of bottles: the days by the amount of filth piled next to the dumpster.

The heat is unbearable. Turing the fan on brings some comfort. I stare as the cracking blades cut through the air—scattering dust.

My tongue scraps the roof of my mouth. It’s dry. My mouth… water.  I push myself up—prying myself from his arms. I grab clothes, put them on, get up, and step back. Such an ugly face, but such a beautiful body.

I make a path to the kitchen. I really should clean. I don’t remember the last time I saw the….floor. I’m hunched over, dry heaves, pain in my chest, my stomach, my head. How did I get on the floor?

I grab onto a chair, no a table.  Pull yourself up. I do.

I find a glass, dirty, wipe it off, let the faucet run (brown brown yellow white good enough) and fill my glass.

KNOCK KNOCK!    I jump! Where’s my glass? The floor? Typical.

KNOCK KNOCK!    What’s today?

KNOCK                     What month?

KNOCK                     What day?

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Cu….cu….coming!” Shit! Did I just say that out loud? Did I really answer the knocks?

Silence

“Miss?” shit. I said it out loud.

“Miss? Excuse me miss?”

“I’m coming dammitt!”

I make a path from the kitchen to the door through the trash (no treasures) on the floor. My vision blurs, headaches, stomach pains. The world has decided to attack my senses.

One hand warps around the knob, the other lies on the frame. Left-turn. Right-push. The sun floods in. What’s that stench? The dumpster? Moisture? Decay? No, the final blow. It hits my face in a wave of heat. My body gives. On the floor again? Damn.

He doesn’t step in, just looks around then down. At me? No. past me. A look of sympathy, no pity, fills his eyes—his big beautiful brown eyes—as they lock on to mine. His lips, they’re moving, forming word.

So, it has come to this.