HedwigStrange

Also for my creative writing class is this short story. I've made a lot of revisions already, so there may be some points where transitions aren't very smooth, and it's certainly still in progress.

Spilt Milk

We were so sophisticated. It was a new century, and we had made so much progress. The war to end all wars was won, the demon alcohol was banned, women now gentled the vote. Yes, we were on our way to better morals, and already it seemed, we were being rewarded. Money was popping out of nowhere and everywhere, and everyone was driving around in sleek black breezers and going to swanky parties. Radios pumped out stylish Jazz, couples went to movies, then talkies, and talked most non-chalantly in the newest slang. Yes, we could even reflect on the modernization, the advancements of our age, as we pulled on our under-drawers. We ladies had been freed from the corsets of our mothers. Now we just wore stockings and garters and girdles and brassieres and step-ins and slips. No more petticoats for us!
We were kidding ourselves, of course. It was only a few years ago that I woke up every morning, and stepped into my step-ins right there with my sisters beside me. We synchronized almost perfectly then, each fastening our hooks and smoothing our slips in time. Underneath it all, aside from our bodies, was the denial of bodies. We liked to think that we had freed ourselves, that we could flash our bodies like that just-emerging brand of it-girl: the flapper. Reality was a pair of thick, flash-less wool stockings, big lacy-frilly knickers, and girdles that smothered everything. We would never go out alone and dance with strange men like those flappers did. There would be chaperones at all times. We would never wear skirts that short, perish the thought!
No, we never wore short skirts, or make-up, or flesh-tone hosiery, because in the days before I moved into the big city, and even in the big city, every place had its word for a “spoiled” girl. In my town, we called “those sorts” of girls “spilt milk.” Only this was the kind of spilt milk that you did cry over. Most of us young ladies didn’t ever want to know what bearing this title would be like, and so we kept to our bulky underwear and went along with our lives. And those who lived through the constant chaperones, watchful fathers, and nattering priests generally found husbands and cheerfully spilt milk all over the place in happily wedded union.
I mulled all these thoughts over as I pulled on my stockings again. I stretched the garter taught, and clipped the stockings tight. They were flesh-tone and silk. I shimmied into a thin blue dress that just barely covered my ass. The beading swung around my legs as I fled the room to wander the streets. At this point, one would expect me to flip out a classy silver case of ciggies or a flask of hooch, but neither was the cat’s meow for me. Cigarettes would destroy my face (could I help the vanity? A girl is raised to think about her appearance as of the utmost importance), leaving it grooved and slow. Moonshine, aside from up-chuck side effects, is my anathema. It makes one forget, and that is the last god-damned thing I want to do.
I walked the streets because I knew I couldn’t stay in the room any more. If you did, it got around that you were too clingy afterward. I wanted to stay so badly, just to remember a little bit longer. I dance around the subject (the Charleston?) but what I’m really discussing is sex. I had sex with a man that I don’t really know. Was it wonderful? I don’t know.
I know that every man who knows me, or even glances at my rouged lips and scandalous skirts, thinks I am a floozy. They are not incorrect on that point, certainly. Almost every night, I find a guy to take me home or elsewhere. Sometimes I find a girl, though even the flapper gals need to be deep into their cocaine before they consider a dalliance with another lady. The result is always the same. I always forget, every little bit.

The very first time it happened, it was a heck of a surprise.
“Glad we ditched Mrs. Pritchard, aren’t you?” said Will. We were down by the creek path, were the grass was soft.
“Oh, yes!” I blushed. I knew I probably shouldn’t be here, but…
“I know we shouldn’t be here like this, pretty Pearl, but you know how I feel about you. I mean... I… I hope you know I want to marry you. We’ve been well, an item, for a year, and… I may not be a real suave kinda guy, but do you love me too?
“So much, Will!” I knew he loved me, and I knew he would marry me, and I wanted him right then, no matter what the old folks would say. The grass was soft, after all.

The next morning I woke with a blip in my memory. I just assumed it was one of those so-busy-I-can’t-remember-my-last-meal moments of forgetfulness. And then came the next weekend. We went out again, and left Mrs. Pritchard doddering (Had she even missed us the first time around?) within twenty minutes. The warmth of the summer night was perfect, and the park’s gazebo was invitingly empty. We kissed deeply, and his hand moved up my leg.
“So forward, Will!” I squeaked.
“What do you mean, Pearl?” he asked, bewildered.
“I mean, I want too too, but it’s so fast… I thought you knew it’s my first time?”
“Ha! Pearl, you always were a helluva tease!” His face cleared and he laughed, fond as always. I, on the other hand was furious.
“What! How dare you! How!? What kind of girl do you think I am?!”
“What do you mean, Pearl? Don’t play with a guy!”
“I am a virgin, Will!”
“What, last weekend didn’t happen?” He looked confused and hurt.
“Will, what? What do you mean?”
“I mean, we made love. Last weekend, by the creek! You had to tell your mother all kinds of tall tales about the grass stains on your dress!”
“I did Not!” The inside of my head was a blur.
“Wait Will, I can prove it!” I grabbed his hand. Then hesitated. It seemed so odd that the first touch would be so abrupt. I kissed him softly to take away the roughness and then he felt me, yes, whole. Comprehension dawned on his face, and he jerked away.
“How? Why are you playing with me? What did I do?” He croaked.
“Playing? I think it’s you that has played me!” and I stalked back home, alone.

I spent a restless night and drifted through the morning ritual of dressing, my sisters beside me, as usual. I looked into our big closet and picked up the first thing at hand. It was the dress I had worn two weeks before. I looked at it, paralyzed. Then, my sisters confused behind me, I raced down to the telephone and hurried through the rotary, no breath left.
“Longleigh residence, William speaking.”
“Will! I need to tell you-” I said.
“Pearl.” He interrupted. Then he paused. “I don’t know how you managed… it, Pearl. I don’t know what you want.”
“Will, I found the dress. The stains were there!”
“Then, why? Why did you tell me you were a virgin?”
“Because I am!”
“No, Pearl! Why do you still pretend? Why? You don’t want to remember how silky skin feels? You don’t want to remember combing the grass out of my hair afterwards? Or laughing at me when I tried to unclip your garters?”
“I… don’t remember any of that.”
“What are you trying to say, then? The universe has laws! This can’t happen! I love…d you Pearl, but I...” And the line, classically, went silent.

I tried, of course, to call him back, but he wouldn’t talk to me for days, and when he spoke to me again he had concluded that I was ill in my mind. He was heartbroken, I’ll give him that, but he couldn’t believe me. Too modern a man to believe in miracles, or for that matter, curses.
It was inevitable that the rest of the town would eventually find out, and I felt I should spare my sisters the shame. I left on my own, and traveled to the big city, the only place where anonymity can really exist.

So here I am, wandering the streets, trying to hang on to the memory of sex with a man I hardly know. It’s like dangling from a cliff, barely holding on with weak arms, scrabbling at the rock until your nails start to pry off. I can feel the orgasm ebbing away. There goes the penetration, off like a wounded bird… It has been, by the clock-tower’s witness, maybe an hour, but I’ve lost almost all recollection of what it is to join with another human being. The tongues, the caresses, the embraces, gone, they’re all just words now. Whether I’m with a man or woman, I lose every memory of every act beyond kissing. Though these days, at least I can remember abstractly that I’ve done these things. Sometimes I can remember kissing lips ever so faintly, and chaste kisses usually stay with me.
I’d make a perfect nun, if I could find the will to stop. I’m the would-be suicide who just can’t face the last little bit of pain, even in exchange for the greatest peace. Or maybe I’m more of a freak than I even knew. Maybe I’m the only one with this desire to be close to someone, as close as you can be to someone. Go ahead, try to tell me that I can have that closeness with my best friend or in a chaste love. I’ve tried, and my internal ache hasn’t yet abated. I have slept with so many people I have a reputation like a gutter, but I am unsatisfied. Instead, I’m as pure as can be, blank mind and fresh body. I am everything that the priests tell every girl she should be, everything middle-aged men obsess over, everything an aging wife wishes she could be again, if just for the sweetness of the experience. I am the perfect, the pure, the un-spilt milk, and I can tell you, it is the bitterest cup to drink.




Thank you very much for reading! This was supposed to be magical realism, not a psychological disorder on the part of the main character, so please let me know if that was the impression you got. Any comments would be lovely!

Good day to you!

HedwigStrange

*sigh*

RetroGunslinger

Hold on, I'll give you an in-depth review sometime between now and Wednesday. It's nearing the end of my senior year, and I have 32 English analyses to do before tomorrow morning.

__________________
It's a rare pleasure in this world to get your mind fucked. Usually it's just foreplay.

M.B. Keene

HedwigStrange

Now this is just plain entertaining - I went to go read your story before I realized someone had commented on mine. And I couldn't leave you a full review because I'm too busy studying for finals too. heh.

RetroGunslinger

This is what I wrote down as I read it:

The first use of "ass" seemed a bit out of place.

Instead of "said Will," I'd try a different variation, like "Will cooed" or "Will muttered," as a transition into the first bit of dialogue. I started noticing a while back how going through a lot of narration and then dropping straight into "said he/she" is kind of an unpleasant bump in the road. It's better, in my opinion, to smooth everything out and ease the reader into the conversation, sort of how an actual conversation works: say something to get the person's attention, make sure they know they are in the conversation, and as things get underway become more free to say whatever comes to mind.

Spelling error "were the grass was soft"

"The grass was soft, after all." I love that line.

"And the line, classically, went silent." Usually I don't like lines that poke fun at themselves, but this one was nice, cute, and felt like it belonged to your already alternative sort of character.

I definitely got the magical realism of it all. It felt sort of like a Fitzgerald story, if Fitzgerald was a hornier old bastard. I enjoyed it very much, and would love to read more. Hell, your girl demands her own damn novel. Very good show.

__________________
It's a rare pleasure in this world to get your mind fucked. Usually it's just foreplay.

M.B. Keene