My teacher, Steve, gave us an in class assignment called, “objective correlative.” It turned out to be the hardset writing pieces I’ve ever attempted. When I got back to my dorm that evening I decided that I needed to try it again, this time within the context of my story. When Steve first explained to the class what we were to do, he also told us that no matter what, none of us were really going to like what we wrote. He was kinda right, it was that difficult. But I’m rambling, here is the assignment. Write from the perspective of a man who is looking at a building, describe the building and while doing so, convey that the man has lost his son in a war, never mention the man, the son or the war. Go. It turned out really difficult not to be cliché and boring. It was unbelievably hard not to mention a son, a war, or that the man narrating was a father, without actually saying any of those things! My first attempt was, ok. I was able to get across the sense of loss, and that it may have been a son that was dead, however slipping in the part about a war eluded me.
This piece is written from Rania’s perspective and not a man, also the person who died is not a son but another member of the family. So, here goes…
The barred empty window faces the city, curtains fluttering helplessly in the wind. They may once have been a pale pink, but now they resembled something much closer to the color of a dry earth.
A breeze sweeps through the opening licking up the dust on the table and drawing small patterns on the white plastic lawn chairs. The chairs surround a table and have an air of expectancy, as if waiting for a loud busy family to come pounding into the room and fill them. Bodies bumping into one another, the heavy scent of cumin sticking to everything. The chairs wait for the people, silently standing guard by the table. I wait with the chairs, but no one comes, except for the dust, which lies itself a little thicker on the white, brittle plastic.
The walls are cracked and like the curtains fading with time. Time reclaims everything here, including memories. An old, refrigerator, maybe from the 1940s stoops in the corner, mint green and riddled with holes, maybe from bullets, maybe not, who ever really knows. It had been used more like a pantry over the last few decades, most days were black out days and electricity cost too much anyway. The holes almost made a pretty pattern in the aging metal…almost.
I can feel their eyes watching me. Eyes everywhere. But each time I turn to confront them, they’re gone. I just find more forgotten furniture, sad and alone in this old house. I wander through the rooms. The silence is unsettling but it feels familiar. Maybe it’s the smell, almonds, worn upholstery, sun dried dates, the faintest tang of orange and the dust. Overstuffed couches lie on their sides, stuffing spilling to the floor. It’s grey and dirty reeking of decay. I gag a little and turn to leave, when it catches my eye. The only real color I’ve seen in this place.
The handprint is small and smeared across the floor. It glistens in the unearthly light, as if the owner has just left. I scream but cannot find my voice the silence smothering me.
Waking suddenly, choking back a wave of tears and nausea, Rania bolts upright in bed. Clutching at the blankets, blankets that smell like summer and the sea. A single tear slides down her cheek.
“It’s just a dream, ” she whispers.
