Short Story Have-a-Go

The main character of the piece crossed the floor of her flat, suddenly both English and female, or possibly Australian. She was sure it was one or the other. This was clearly a "flat," not an apartment. It might be a "walk-up." Hard to tell from in here, in the foyer. The flat was basically a small foyer with key pieces of furniture, and not much opening off it. A pair of cupboards to either side, one fitted up as a kitchen, the other a bath. "Hey!" she objected.

What?

"Why can't it be proper accommodations?"

Fine. There's a trapdoor in the ceiling with a pull-down ladder. Leads to a quite well-appointed small mountain chalet. Classy - but I warn you if you go up there, your former life will be left behind.

"Suits me," she groused, grinning. "What's my name supposed to be, anyway? 'She'?"

CLOTHILDE.

"Sweet." A suspicious look crossed her face; Clothilde's face. "Am I naked?"

No, though I confess you are remarkably conventionally attractive. You're wearing a fucking CLOWN OUTFIT - except it's all black. No makeup, no wig, just the outfit - big roomy coverall, one of those big doily collars, big shoes, the whole bit. All black.

"Does it have pockets?"

Yes! It has pockets. In fact, quite a number of them sewn in, some of them quite cleverly-concealed.

"Anything interesting in?"

May be. Why don't you check?

A cross look. Gasp of exasperation. Her eyes swept up, saw the trap. There was a recessed handle. One springy step and a leap saw her catch and drag it down, landing lightly and ducking out of the way as the ladder slid out and down. As she stepped 'round and mounted the stair, a narrative interjection stopped her.

Wait.

"What is it?" she brightened. "Anything interesting?"

There's some sort of kill-team or monster approaching up there.

She made a face. "You're pathetic." Skipping lightly, she ascended. The steps retracted as her weight left, and the trap swung shut.

Time passed.

None of it was considerable.  

The door to the bath cupboard was open. The sink was antique, with hand soap pump, toothbrush holder, toothpaste tube and a small, decorative tin perched about its rounded surfaces. With the door closed, the mirror was empty. Just a blank wall in it. There was a slight, squared discoloration where there used to be a dried flower under glass in a chunky wooden frame. Had she taken it with her? Stuffed in a clown-pocket?  

She was gone.

Clothilde, her former life left behind. Somewhere away up there, some kill-team or monster is about to discover brief regret. No way to intervene or assist, or even narrate.

She'll be on first-person narrative by now.

I came running here to start a poem thread and then thought "What else?" - without even perusing the quite delightful section description! In which the author and character seem to share a similar ambivalence. Too funny. Also: due props, pipping me at the post like that. Proper Ninja work, that.

dogimo wrote:The main character of the piece crossed the floor of her flat, suddenly both English and female, or possibly Australian. She was sure it was one or the other. This was clearly a "flat," not an apartment. It might be a "walk-up." Hard to tell from in here, in the foyer. The flat was basically a small foyer with key pieces of furniture, and not much opening off it. A pair of cupboards to either side, one fitted up as a kitchen, the other a bath. "Hey!" she objected.

What?

"Why can't it be proper accommodations?"

Fine. There's a trapdoor in the ceiling with a pull-down ladder. Leads to a quite well-appointed small mountain chalet. Classy - but I warn you if you go up there, your former life will be left behind.

"Suits me," she groused, grinning. "What's my name supposed to be, anyway? 'She'?"

CLOTHILDE.

"Sweet." A suspicious look crossed her face; Clothilde's face. "Am I naked?"

No, though I confess you are remarkably conventionally attractive. You're wearing a fucking CLOWN OUTFIT - except it's all black. No makeup, no wig, just the outfit - big roomy coverall, one of those big doily collars, big shoes, the whole bit. All black.

"Does it have pockets?"

Yes! It has pockets. In fact, quite a number of them sewn in, some of them quite cleverly-concealed.

"Anything interesting in?"

May be. Why don't you check?

A cross look. Gasp of exasperation. Her eyes swept up, saw the trap. There was a recessed handle. One springy step and a leap saw her catch and drag it down, landing lightly and ducking out of the way as the ladder slid out and down. As she stepped 'round and mounted the stair, a narrative interjection stopped her.

Wait.

"What is it?" she brightened. "Anything interesting?"

There's some sort of kill-team or monster approaching up there.

She made a face. "You're pathetic." Skipping lightly, she ascended. The steps retracted as her weight left, and the trap swung shut.

Time passed.

None of it was considerable.  

The door to the bath cupboard was open. The sink was antique, with hand soap pump, toothbrush holder, toothpaste tube and a small, decorative tin perched about its rounded surfaces. With the door closed, the mirror was empty. Just a blank wall in it. There was a slight, squared discoloration where there used to be a dried flower under glass in a chunky wooden frame. Had she taken it with her? Stuffed in a clown-pocket?  

She was gone.

Clothilde, her former life left behind. Somewhere away up there, some kill-team or monster is about to discover brief regret. No way to intervene or assist, or even narrate.

She'll be on first-person narrative by now.

THANK

sophistikitty wrote:

dogimo wrote:The main character of the piece crossed the floor of her flat, suddenly both English and female, or possibly Australian. She was sure it was one or the other. This was clearly a "flat," not an apartment. It might be a "walk-up." Hard to tell from in here, in the foyer. The flat was basically a small foyer with key pieces of furniture, and not much opening off it. A pair of cupboards to either side, one fitted up as a kitchen, the other a bath. "Hey!" she objected.

What?

"Why can't it be proper accommodations?"

Fine. There's a trapdoor in the ceiling with a pull-down ladder. Leads to a quite well-appointed small mountain chalet. Classy - but I warn you if you go up there, your former life will be left behind.

"Suits me," she groused, grinning. "What's my name supposed to be, anyway? 'She'?"

CLOTHILDE.

"Sweet." A suspicious look crossed her face; Clothilde's face. "Am I naked?"

No, though I confess you are remarkably conventionally attractive. You're wearing a fucking CLOWN OUTFIT - except it's all black. No makeup, no wig, just the outfit - big roomy coverall, one of those big doily collars, big shoes, the whole bit. All black.

"Does it have pockets?"

Yes! It has pockets. In fact, quite a number of them sewn in, some of them quite cleverly-concealed.

"Anything interesting in?"

May be. Why don't you check?

A cross look. Gasp of exasperation. Her eyes swept up, saw the trap. There was a recessed handle. One springy step and a leap saw her catch and drag it down, landing lightly and ducking out of the way as the ladder slid out and down. As she stepped 'round and mounted the stair, a narrative interjection stopped her.

Wait.

"What is it?" she brightened. "Anything interesting?"

There's some sort of kill-team or monster approaching up there.

She made a face. "You're pathetic." Skipping lightly, she ascended. The steps retracted as her weight left, and the trap swung shut.

Time passed.

None of it was considerable.  

The door to the bath cupboard was open. The sink was antique, with hand soap pump, toothbrush holder, toothpaste tube and a small, decorative tin perched about its rounded surfaces. With the door closed, the mirror was empty. Just a blank wall in it. There was a slight, squared discoloration where there used to be a dried flower under glass in a chunky wooden frame. Had she taken it with her? Stuffed in a clown-pocket?  

She was gone.

Clothilde, her former life left behind. Somewhere away up there, some kill-team or monster is about to discover brief regret. No way to intervene or assist, or even narrate.

She'll be on first-person narrative by now.

THANK

YOUR WELCOME









IS FULSOME AND PERPETUAL

THANK (as well)

YES

The coveted "Manual Doublethank"!

Vel, your welcome



...is sacred and ardent, fervid yet hapless, with a casual air of steely command obsequiously stooping to conquer, bowing to scrape and undertake such doings and biddings as could easily prove the undoing of WORLDS FAIRS.

I really enjoyed the feminism. I mean your strong female lead couldn't even be controlled by the narrator!

Yeah, I honestly thought she'd push back on "Clothilde." As soon as she was like, SWEET that was all there was. No controlling her path. Which, you know what?

That's pretty cool by me when that happens. I love it when characters get that glint in their eye and just start going off.

omg SAME! I was like there's no way she's going to go for that. But then she did and immediately I was like OF COURSE. It was the least expected thing so she approved. Or, at least didn't disapprove.

The narrator had some surprises, too.

I was a little surprised to find out Clothilde wasn't naked. Tbh

I wasn't surprised she wasn't naked but I was surprised by her understated goth clown look. Until that moment I had been picturing Shosanna from Inglorious Bastards in her cinema work attire

That could have worked! I had no idea what I thought she was wearing before she asked, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't what it turned out to be.