New Fiction Piece in the Works. Any feedback appreciated :)

[Carla Hurst-Chandler]

Autopsy of An Affair

Introduction

She stood fresh from the hot bath wrapped in a plush terry robe. It was slate blue and matched her husband's. They had bought them together the same week they had closed on this house. A time when they were happy. Making love that first night and many to follow; to rise in the morning and pad out for coffee together and read the morning paper. Laugh at the comics. Shake their heads at the headlines. Rant at the politicians. She felt tears well in her eyes. Trying to understand how it comes to this. How has 12 years of marriage, a home, two kids, one dog and a cat became a place she flees each time she steps out the door? Someplace that she dreads to step back into.

Toweling off her hair she dries it. He loves it long. To run his hands through. Sometimes to grab and pull her throat back kissing first her mouth then her neck...then lower. Once when they met in a dilapidated cabin in the woods he ripped the shirt from her body. Torn down the front and hanging in halves on either side of her as he entered her from behind. His callused hands kneading her breasts. It had been winter. Not long after the affair had started. The air had been so cold that the heat from their bodies was steam...hanging in the air. She rushed home that day bare beneath the hooded denim coat. The shirt left behind. Wadded and tucked into a hole in the broken lathe. The memory stirs her the same today. The urgency. The hunger.

For years, after it ended, when she wore the well-worn denim coat she would still feel that “wrapped in his arms” feeling. After he died, she burned the coat on a bonfire as though it were a funeral pyre.

Odd, these mornings. Slipping into a black satin bra and lace black bottoms. The panties actually bought on a shopping trip with his wife the week before. A wife she often sat and sipped coffee with only hours before meeting him. Discussing the plans of the day. Leaving the obvious out. Years before they had been friends. Perhaps even best friends. Now she provides them both with a way to spend time together. Couples. A dinner. A movie. A lecture. Date night...with other people. Awkward, but necessary. Remembering a political lecture she and her husband attended with them once. It fell on the First Anniversary of their affair...if affairs indeed have anniversaries. That it had lasted a year without detection seemed almost eerie. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop. They had eaten at a local restaurant where the music was a bit too upbeat and the waitress a bit too perky, joking with each other at the table...oblivious. If either of them had been paying attention they would have known in an instant.

That was one of the problems, she thought darkly. Neither of them ever paid attention anymore.

Later at the hall he had uncharacteristically positioned himself in such a way as to be beside her throughout the lecture. Silently alternating the pressure in their outer calves against one another like a secret hug. And brazenly walked behind her to slide a flat hand between the material of her pants and her ass (momentarily and again unnoticed) as she left the auditorium.
She smiles at the memory and finishes her make-up. These mornings always seem like “Preparation For Him” and she likes it. Some Ancient Ritual performed by the two of them. She knows at home he is doing similarly. Always arriving freshly showered, clean...with the omni-present travel mug of coffee and smelling faintly of tobacco.
There was a time in life she found cigarettes, if not offensive, then at the very least annoying. That was before the cabin. The day he taught her at 45 how to smoke. How he laughed at her first deep drag, followed immediately by a coughing fit.

“Told ya those things would kill ya.” he smiled lazily.


But, like the Trident White gum, the taste of black unsweetened coffee...Pall Mall Reds came to be a scent she would readily associate with their mid-morning or early afternoon trysts.

A tourist smoker they call her...driving REAL smokers crazy...maybe a cigarette a week...may one a month these days...but when she does she can still taste his mouth hungry on hers. Wanting.

Checking the time. Always, it seemed. The time they would meet. The time she had to be home. The time she would be back. The time both their kids would be home. The time he would arrive. Time. 10 minutes to the cabin. 30 if she walked. 15 minutes between their homes. Driving. 35 minutes to a nearby isolated woods. A carefully choreographed dance of deceit. And yet in those hours between...time seemed to stop. And they were 18 again. Okay, maybe 25. Alive.

Wanted. Sexy. Loved.

Needed.

These days “being needed” or “wanted” at home seemed a memory in itself, she thought sadly.

Much later, she would tell him in a long disjointed e-mail how she knew it had been only a wonderful midlife crisis for both of them...that neither of them were special snowflakes. It was a lie, of course. He had always made her feel like a special snowflake. Always.

“Sh__, I'm going to be late.” she complained to the gray tabby cat watching intently for any sign of impending food.

Late wasn't really a problem. She smiled and fed the cat. Knowing there were times they both ran into problems. Remembering once when they WERE the problem. When they had waited patiently (and at the end of an hour, not so patiently) for each other at two separate places. Phone calls had set things straight and when they met she had laughed out loud with him musing

“Perhaps we are getting too old for these things, love.”

Laughing, white bandanna tied around his curly graying hair and blanket over his arm...they had walked deep into the woods. Unbuckling her jeans and slipping them off...pulling her mounted on top of him proving her proclamation wrong. Afterward, he would roll her onto her back in the dappled shade and slide into her wetness again. First slowly...then quicker...until he would moan out and lay beside her. Holding her in his arms. Sharing a cigarette. Stroking her hair. Kissing her mouth, again. All around them the cool dampness of the woods. The earthy smells not only of the ferns and soil...but also them.

“No. Not too old at all.”

Of course, it would end. That was a given. Perhaps badly. But for the moment it was a feeling that many people spend their lives trying to capture. Some NEVER do.


Perhaps the real question is not whether one has an affair...but why?




Okay guys...and yes...I know how much everyone hates Introductions (almost as much as affairs)...but my Chapter One deals with an individual backstory on all the players.And believe me...they will all be players before the end. So...keep going or toss it in the circular file? Tell me something...even if is to say "It Sucks!"
Laughing.

-- 08 Oct 2012, 09:46 --

PostScript: Hate the Title...Any suggestions?

Thinking of going with

"Ashes"

-- 08 Oct 2012, 20:28 --

"The Ashes"

(fixed)

[literarywriter]

I liked it very much.

The writing itself in places needs to be cleaned up, but that didn't really bother me, but for some people, it's going to turn them off.

The story itself, writing aside, I found it mysterious and intimate. I liked the mystery part more than the intimate part, just my preference.

Being a writer myself, when I started to read, about 20 different things popped into my head. But the main thing was, is she going to be found out somehow? Revenge? Set her up? Maybe do away with her in the woods? The same place she loved is the same place she gets it?

These are just some other thoughts I had:

What's the wife's thoughts?

Is there going to be some type of mind game between the two?

Would it even be better that she discovers that the wife now knows, and they both know, but they aren't saying anything? But we the readers know something is going to happen? And that's what drives us?

Or maybe we the readers discover that only the wife knows, that the woman who was having the affair doesn't know, like a cheetah stalking an unsuspecting gazelle?

The woods, too, if drawn out right, could be a character in itself. Especially the isolation and such.

Overall, I think there are all types of possibilities. All types of directions. I liked it. The soul of the story is intact.

[Carla Hurst-Chandler]

[quote="literarywriter"]I liked it very much.

Thanks.


The writing itself in places needs to be cleaned up, but that didn't really bother me, but for some people, it's going to turn them off.

This is just a bit of the raw draft. Clean-up/editing later. Any glaring fix suggestions? I tend to write in a stream of conciousness form, then (like all writers) tighten it up/clean up in the final drafts. Kind of a Hemmingway approach. "Write Drunk...Edit Sober" ~laughing~



The story itself, writing aside, I found it mysterious and intimate. I liked the mystery part more than the intimate part, just my preference.

My short story "The Betterthans" this evolved from was much less intimate and had more of a psychological twist.

Being a writer myself, when I started to read, about 20 different things popped into my head. But the main thing was, is she going to be found out somehow? Revenge? Set her up? Maybe do away with her in the woods? The same place she loved is the same place she gets it?

Actually the twist to the story is very much like that. A set up. A murder/suicide. The reveal.

These are just some other thoughts I had:

What's the wife's thoughts?

Explored as I introduce her character in Chapter 4 and then evolving as it goes along. All the players in this have their "story".


Is there going to be some type of mind game between the two?

Oh definitely.

Would it even be better that she discovers that the wife now knows, and they both know, but they aren't saying anything? But we the readers know something is going to happen? And that's what drives us?

The twist at the end is revealed much in this manner. A very ambiguous antagonist/protagonistic relationship between all the players.

Or maybe we the readers discover that only the wife knows, that the woman who was having the affair doesn't know, like a cheetah stalking an unsuspecting gazelle?

The twist is much like this. A predator/prey feel. Stalking.

The woods, too, if drawn out right, could be a character in itself. Especially the isolation and such.

Once again it lends itself well to the predator/prey twist. The isolation is a huge factor. And the element of time and surprise. Revenge being a "dish best served cold".


Overall, I think there are all types of possibilities. All types of directions. I liked it. The soul of the story is intact.

Thank you for your insight and ideas! Hoping to finish the story itself out by the end of the year...spend next year in re-writes/editing and release sometime in 2014

[DATo]

Great potential. My only criticism would be that as an introduction this chapter tells us too much. I would start the piece with a paragraph or two which discusses deception and/or betrayal as well as situational justifications for such behavior in a philosophical manner - more of a generalization - without bringing anything about the actual story into it. By doing this you would be both slowly lifting the curtain to the story as well as giving the reader something to think about regarding the themes you will be presenting. I think a common mistake writers sometimes make is that they are impatient to get to the heart of what they want to say, and I find myself having to check myself constantly in this regard too. After these paragraphs I'd begin to discuss the principle characters and setting, and again, without giving any of the story up. In other words the first chapter should tease the reader into wanting to read more (this should be you main preoccupation in the first chapter) without giving any of the plot up yet.

I always tell myself to think of what I am trying to write as though I am grilling a steak. If I am impatient to get the steak cooked my first inclination would be to turn up the heat, but this will only result in a charred outer surface and a raw center which would probably be unpalatable. To grill a steak to perfection one must let it cook slowly, and to deliver a story well requires a bit of mystery by letting the story evolve slowly as well. A good marinade might be the introductory two paragraphs I mentioned above, and the basting would be the descriptions of the pertinent elements such as the environment the story takes place in as well as the descriptions of the characters. An occasional side-story, which may also serve to help develop a character (perhaps an incident from the main character's childhood), can serve as a palate cleanser, especially when the action of the story becomes very intense. Shakespeare did this masterfully with scenes of comic relief in the middle of some very heavy story development.

The ending of such a literary meal would be the desert. Some writers end a story very matter-of-factly with no desert, others deliver a twist which would be a very sweet desert, and still others serve up a ponderable which leaves the dinner guest satisfied but wondering what the hell they just consumed *LOL*

I wish you HaPpY Cooking !!!

Now ........ may I take off this brediculous brabbit suit ?

/

[Carla Hurst-Chandler]

Thanks guy!

I see what you mean. Thank you...yes...perhaps instead of an intro at all...I could introduce the two paragraphs in italics at the beginning of the first Chapter...then weave the rest throughot the story as it unfolds.

See why I consult all of you first...lol...

And yes...you may remove the bunny suit