Reminiscing Kites

They are the intangible elements that unravel memories buried deep beneath the everyday thoughts of life.

Scattered leaves scrape against the ground before being swept up by the wind, spiralling in the evening’s diminishing light. The scent of forgotten memories lingers in the autumn air, what’s left of the day’s warmth quickly fading. A tan squirrel scurries up the thick trunk of a red maple tree, bushy tail twitching in rapid motions before disappearing into the leafy canopy overhead.

The unspoken is expelled in a sigh that escapes the world’s notice. She shifts on the park bench, causing the papery contents in the bag to rustle beneath her hands. An elderly couple strolling down the pavement gaze at her in curiosity, and they exchange the kind of smiles that strangers passing each other by in life do.

Five minutes. She’ll give it another five minutes.

A little child’s laughter rides on the wind. On the patch of green littered with fallen leaves, a girl clutches a spool of string, as a man, presumably her father, backs away with a kite of bright, brilliant colours. The child bounces in excitement, but he does not hurry with his task. She laughs in anticipation, and he grins, both oblivious to prying eyes.

He waits for the perfect moment, and when it arrives, he lets go.

The kite soars.

Peals of giggles break loose. The nylon string is taut against her finger, the kite tugging, fighting to break free to wander its own way. She is not foreign to kite-flying. There is one at home that her brother lets her use on occasion if she promises to do his chores for him, but this, this one is different. This one is hers to keep. It is not the prettiest, not like the ones her classmates have. It is nothing more than a plastic bag, sticks stuck together with tape, and a paper tail at the end, but it is beautiful because he made it.

For her.

She twists around to look at him, to thank him, and the words dissipate in her mouth.

Something feels wrong. Though why exactly, she can’t pinpoint.

“Do you have to go?”

He crouches down beside her. There is dirt smudged on his face. “I’ve got to work, remember?” His lips curve, but his voice sounds all funny. He stands, his hand resting heavy on her head for a second.

Eyes follow his figure. He stops by the bench her mother occupies, and they talk for a long time. There is a lot of gesturing. Shaking of head. Slumped shoulders. She watches them, a knot in her chest, too far away to hear the words spoken. When they both turn to look in her direction, she tilts her head up to the darkening sky, only to realize that the kite is nowhere to be found. The string lies slack in her hands.

A quick search reveals the kite lying abandoned on the ground, its journey ended before it had even barely begun.

“Joan!”

She grabs the kite and races back. He is already gone. She wants to ask where he went and when he will visit again, but the sight of her mother’s reddened eyes stop the questions from spilling forth. The ride home is quiet. In her room, she hunts for a suitable hiding place where Oren wouldn’t be able to get to and finally stashes the kite inside her closet, behind piles of clothes, where it waits for the next opportunity to be out again in the open.

“Watson!” He calls as the door slams shut behind her. He strides into view and takes a quick moment to survey her. “You’ve been to the park, I see. And you were?”

She halts on the first step of the stairway, suddenly flooded with weariness as though she has been lugging around a bag filled with boulders instead of a childhood toy constructed of mere plastic and sticks.

She meets his eyes, and after a second, she gives him the faintest of smiles. “Waiting.”

Author's Note

There is a metaphor buried in here, but it might be a little vague. I'm looking specifically for feedback on the flow of the reading, but all constructive criticism is welcomed.

Reviews

[Nusquam Esse]

This is a powerful piece, although the ambiguity of it may be a problem. I understood it, although I had to read this a few times. When I write metaphor, I try to make one large metaphor which is relatively easy to understand, something direct that the majority of readers will understand on some level. I do make it a bit vague, so that each person will take their own interpretation away, but not so vague as for the story to feel abstract. It is difficult to walk the line between surreal and abstract. However, as I am sure you noticed, my writing is more complicated than just that... each story often has dozens of other metaphors laced throughout it... subtly interwoven, so as to not be revealed all at once on first read. Each progressive read will reveal something new. So that would be my main recommendation, make a main metaphor which most readers can take away, so that they feel that they have taken something away... and then put additional, less obvious metaphors in it, to reward the returning reader. Ummm... there are a few areas in this where I feel the word choice could be improved. The choice isn't bad, but a few sentences felt a bit flat. I recommend going through this and seeing where you can tweak the words you use; and compare the old and new. (probably good to save both versions, and wait a week or two to make the decision) And finally, your opening sentence could use some improvement, the grammar and sentence structure are off. Try something like "Scattered leaves scrape the earth before ascending, pirouetting with the wind in an ever fading evening's light." (Not saying to use this in particular... use what feels right to you. But considering the importance of an opening sentence, I recommend reworking it)