Magnolia

A smell has an incredible power of evoking past memories that we associate with them. Matt experiences this first hand in an emotional way, learning an important life lesson in the process.

It was Matt's 11^th birthday. He had been looking forward to this day for what seemed like forever to a boy of his age. Not because he wanted the presents or the party, or even the Arsenal themed birthday cake that was waiting for him on the kitchen table. What he was looking forward to was seeing his father. He had promised Matt that he would be there on his birthday. Matt glared out of his bedroom window, waiting, overlooking his neatly paved driveway, anticipating his father's car to come cruising down the adjacent road and pull into the driveway at any second. He was still hopeful he would come, even if he was this late, it didn't matter. He knew that he would come, despite what he overheard his mother saying to his aunt earlier, slatting his father. How she patronized him with her forced air of positivity and her over the top toothy smile. She was secretly trying to compensate for the lack of his father's presence. Incidentally one of the presents his father had promised to bring Matt was a remote-controlled helicopter. A gift he had been looking forward to having for the past year (something his mother told him he wasn't allowed, but it was really because of the hefty price tag, his step dad was far from a frivolous spender). Matt saw through his mother's sharade. Deep down she was miserable. He was glad to be away from them all up in his room, his sanctuary.

It had been four years by this point that his parents had separated, leaving Matt's self esteem in shatters, like his birthday pinata that the other kids had by now smashed into smithereens, reaping it's sugar filled inerds, positively hyperactive and preoccupied. Matt welled in his seclusion. The stupid guests with their pittyful remarks, the other kids he dispised, the obnoxious birthday music and canned positivity that filled the room like a bad smell. And he was the epicenter of it all. He could tell by the way they were looking at him that they thought his father wouldn't show up. He had seen that look before. But they will see, when he does come, he thought to himself. Matt was determined to show them that his father did love him really. He was probably catching some lowlife criminal scumbag or has been called into training by the Arsenal manager again for the upcoming match �" both of which were obvious lies he had previously used to cover up the fact he was a shoddy father. The innocence of the youth. His father was always fun. He let him drive the car, they went for McDonald's, played football, amongst other activities that entertain a child of that age without requiring actual parenting skills and teaching him responsibility. He didn't bug him about doing his homework like his mother did. In fact, he never even helped him with his homework once, or even inquired more into the matter other than ''How's school going Matt ? Not kissing too many girls are ya ?'' in his typical laddish banter. Matt always alluded that he was doing fine. He didn't want his father to know the truth, at risk of him thinking less of him. He already felt that he wasn't paying much attention to him because he was inadequate to his father's expectations. Matt felt like he was the problem. He wanted to be just like his father.

Matt had now been sitting in his room for the past hour. His mother had knocked on his door twice in that time, trying to entice him out by guilt tripping him, saying that everyone was there to see him and it was rude to hide upstairs. He thought she was so irritating and annoying. In fact he resented her. �" The thanks she got for actually being there for him, and not abandoning him on his birthday to get drunk or sleep with some bird. But that wasn't how it appeared to Matt. �" All he knew was that when he was with his dad, he had fun, and when he was with his mother, she belittled him. He loved her of course, but he didn't always respect her. The long Sunday afternoon seemed to drag out indefinitely, the bleak grey of the damp early spring. By now the ominous grey clouds above had acted upon their menace, and thus, it started rain. It matched Matt's mood. As the rain progressively worsened, his optimism dwindled. Another birthday ruined. His self worth crushed, again. They were all right.

It was 5:15, the last of the guests had left. The rain had by now halted and his step dad, Paul, had returned home, unfortunately not dying in an accident on his commute back from work. He snuck down the stairs, put on his new football boots, and set out the back door. Matt went outside into the garden. A typical English garden of an ordinary terraced house in a decent area. He kicked his football around to pass the time. The odour of the bold pink Magnolia's bloom filled the damp spring air, whilst it stood robustly, in the middle of the lawn, alone. A strong distinct smell of spring. Maybe if he could get in the football team his dad would come and see him play. He tried to do ten kick ups. It was the required amount to get on the football team. But no matter how hard he tried, he just wasn't any good at football. It seemed the more he tried, the worse he got. It frustrated him greatly. He pelted the ball into the trees at the bottom of the garden furiously, before kicking the noble pink Magnolia tree.

He sunk to the foot of it's trunk as he sat leaning back on it's bark, on the damp ground, littered by pieces of confetti and the odd sweet wrapper. Little to his knowledge, his mother had been watching him out of the kitchen window. Tears filled his eyes at first. But then they subsided, replaced with an emptiness, as he fiddled with a piece of confetti, lost in a sea of despair, in a state of disarray. He heard arguing coming from indoors as he sat there staring up at the sky with his head pressed back on the Magnolia. The kitchen door closed shut, as he heard his mother approach, calling out his name once inquisitively in an upset tone. He didn't turn and look at her initially until she appeared in his field of vision, as the rain started to spittle down from above, sprinkling the Magnolia's foliage. To Matt's pleasant bewilderment, she was holding the remote controlled helicopter he had always hoped for ! Matt couldn't contain the cheerful smile that overtook his expression. They looked into each other's eyes. She had a sincere look of concern in her eyes, she had been crying. Although sad, her eyes smiled, and matched her grin, she was being honest. ''Happy birthday Mathew'' she said smiling kindly at him, handing him the unwrapped gift. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly. ''Thank you mum''. Solace.

*

It had been a year and two months since Matt's mother passed away. Today was her birthday. He held a bouquet of pink magnolias in his hands, her favorite flowers. They were so vivid in colour, clashing the grey, rainy day and the sorrowful setting. His tear filled eyes glared at his mother's tombstone. 'Rest in peace Gloria Noble. Beloved mother, sister and wife. Unjustly taken before your time, you shall be greatly missed.' It felt surreal. He felt a hole eating away inside of him, his skull tingled numbly, he went cold. The smell of the beautifully exotic blooms brought him back to his childhood. Back to his 11^th birthday, when he was so rude to her because his estranged father never showed up to his birthday. She went out to the shops and bought him the helicopter, defying Paul and redeeming his father's false promises. She was brilliant. He was transported back to the moment he hugged her under the Magnolia that day. Matt broke down in tears, sobbing relentlessly under the cold November rain. He loved her so much and now she was gone. Loss.

Author's Note

If you have taken time to read this story please do not hesitate to leave a comment telling me what you think, it will be greatly appreciated. I am happy with how I captured the emotions and dynamics in this one, so I hope you enjoyed your read. Again, the prompt was to write a story where the character is transported back in time by a familiar smell.

Reviews

[JayG]

You asked for comments, so you have no one but yourself to blame. But still, though what I'm about to address is a serious issue, what I have to say isn’t related to how well you write, the story, or your talent for writing. In fact, it has to do with a problem you share with all but a few hopeful writers. What I call, The Great Misunderstanding.

Think back to your school days. You spent twelve or more years honing your writing skills. So it makes sense that you have the necessary techniques under control. And because our teachers never mentioned that there might be other ways of approaching the act of writing fiction we naturally assume that the word “writing,” that’s part of the profession we call, Fiction-Writing refers to that skill we learned. So, when we turn to writing fiction we make use of it, coupled with storytelling skills we use when someone says, “So how was your weekend?"

But neither of those skills work for fiction on the page.

Take the storytelling skills first: Storytelling is a performance art. HOW you tell the story matters as much as what you say. And because you’re alone on stage, your own performance replaces that of the actors, were it a film. But...we can’t very well play the one shooting and the one being shot, at the same time, so the storyteller shifts to a more narrative approach, and tells the reader a story, using the tricks of vocal delivery; changes in facial expression; gesture; and body language, to convey the necessary emotion.

But…how much of that makes it to the reader? Not a trace. And that matters, because without your performance to give the story life, the reader gers what amounts to a storyteller’s script, minus the stage directions. Have your computer read the story to you to hear what the reader does. That’s something you should be doing in any case, because it picks up a lot that you’d otherwise miss.

In short, you can’t use the tricks of one medium in another.

But for you, as you read? For you the narrator’s voice—your voice—is filled with emotion. You literally feel the gestures you would make. So for you, the story lives, and works perfectly. And, since you can’t fix the problem you don’t see as being one, or use the tool you don't know exists...

Look at what the reader has. The emotion they place in the narrator’s voice is what punctuation suggests. And the meaning if the words is what those words suggest to the READER, based on their background and understanding, not your intent. Unlike you, they have no context that you don’t supply or imply, and your intent doesn’t make it to the page.

But of critical importance, your teachers never told you the most important thing: The goal of the reports and essays you were assigned was to inform the reader dispassionately—to provide an informational experience. That's wht our furure employers needed us to know. But fiction's goal, as E. L. Doctorow so nicely put it: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” In other words, provide the reader with an emotional experience by making that reader experience the scene, not hear about it second hand.

Look at a line of two of the opening, not as the author who knows what's going on as they read the first word, but as a reader must:

• It was Matt's 11th birthday.

This is a declaration, centered on someone we know nothing about, who lives in an unknown place, at an unknown time. Think of the number of ways the reader could learn that it’s his birthday without you having to appear on stage. Here’s one possibility, as an example of another approach:

1. “Good morning birthday boy,” Matt’s mother called as she passed his bedroom. “It’s not every day you began a new decade. So get dressed, while I start pancakes. ”

With that we learn that it’s morning, that it’s his eleventh birthday, and that the family living quarters has bedrooms. And of most importance, it’s what Matt is perceiving in the moment he calls "now," because the narrator is not on stage. The reader concludes all that through "observation," rather than having it spoon fed to them by an emotionless voice.

And presented that way, the reader expects to learn his reaction to what mom says, not another factoid about him.

• He had been looking forward to this day for what seemed like forever to a boy of his age.

Think about it. Do you really have to explain how a kid views a birthday to someone who WAS a kid?

The “Let me explain,” approach promotes such things, where presenting the story from within the moment the protagonist calls “now” gets the reader emotionally involved. For why that matters, and the effect on the reader, this article might help:
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/the-grumpy-writing-coach-8/

Since the day you began selecting your own books you’ve been choosing fiction that was created with those professional tools. We don’t see them in action as we read, any more than we see brush technique by looking at a painting, or the skills of the chef when we eat. But we do see, appreciate, and expect, the result of using those skills. More to the point, the reader expects them in our work, which is the best argument I know of for picking up the tricks the pros take for granted.

And to help with that, the best book I know of for the basics of creating scenes that will soar is currently available free at the site I link to below this paragraph. So grab a copy before they change their mind.
https://ru.b-ok2.org/book/2640776/e749ea

Will he make a pro of you? Nope. That’s your job. But he will give you the necessary tools, and knowledge of what they can do for you. So dig in. And while you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/