Brilliant commentary, sir. Appreciate the comments and will use the same in rewrite. Cheers.
Flash Fiction / A Letter from Guernica (Analysis)
Guernica Herman writes a letter from an open-air café in the Basque town that bears her name. Her parents, Jim and Carol, were both art students when they met at a Picasso exhibition in New York City in 1981. Two years later, they christened baby Gee in a small Lutheran chapel down on Dundas Street; witnessed by a small crowd of friends and family, and the usual assortment of well-wishers willing to suffer a cold, wet Lake Ontario squall in November. There, under the glory of God, and the steady, plump fingers of Pastor Proust, Gee received the Holy Sacrament. In response, Baby Gee wailed out her staccato protests and managed to hit every high note of "Oh Holy Spirit, enter in." Even then, Gee struggled with the burden of her name. Since childhood, or more properly the awkward burgeoning of puberty, Gee had distanced herself even more from her name, responding only to the letter “G.” And so it was, the route that led Gee here.
From the café, smoke from her cigarette rises up in twisted columns, dissipating over the red clay rooftops. The sun scorches the white cobblestones beneath her chair, where she slips one foot in and out of a sandal. She sucks on the end of a pen, searching for the right words to explain her actions to her fiancé, David – why she left suddenly, without a word, to fly off to Spain. Instead, she describes the farms and meadows of the Urdaibai estuary, how they become high cliff and salt marsh before vanishing into the deep blue of the Bay of Biscay.
The smell of fresh cinnamon pastries hangs delicately in the air, drifting across the courtyard like a dream. A short, round woman, with a white apron ballooned over her breasts, stands in the open doorway of the bakery, shooing away pigeons like misbehaved children with the end of a broom. An old man, grey tuffs of hair skirting the rim of his brown cap, rides a bicycle up to the woman. He exchanges brief pleasantries with her, and the woman laughs like a schoolgirl, as if perhaps they were lovers once. The well-maintained buildings reveal none of the scars of the Civil War; even the memorials are sanitized and the lawns green and mowed. It all seems so surreal to Gee, being here in this sunny plaza that once witnessed the first mass bombing in human history – locked in this place that seems so utterly devoid of scars, of the landmarks of suffering. Perhaps the red bloom of roses in the garden and the long rows of citrus trees were a mere facade, deceptively drawn to hide from an uncomfortable past. Perhaps, behind the freshly washed walls of the narrow shops and the flicker of fluorescent lamps hid a darker truth, where hushed voices merely hinted at the true town. She and David often talked about coming one day, after they finished college, but jobs and life always prevented anything more than vague promises.
She wishes she could share this all with David, the blossoming of her rich thoughts, but he is half a world away back in Toronto. He is probably sitting alone at the kitchen table, she thinks, eating something starchy from a microwaveable box while watching the last inning of a baseball game played out on the flat screen TV. On the beer stained glass table, he will have poured out half the contents of his briefcase, yet still be unable to find the work he had brought home. If she had still been there, she would have wiped up the beer stains and found his work lying under his briefcase.
Life with David was pleasant enough. They had their comfortable routines, a sort of pantomime that resembled a life. In the morning, they went to work and in the evening, they came home. On weekends, they went to the flea market, where they hunted bargains among the vendor stalls, and ate lunch, before invariably returning home to roast chicken and a late night movie. David was caring and sweet, as reliable as the gentle breeze that nudged at the leaves outside their window; but the sex, well, that had expired in fits and starts over the previous year. She expected love's wane, even accepted it. However, the emotional vacuum that followed unsettled her, edging her toward indifference. They had become roommates. It wasn’t David’s fault. He loved her. She could tell it by the way he held her under her arms at night and wept. It was her indifference, her blankness.
Early that morning, while strolling along the narrow avenues, she came, quite by chance, upon a tiled wall filled up by Picasso's famous painting – the one that had inspired her parents to conceive her. The painting was all grey tones, devoid of colour. In the middle, a terrified horse – run through by a spear and a charging bull – horrified her. She cupped her hands around her mouth to stifle a gasp. Below, a flower sprouted from the broken sword of a dead soldier, his arm hacked in two, and above, a floating woman held out a lamp. On her left, a bereft mother held her dead baby and wailed at an unkind sky. Gee contorted her neck back and clutched her handbag, parroting the scene, to feel the distortions ripple her body. Just as her neck reached its maximum upward extension and the muscles under her jaw strained for release – when all she could see was the blue washed sky – the telltale tremble pushed her dry lips apart, and a spasm cut her down at the knees. As her eyes clouded over with tears, she collapsed to the sidewalk, and she sobbed uncontrollably for half an hour. She pushed back the tears from her eyes with the flat of her palms, until the heat of the day had dried them away, but for a salt crust that flaked away under her fingers.
She couldn't explain the sudden rush of sorrow. Perhaps it was something building up in her since she left Canada. Perhaps it was something deeper, something trapped in her since the day she was born. Or perhaps it was merely the anchovies on the omelette she had for breakfast. She had wanted to tell David about that, too.
Now, she sits in the café alone, surrounded by an army of balled up letters. A row of little paper soldiers aligned before her. She crumples up the half-written letter and tosses it next to the others. In the courtyard, an old man feeds pigeons, spreading handfuls of breadcrumbs over the cobblestones. High above, where green hills meet open sky, a jet contrail forms a cloud. One day, all of this would be gone – this café, that old man – even her own presence would vanish; memory and meaning fade. Permanence is an illusion.
The waiter brings her steaming coffee in a small porcelain cup, a café con leche, setting it down lightly next to her arm. When he tries to gather up her papers, she stops him, saying, she wants to remember what it is like to rebuild from the rubble. He nods and smiles, and then leaves her to her writing.
Finally, she writes a simple note that explains nothing. Love and war are the same. With God's grace, sometimes love's wane is inexplicable.
_Goodbye, David. Guernica._
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Benjman reviewed Version 2 -
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This is terrific. Geurnica’s musings over the impermanence of love and beauty take on personal meaning. It is also wonderful how the character shrugs off her emotional outburst. This was an outstanding catharsis and felt genuine, especially in her hasty dismissal of it bearing any significance, which reflects a truth about the separation between emotion and our rationalizations. There seem to be a lot of mundane details provided, but these help the reader gain a perspective into Geurnica’s mindset. It seems she is looking back and viewing things with a cold, loveless eye.
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avedis reviewed Version 2 -
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This is one of those tough items to review – on the basis that I enjoyed it so much I didn’t want to make a critique.
You have a great touch, listing the mundane in such a way that is describes something far deeper – an almost subliminal message. That is rounded off by your extremely well handled descriptions – adding a great deal of color to this story.
So, a mixture of nit-picks and praise to follow:
“Guernica Herman…open-air café” ‘Writes’ seems clumsy, and the sentence indicates the cafe is writing. So – > “Guernica Herman is writing a letter sitting at an open-air café”
This is followed by some beautifully crafted telling – making a mockery of the “show don’t tell” junk. We get an instant history while only aware of being entertained.
“perhaps they were lovers once” -> “perhaps they were once lovers” reads better.
“deceptively drawn to hide from an uncomfortable past” Yes, but this reads as though the citrus trees were hgiding. – > “deceptively drawn, as though hiding an uncomfortable past”
“She and David…coming one day” She has come, so -> “She and David often talked about coming, together, one day”
“a sort of pantomime that” A pet hate of mine, woolly. – > “a pantomime that”
“expired in fits and starts” Yes, but in a way contradictory. – > “slowly deteriorated until absent” or similar.
“She could tell…and wept.” This could do with a bit more description, it sounds awkward.
“the one that had inspired her parents to conceive her” I don’t think ‘inspired’ is the right word here. ‘Stirred’ perhaps?
“dried them away, but for a salt crust ” – “dried them away, all but for a salt crust “
“She couldn’t explain the sudden rush of sorrow.” This is such a weak summation of the almost fit she had. “She couldn’t explain the attack, though an elemnt of sorrow lay at it’s root.” Or similar.
Once again, I really want to just praise this work. Exquisitely written.
cimak reviewed Version 2 -
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it had a powerful ending that i really liked
i enjoyed the whole story overall
i found one grammatical error upon reading yet i cannot find it now yet grammar is a weakness of mine
i really dont see any need for changes you have nice imagery
it reads very smoothly without confusion
overall very good
DawnJoyce reviewed Version 2 -
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I liked it, a lot actually. The story flowed well and pulled me in. I definitely felt an emotional bond. If I had to say anything critical about this piece it would be that the first paragraph didn’t seem to match up with the rest of the story. With flash fiction you want to try to keep it under a thousand words as much as possible-maybe you could do something with the first paragraph. Best wishes.
MrJawbreakingEquilibrium reviewed Version 2 -
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I love it already. You’ve painted beautiful imagery with just the first page. It’s lovely and makes me feel like I’m really sitting there in Spain watching “G”.
You’ve got such an eye for detail it’s like looking at a video in words.
- locked in this place that seems so utterly devoid of scars, of the landmarks of suffering. – I don’t know. There seems to be nothing wrong with this sentence but it seems to slow the story’s pace down. It’s well written and I see what you’re saying but it stalls here.
I love how you described the Picasso. That was some outstanding writing. I thought I was impressed with the way you described the village and the people conversing.
Now, she sits in the café alone, surrounded by an army of balled up letters. A row of little paper soldiers aligned before her. —Beautiful!!!
That is definitely one of the top five stories I’ve read on this site. Your eye for detail and painting a picture with words just satuarated the screen. Nothing happened but the story was not boring at all. I was kind of disappointed that it ended. This was amazing.
Aside, from what I boldened I didn’t see anything that I could pick out and even that is really nothing.
Great job. This was tremendous. Glad I read it. Thank you.
Brian reviewed Version 2 -
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I would use a different tense than present. Also, in the first paragraph ‘Gee’ may be used a bit much maybe there is a way to get rid of some of the repetition?
Love your descriptions… very poetic at times!
4th paragraph: I would use ‘him’ instead of David in the opening line, as David was used at the end of the previous paragraph. In the second sentence don’t throw in the ‘she thinks’ as she is the main focus (and ‘probably’ prefaces the clause) the reader naturally assumes this detail. Try just ‘beer stained table’ the detail of ‘glass’ makes it a confusing read.
The painting is an excellent view into the character of Gee.
’...until the heat of the day dried them away’ would read better than ’...had dried them away.’
I would say ‘a half written letter’ as opposed to ‘the half written letter’
A lovely story! Your last sentiments are quite packed for such quick statements. Hope these suggestions are helpful.
squarehopper reviewed Version 1 -
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This was well written, I found.
I have to admit that I read it several times before. I finally bit the bullet and looked up Guernica.
Although it is pretty, the line about the meadows and such seems not to belong. Even if you are trying to set up a contradiction, it didn’t work for me. That is because you didn’t really set it against anything similar. I would remove it or have something to it play against… maybe a traffic jam at the street adjecent to the cafe?
Guernica the lady is rebellious seeking something more exciting(?). Guernica the painting is also rebellious seeking comprehension and abhorrance for violence and war. Nice contrast.
I like this. I am sorry I don’t have much more to offer you.
I am on a reviewing friends rampage right now.
madriter1022 reviewed Version 1 -
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Love hurts. I though this was a wonderful piece. Narrative flow and description were beautiful. I can almost feel her pain. I didn’t derect any errors in grammar or spelling.
These sentences seems long. Consider making two more than one sentence out of them.-
Two years later, they christened baby G. in a small Lutheran chapel on Dundas Street, where she wailed out her staccato protests and managed to hit every high note of “Oh Holy Spirit, enter in.â€
She sucks on the end of her pen, searching for the right words to explain her actions to her fiancé, David: why she left suddenly, without a word, to fly off to Spain.
burnvictim reviewed Version 1 -
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It’s pretty good. The character study is a bit incomplete, and I can’t really fully connect the implications of what she feels from the painting with how she feels about leaving David. But I enjoyed it, and it’s very well written. Reminds me, somewhat, of my recent bad, inexplicable breakup. But I was David, so I can’t give you any specific things to include from G.’s perspective. Good luck.
AngelRain reviewed Version 1 -
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The story is lovely. Wish you would go more into depth about her thoughts after she saw the painting that inspired her parents to conceive her. Maybe depict the sadness and misunderstanding more. Other than that, I’ve never heard permanent used in that context. It reminds me of the quote that goes something like “Nothing gold can stay,” but I don’t think it captures the feeling of disappointment in the fact that nothing lasts forever.
Well-written and loved the ending.
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