Chatterbox: Inkwell

MAGIC - A Short Story

Hehe...two threads in one day...I'm so excited! I haven't really posted my writing on here in over a year--which needs to be changed!

Well, this is a short story I wrote, called "Magic" of course. It's around 7,000 words (so I'll be posting it in parts), and I wanted to see what you guys thought about it. Constructive criticism, thoughts, theories, and anything else is welcome.

I was experimenting with an unusual writing style/form, though, so what I'd really like is thoughts on that.

Anyway, here's the beginning of it...(Hopefully it doesn't have strange formatting--I'm only posting a little so I can test it out.)

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She sits on the grey chair in the grey room, nodding drowsily. Her eyes are open but her mind is not present; she is accompanied yet alone.

Around her sit others but she does not acknowledge them in this setting. Perhaps if they were alone, out of the presence of adults, she might converse with them—if she was alert enough to do so. But not here, not now. Not while they are being watched.

The woman is standing before the group of children holding a paper. Many papers. The woman has a whole stack sitting on the chair next to her, and it leans towards her at a lopsided angle.

The woman is wearing the same thing the woman always wears and asks the things the woman always asks.

“Which shape should follow this sequence?”

The boy answers with the same thing he always answers, but offers nothing more.

“What is two times two?”

No one answers.

She closes her eyes. She’s too sleepy. She wants to answer, but she can’t; she’s too exhausted. She hasn’t slept in a long time...in so long of a time...she can’t even remember when she last slept. She doesn’t think she’s ever slept.

“Which shape goes with this color?”

The girl stands up and answers. The girl is the opposite of her. The girl talks a lot, and wants to answer the questions.

The woman likes the girl’s answer and the girl likes the woman’s praise. The girl sits down smiling as the woman continues asking questions.

She listens to the rustle of the cards as they’re lifted from the stack. She likes the way they sound, the way their plastic coating slides smoothly across the top of the stack. It’s like a clock counting down the shrinking minutes.

Eventually the asking ends. Her eyes are closed now, but sleep is nowhere near her. The assistants come in, one for each child, five total. The assistants are all women. She likes the assistants...they’re nice, and seem to understand the children.

The pattern boy and the color girl rise to greet their assistants.

The grey-haired girl gets up next, afraid to disobey.

The quiet boy, the one she’s sitting next to, waits for his assistant to come get him.

She doesn’t notice her assistant until her arms are being gently shaken. She opens her eyes, gives her matronly assistant an apologetic half-glance, and stands up.

Even though she’s never slept, she can still walk, and eat, and think. She doesn’t talk. She doesn’t do much outside her head. She can understand language, but is too tired to create it.

She can communicate with her fellow children. They understand her, somehow. They grew up together.

The children are led down a colorful hallway that’s very different from the dim grayness of the learning room. Here, the floors are white and shiny, and the lights are bright. The walls are painted with winding plants and flowers. She likes the designs. If only she could enjoy them more.