Saturday, 12 February 2011

• Emma

  Emma stands on the ledge of the balcony outside her hotel room on the thirtieth floor. Her palms are planted upon the underside of the balcony above. One bare foot dangles over the edge as the wind whips around her ankles, climbs her legs, and teases the hem of short-skirt white dress. Her brunette hair is tied in a tight bun at the back of her head; a few stray pieces have come loose and brush against her porcelain face. Her china blue eyes peer over the ledge at the traffic below, passing by unmindful of the woman thirty floors above about to jump. She wiggles her toes out in the open as if she's waving at them down below. She giggles girlishly at this thought, the laughter racking her entire frame- it almost unhinges her and sends her tumbling into nothing. She stifles the laughter with one hand over her mouth as she steadies herself upon the ledge again. Her palm returns to the smooth surface of the balcony above and she leans forward, staring straight down. A gust of wind brushes by and she closes her eyes feeling it crawl along her skin- she wants to remember this sensation forever. Her toes curl over the edge of the ledge, peeking at the concrete thirty stories below.

  “Give me your wings, father, let me fly,” Emma says removing her left palm from the balcony above and holding it out to the side and then following suit with the right, moving slowly for balance.

  “But all I've ever done was fall,” Emma says standing upon the ledge, arms outstretched like wings. She looks like a statue, a porcelain cross on the ledge of the hotel balcony.

  “Catch me,” Emma says and plummets.

   

   

  Reading 'Madame Bovary' in Modern World Lit. Thought I'd try my hand at realism. Did I manage? Doubtful but I don't care. I'm just trying to assuage my ego and reclaim myself. At least now you know why her name is Emma.

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