Mrs.

william faulkner imitation piece

 

            In her peak, Penelope was the top of the town, the kept wife, a woman of the church, and the perfect mother; a type of mother whose entire life revolved around her young, the apron always wrapped tightly around her hips, her hair in a sophisticated bun, she waited at the door with some sort of healthful treat for her children to savor and enjoy. Her days were very methodical; she woke the children from their peaceful slumber, set out the clothes, then set out her own, made breakfast for the young ones and her husband, quick pecks for each and then they were out the door, she would brush her teeth and her long hair, ashamed at its length, yet too reserved to ever think of possessing a bob, she would pull it back into her bun—a sort of trademark of hers, the bun, that she had worn faithfully for the past twelve years—she then would sweep all of the rooms of her dream house, dusting, mopping, perhaps even cooking if she got bored, something special, for her family, so they could capture a hint of her favorite spice, cinnamon, and they could perhaps capture a hint of Mom in her cooking.

            On occasion she would knit, it was her duty, trite as it may seem, Penelope was the sole contributor of quilts to the children’s nursery at church. Perhaps she would hum whilst doing so, knitting, pricking her fingers with the needle yet carrying on with what God had called her to do, though, many days, it became awfully drone. Not that Penelope would ever turn her back on God.

            It was the job of the wife to see that the house she kept was fit for a king, her king, who expected nothing less than the best. It was the job of the mother to see that her children were nurtured with love and care, that they were content, and that they grew inito beings that were moral and pleasing in the sight of God. It was the job of a woman of the church to see that visitors were never seen as strangers, to welcome all into her church and into her home, and to live by example, in order to show those around her just what a woman of God she was. There was nothing more to her insipid existence than these three, which she held dear for the first seven years, and grew weary of in the past five.

            Her husband and children would return home around the same time, and they would all receive pecks on the cheek like they had before, a rough day all of them would say, as they went their separate ways and left Penelope in the kitchen. Remarking on what a tough day work had been, her husband would sometimes carry the drags of work home with him, in his attitude, and more than likely, take it out on her. Her face was no stranger to the back of his hand. Through her weeping she felt that perhaps today was the day, maybe today is the day that I leave this place. Every time she would change her mind, but today was different, today I will move on with my life, leave everything behind, leave this constant murmur of life, this husband, this family, I can begin again, and this is when she knew.

            She knew that it was time to be her own person. Impulsive and nearly perfunctory, she threw what little she had into a suitcase, black with silver stripes, she carried it, into the back of her husband’s cherished ’67 pearly azure Camaro with a chalk-white soft top, still ripped from where her son had punctured it through with scissors. She thrust the suitcase into the trunk and ran into the front of the car. She mindlessly placed the key into the starter and placed her hands on the steering wheel, peering into the windshield while collecting her thoughts. Her worn hands reached for the gearshift as she put the car into drive, allowing her eyes to well with tears, her checks and eyes now florid and puffy, a certain calamity was tearing through her mind, until she was no longer in the sane mental state. She pulled out of the garage.

Soon she was leaving, driving, far from the house, going nowhere fast; this impromptu thought, to leave and never look back, which had consumed her for years, had finally surfaced, a thought she supposed would never fabricate itself until the day he drove her wild enough to do it. I can keep going, she thought, and if anyone tries to stop me I’ll just run off the road, because I have the power. I have it. It’s mine, and the tires blew as the wish crept into her mind like an animal finally emerging from its safe place, the cacophony of the glass puncturing her rubber tires frightened that animal out of its hiding and made it run, nowhere fast, over the cliff.

Reviews

[Wheldon]

The shortness of each phrase, the immediacy, the repitition, the simplicity of imagery lends itself to the theme of the insipid ennui of acting out a life rather than living it. It lends itself to a stereotypical representation of what appears to be a '50s mother in the suburbs, although the date is not stated, which tends towards a more universal reading of the piece. It is well written with good pace, the details are clearly expressed, the words well chosen.

God is mentioned several times, but more so as a determiner of how to exist within suburbia, an embodiment of social responsibilities, than a living, breathing entity. And in the same way as God doesn't connect with Penelope, I fear the story doesn't intimately, ultimately, connect, because the stereotype is, in the end, only a stereotype � and this is where the spirit of Faulkner rises above the technique of Faulkner � his characters reside within the reader long after his books have been put back onto the bookshelf. Penelope merely leaves because she 'knows.' This isn't enough to create compassion, or an intimate connection. It means her death doesn't upset as it should, because the reader hasn't been let into her soul, sensed her passion, her dreams, her hope, her despair, we haven't been there in her crisis as her angels and demons have fought within and her sense of freedom has triumphed � and so we can't travel and die beside her on the road if she can't leave the type of the pages and enter the complexities of our minds.

However, this is a short story, and it is defined by its style, so perhaps it merely needs one extra paragraph to really succeed, perhaps a meditation on a glass she is cleaning perfectly before she hurls it against the wall, or a piece of knitting that she rips to pieces - a moment when the stereotype is destroyed, violently, and she turns from one life to another, from a stereotype to a free person. It would give us a chance to momentarily enter deep into Penelope's psyche and be uniquely touched by both her pain, her freedom and her death.

[An owl on the moon]

A powerful piece! Amazingly Faulknerish in its descriptive, subtle tones and very comprehensive for a story so short. You set the mood of a whole lifetime in just a few paragraphs. I longed for more, but realized that more couldn't come at the end. Well done!