Analysis of the Story Stream - Literature review Example

The Stream She bent her knees, her skirt fluttering over her legs as she took the stick and dug it into the stream. Droplets of water slid down her calves as the hem of the skirt began to get wet from dragging in the water. Her shoes, still almost dry as she had stepped out onto a flat rock, glimmered from the sunlight as it bounced off of the shiny patent leather. She knew they would come for her, their voices carrying in the wind as they searched frantically, but they would not scold her - not today. The dark navy blue dress was wet now, up several inches from the hem and her socks inside her shoes lay damply against her skin. Still, she didn’t care as she took the stick and dug it into the mud of the creek bed, twisting it aimlessly as she watched the rushing water swirl past. His voice was still in her head, that cracking twelve year old voice of her brother who never cared how much he hurt her. She rubbed one chubby fist into an eye, refusing to cry, hardening her heart against what she knew was true. She had seen - she had looked inside and had seen, so though hard and cruel, his words had hit her with the weight of them. They pushed down on her shoulders, bending her over her knees as the wetness of the stream soaked up her skirt and into her shoes as the water ran down her little calves and into her socks. She wriggled her toes, feeling them squish inside the shiny patent leather - the shiny patent leather that they only let her wear on special days. Today was not special though. Today was the end of her life, a loss of her childhood marked on a calendar and remembered for the rest of her days. She dug the stick into the creek bed again, twisting it around as she made a deeper hole, a hole that would fill with nothing but water and drown the space that should have been where she thrust in the bark laden stick that dug mercilessly into her hand. She pulled the stick out and tossed it down the way, hearing a splash and closing her eyes as a drop hit her in the temple. She didn’t laugh or smile though, even as the sunlight danced over the water. She didn’t laugh as she saw the squirrels as they ran past, hopping from the ground into a tree, one following the other and jumping to and fro through the branches as if they could almost fly. She barely saw them. She just stared into the hole, waiting for the voices that would come for her. She thought she heard a voice, somewhere off into the distance, calling her name over and over. It sounded like her Aunt Prissy, but she couldn’t be sure. The sound of the creek filled her ears and rushed away all the other sounds of the forest. She blinked, looking to the side, wondering if she should lift her body up, stand tall, and go back, but she couldn’t. She felt safe here, her toes squishing in her shoes, her wet skirt clinging to her legs. She didn’t feel safe back there, no not there with all those people holding their little clear plates filled with tiny sandwiches and spoonfuls of macaroni salad. The little clear cups were filled with foul smelling liquid that made the breath of the adults stink and their eyes gloss over as they laughed on a day which should have no laughter, then cried with big crocodile tears. They weren’t real tears, not like the tears her daddy had shed, his eyes rimmed red as the clear, liquidity brimmed up over the edge until it fell in a quick hot stream down his cheek. The same tear had rolled down his cheek over and over, every time she caught him by himself. Every time he took to the stairs and walked heavily into the basement, the smell of shaven wood in the air hanging like a shroud around him as she crept down the first few steps and was able to see him as he stroked his fingers over his nose to hold back the wet evidence of his sorrow. She always just frowned, her own heart cold and lost in this new world. She hadn’t shed a single tear. Her little heart didn’t know how to express what she felt. She didn’t feel the deep, lonely sorrow that her daddy felt. That feeling was just too big for her to feel. The word forever had been used; she had heard the words ‘gone forever‘, but that concept didn’t mean too much to her as it was always easy to fix it when something was over - you just started it again. When the movie was over, or the song was over, you just pushed the button and it was playing once again, the whole experience repeated. So, she couldn’t understand how anything could be gone forever if all you had to do was push the button and play it again. That feeling was just too big for her and the idea that her mommy was gone forever just didn’t mean much to her yet - not yet, not here with her dress dripping wet around her legs and the stream rushing by in a loud roar. She stared into the water, her eyes blank without seeing. She was looking into that room again, the one with rows and rows of chairs and a big rectangular shaped thing at the front. Half of the lid had been opened, but she had been told to stay out of that room. When he had said that her mommy was never coming back, she hadn’t believed him. Her brother, twelve years old and seemingly all knowing, had angrily told her that she should not laugh anymore or be happy because her mommy was never coming back. She had stomped her foot and had told him to shut up because she knew that her mommy would find a way back. She knew that her mommy would always kiss her goodnight, would always let her lick the cake bowl, and would always read her stories. What she knew was that even though her mommy hadn’t been there, she would come back, the button would be pushed and it would all restart. The thing was, she didn’t know where the button was that would start it all back up again. The water rushed by, filling her ears so that she didn’t hear him as he came up behind her, standing still for a moment and looking down upon her small little body as it rolled in on itself, curled into the tiniest space it could occupy. His hand did that thing, that movement that he had done so often in the last few days since the accident, the one that had collapsed his world. His fingers moved over his nose, a sniffing sound rushing out of him as he worked to hold back the tears that threatened to rush out of him and wet his cheeks, swamping his neckline in damp, pools of his sorrow. He only looked at her, knowing that she hadn’t heard him step up behind her, thinking that there was so much she would never know as life would come at her from behind while the one who could best warn her about all the things that would sneak up behind her was gone. He looked at her small form, frail and teetering carefully in her shiny black patent leather shoes on a rock situated in the stream that rushed by all around her. He stepped forward, letting his leather shoes slide into the rushing water, one foot on either side of her as he squatted down behind her, wrapping his arms around her little form and cradling her under her bent knees. The water rushed with torrid excitement past as he held her there, his shoes, socks and hem of his pant legs wet and drowned within the rushing water. He lifted her into his arms, not scolding her, not saying a word as he turned her into his embrace, her little legs practiced in clasping around him at the perfect angle. Her dress hung heavily behind her as more than half of it was now wet and dripping, but he didn’t care that the water was saturating his good suit or that his shoes would never look new again. He just stood there, his daughter in his arms while an army of his family was out in these woods looking for her, trying to help. He knew they couldn’t help, not really. Just as it was in this moment, it would have to be him who knew where to look and how to find the right answers. She was gone, the one who had given birth to these beautiful children, who had made sure they had clean warm socks and who had bought the perfect pair of shiny patent leather shoes. He let go of a quick breath as he realized that he had no idea where to buy shiny patent leather shoes. His daughter shifted in his arms as he let go of the breath, and he turned his attention back to her, realizing that she had clasped her legs around him in just the right way so that he could comfortably hold her. He smiled, not because his sorrow was lifted, or he felt reassured, but because he was holding his daughter and in this moment, he was doing the right thing. He may not do the right thing ever again, but today, he was holding his daughter. It was all he could do. Essay on “The Stream” The short story “The Stream” was developed from an emotional place of sorrow, constructed from thoughts about life with the sounds of rushing water symbolizing time as it passes too quickly. The narrative is intended to keep the reader in the dark about most of the events that have led up to the moment that a little girl is squatting near the stream, her garments getting wet and uncomfortable as the water soaks them in its turbulent rush to pass by. She is pouting, not quite able to feel the sorrow that the events of the day should have given to her. Most of the narrative is from her point of view as it is not quite clear about what has happened within her life. The narrative shifts near the end towards the observations of her father about the state of life as it has been affected by the loss of his wife, the mother of the little girl. The point of view within the piece is directed by the ways in which a child might try to process the feelings she might have when she experienced the death of her mother. The thoughts are not specifically of sadness as death is a very big event for a little girl to process. Therefore, the thoughts are tinged with anger and resentment, but don’t fully give over to those feelings either. She is mostly caught in a stillness that is contrasted by the rushing of the stream that is passing by where she is crouched down. She absently tries to still a part of the stream by using a stick to gouge into the stream bed, but this is not done with any real intent. Mostly, she is thinking about the moments leading up to her going into the woods, and about how the consequences of her running away would be nothing more than someone finding her. The point of view is similar to that of Mrs. Ramsey in The Lighthouse written by Virginia Wolfe. While it is not written in first person, the experience of the moment is framed in rather ordinary actions (Woolf, 1998) . The thoughts of the character are written about descriptively, while the ordinary actions highlight some aspect of the thoughts. Mrs. Ramsey is knitting, but contemplating the death of her husband through a series of emotions that are woven together, much like a piece of knitted cloth. Through the use of third person narrative, the story is constructed through revelations that are witnessed through the eyes of the main character, but are not harnessed by her singular point of view. The point of view is third person limited as the point of view of the story is told through the sole understanding of the events of one person, despite its shift at the end to the narrative of the father. At that point, the narrative is limited to his point of view. Therefore, when the time comes to shift the point of view, the narrative easily slides towards the character of her father, allowing his individualized experiences to frame those of the little girl. Her experiences are then highlighted by the way in which he has framed them in the end. In first person, such as that found in “Goczka” written by Carmel Bird (1986), the words of the child are simplified and written with the intent of expressing what is being experienced exactly in the way that the child would experience them. This is also evident in Peter Goldsworthy’s Maestro, where the experience of a child on a visit is described from his point of view in first person (Ferrari, 1997). In third person, it is possible to comment on the feelings and to give larger descriptions to feelings and experiences that the child cannot fully understand. In Kim Scott’s (1993) work, True Country, she speaks to the reader and uses terms that pull the reader into the narrative through second person. This type of narrative would be very tempting to employ when speaking through the voice of a child. “When you walk to the stream and step out onto the rock, your shoes stay dry. But, what you soon realize is that the hem of your dress gets soaked, letting water run down your legs and onto your socks, making your toes all squishy in your shoes”. This type of narration would work to describe the scene and would effectively tell the reader what was being experienced, but the emotional content might be a bit stifled. It is very effective when used from the point of view of an adult who can describe their feelings and experiences on a larger level of understanding as found in the work by Day (1992) in The last tango of Delores Delgado, but in describing the experiences of a child first person would be limited. Therefore, in constructing “The Stream“, third person limited is used with a shift to another character, using the same limitations. References Bird, C. Goczka. In Anderson, D. (1986). Transgressions: Australian writing now. Ringwood, Vic., Australia: Penguin Books. Day, M. (1992). The last tango of Dolores Delgado. St. Leonards, N.S.W: Allen & Unwin. Ferrari, C. (1997). Peter Goldsworthys Maestro. Insight text guide. Drouin, Vic: Insight Publications. Scott, K. (1993). True country. South Fremantle, W.A: Fremantle Arts Centre Press. Woolf, V. To the lighthouse. In Le Guin, U. K. (1998). Steering the craft. Oregon: Eighth Mountain Press. Read More