All Stories, General Fiction

Rage by Paul E Goldberg

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The guitar player began. The two younger women, the singers, looked to the dancer, then to one another and laughed. Everyone knew the dancer was crazy. What would happen tonight? What madness revealed when, after standing stock still, face intense, concentrating, ugly, man-like, she would explode in sudden but precise movement. Arms and legs lashing out, a burning, erotic anger masked behind the frozen expression on her face. After moving across the stage, she would come to a sudden, freezing halt, slamming her foot down on the floor—loud. The women startled even when they knew it was coming. The dancer looked at the man—her partner. She always chose a younger man. He looked back, smiled but at a distance. She glared at him then suddenly moved again, whirling, white skirt flaring out to reveal a flash of the carmine lining.

The two women had known the older one since her arrival at the village. She came one day with her three children—three fathers the gossips who sat at the market said. She came from one of the shanty towns surrounding Cordoba. A victim of the sins of men from that village who sat, did nothing [sold Coca-Cola to tourists who wandered through], stared greedily at her, then acted unspeakably. The story had it that she then disappeared for some years, living in the caves of the Andalus amongst the Gitanos. There she learned to dance. She arrived at the village one day with the three brats, set up a house, kept to herself. Ordinary, nondescript, the dull expression of a victim—silent, nothing. But when she danced: what violent acts had insinuated themselves into her movement? An enraged victim when she emerged from half-sleep numbness, she sought to devour, take in. Then vengefully destroy.

As they grew, the brats ran wild through the cobblestone streets while men visited. Always young men, some danced with her, some just went to her after sitting listlessly in the bright light reflected off the white walls of the houses. From blinding sun to the dark of the hut where she waited. The stories the singers heard about what happened pushed their excitement—now they looked and laughed again. As they sat, the younger, prettier one shouted at the woman, shrieked a song—lost love and pain. The woman, stopped in mid-stride this time, hearing words carried on a harsh melody. She looked at the young man. She thrust her hips forward—but only the tiniest of movements. He saw this, gasped, shook his head—quickly. His feet started to pound the floor—repetitively. He danced, slamming his feet in time to her clapping. His jaw working in time to the rhythm, gnashing his teeth. Sweat dripping. Then it was done. The woman turned away, walked off the stage, back straight, defiant. The man—used up, feet slowly shuffling, looking off into nowhere. The guitar player finished, playing haltingly in a minor key. 

Paul E Goldberg

Image: A treble clef and a swathe of music notes and lines in vibrant colours from pixabay.com

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Published by literallystories2014

10 thoughts on “Rage by Paul E Goldberg”

  3. Although we understand when we watch, that this is a performance and maybe the dancer will go backstage and eat buns and drink chocolate with the others to convey such emotion in movement and demeanor is gifted. It’s a long time since I watched Flamenco but this brings it all back. Good stuff – thank you – dd

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  5. Paul

    This story made a great use of indirection and brevity, or implying and containing much that is there in the story but not literally spelled out. This is the same way dreams work, where the dreamer is given a story or a series of images during sleep that somehow have profound meaning, telling a tale of revelation, but without uncovering what the literal meaning of the revelation is. It’s up to the dreamer to parse her or his own internal narrative of the nighttime, and to ignore it or pretend it “doesn’t mean anything” is only to ignore the meaning of life itself. Your story seemed like a tense allegory without an answer or an obvious “moral” point of view, adding up to an intriguing mystery and a deep character sketch. Great work!

    Dale

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  6. Thanks Paul.

    So much of the dance got into the writing. Not an easy thing. Too bad the only victory the woman could achieve was on the dance floor. Perhaps it helped her soul if not her life. Gerry

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  8. Hi Paul,

    This had that bit of mystique about it that tantalized.

    What I like about that is so much can be taken out from the readers and they probably all take out something different.

    I thought the ending was powerful and I considered her exerting control even to a possessive sort of idea. I believe that control would be important to her.

    A very interesting piece of story telling.

    All the best my fine friend.

    Hugh

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  9. For me this is a really effective prose poem in that it describes feeling, place, emotion, but without too much plot – in that sense this is mastery of form and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

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  10. Thank you all for the kind words. It is gratifying to see that others read and appreciate my work.
    The story was inspired by a Flamenco performance I attended in Seville, Spain a year or so ago. It was in a very small room, and I was seated very close to the performers. I found it all quite stunning. Both performers exuded power and grace [and the two women and guitarist sitting behind the dancer were, at the same time, both observers and participants]. At the end, the male dancer seemed exhausted and the woman triumphantly defiant. This led me to conjure up a backstory that involved a victim of abuse who survived and, in a sense, triumphed over her abusers.
    Thanks again,
    Paul

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