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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #63 - "The Return"
- Thread starter DumbNameD
- Start date
- Status
Kindling (1364)
"Do you remember your mother's face? Will you remember mine?"
It is not difficult, at present, to see why I left. Why I ended what Harpers declared "the most promising literary career since Palk," why I dropped out of sight and mind and decamped for the Catskills. The memory abides.
For now.
Remembrance clarifies; crystallizes. Five years since my retirement. Five years since my husband gave me his ultimatum, standing there breathless in the stinging snow, looking sad and old and oak-solid. He puts a pale hand on my shoulder, and he--but I must start further back. Beyond the fragments. Before I made kindling of memory.
The beginning, then.
A party, faculty and grad students. I recall each particular; every detail firm and clear in my mind as though it happened moments ago. The shape of the room (oblong, with an ovular apse at one end), the shade and texture of the wallpaper (cerise, faux bamboo), the pattern on the carpet (an unsubtle Turkmen dyrnak gül), the lighting (poor, stingily imparted by garish and ineffective chandeliers). I recall the odor of stale wine and sweat and cheap cologne, unwashed combover and tatty tweed wool, overripe feta and dry cumin crackers and the faintest inkling of mold. I recall the titters of coeds, the hearty practiced chuckles of professors, the wave of babble that rolled back and forth across the room on an unseen tide.
My gaze swept the room; weighed, measured, dismissed. Then lit upon a singular object, above the prosciutto table: a man; tall, betweeded, sturdy and crag-faced. And smiling. There was something about that smile--small, aloof, secretive; not Cheshire Cat so much as La Gioconda.
Our eyes crossed paths, and mine gave way. I flinched, turned away, picked up a glass of red without even asking what it was.
I wore a neutral gray knee-length skirt and matching top: armor, camouflage, nom de guerre. In pre-party imaginings the clothes made me sophisticated and sexy and untouchable; reality and fancy did not coincide. I felt flustered, fluttery, foolish.
A hand grasped my shoulder. I smelled his cologne behind me, dew and oak and soaring heights, and I turned and looked up.
Up close, the smile was more Messina than Da Vinci; it dominated his face. It overwhelmed the steep cheeks, the sharp nose, the alpine eyebrows and pocket-valley eyes.
My gaze went sideways; I sipped my wine.
"Hello," he said. His voice was low, pleasantly rumbling. His hand on my shoulder was comforting, warm.
I looked up from my wine glass, the fluster gone. "Hello." Our eyes met.
"Its killing you," he says. "It has to stop. I've seen what it does to you."
A wedding. Our wedding. My wedding.
The trappings were all in place: pews bedecked with twists of white silk tulle, bridesmaids in cerulean ruched chiffon, rose petals and lavish arrangements of morning glory, iris, and lily-of-the-nile all down the aisle.
The brides mother, dabbing at her eyes with an enormous handkerchief that obscured her face. Sundry kith and kin, those for whom this rite of spectacle had been contrived, smiling in anticipation. The minister, eagerness shining through a sedate veneer, standing on his toes, finger in his Bible. He looked at me expectantly.
And I--I stood rooted, a rabbit in headlights, a shieldless Perseus looking on Medusa, body and brain locked in fierce battle.
My mouth wished to open, to say the words. It could not--my mind raced in senseless circles. Would I destroy myself? Was I stepping into the bear-trap of lost self; would my identity be subsumed in his? Nearly a decade of battling status quos, of pushing through doors while men who had already passed tried to hold them shut, had taught me that I had to stand on my own. Had to be more intelligent, more ingenious, more intense, and without a nearby masculine escape valve to whom the drawbridge-raisers could conveniently attach credit. A small mad voice in the back of my brain screamed that if I said "I do," some grinning gatekeeper would leap from his seat and tear down my career like so much rotten cardboard. I could not suppress the voice; I could not honestly promise that it was wrong.
Common sense battled weathered mistrust; the silence in the church grew strained.
He never said a word. Never looked concerned, worried, embarrassed. He leaned in, pocket-valley eyes as serene and calming as always, and nodded, a fractional tilt of his head. He put a light hand on my shoulder, brushing a corner of the veil aside. And he smiled that Messina smile that was mine alone.
Warmth flooded me, and my lungs began working again.
"I do."
"I've seen your aftermaths." His eyes grow sad. "Every time, a piece of you vanishes. I can't let it go on."
Another minister. This one somber, solemn, serious. His eyes held a practiced sadness, a pinched melancholy that condoled without partaking. I did not begrudge his imperviousness, but the incongruity between surface and interior grated.
The casket was rough pine, a faux rustic abomination that was not of my choosing.
A Viking funeral, thats what he would have wished for: a longship cast off to sea afire, him at the mast, arms folded across his chest, named blade and painted wooden shield atop them, craggy face and Messina smile visible through the flames until the ship was lost to view, Valhalla-bound.
I couldnt bring myself to speak to Them, to counterfeit conciliation and mouth unearned politenesses.
They viewed me as an interloper. All those years and his family still thought me Jezebel, a painted woman who had swept into his life to bleed his money and appropriate his name. I wanted only a Jehu to storm in and cast me down, leaving my corpse for the dogs.
He hated that. He wanted me and Them to reconcile, to kiss and make up, to make-love-not-war. Hed endeavor to impose us on one another, compressing us together until he lost his grip and we sprung apart with greater force than ever. It had been one of his last wishes, reconciliation, at the bitter end in that sterile hospital room, pocket-valley eyes begging, rimed over and pooling under with final regrets.
His sister cast her eyes in my direction.
In popular lore, last wishes are fraught with meaning and good sense, underwritten with power and obligation. They are weighted with magical significance, with the potency and grace of death.
Were I following the script, I would have realized that I was in some measure to blame, that I and They were more similar than different, alike in our grief. I and They would have embraced, overcoming years of poisonous glares and barbed words, of intentional slights and raw, unreasoning hatred, and held hands as we wept freely onto one anothers shoulders.
I gazed back at the casket, rough hewn pine and hand-carved frivolity. He wouldve laughed at the affectation.
I stood and walked away.
"It ends, or I leave." His eyes hold mine, gently, firmly. "I won't be an accessory to your disintegration."
I am often asked about my writing process.
As elsewhere, a sketch; a vague outline: as I commence a work, the characters, the setting, all the elements of the work begin to take shape in my head. Themes arise, and counterthemes; background figures and foreground motifs; rhythms and counterpoints; harmonies of voicing; cadences and variations; texture and tempo and tone and timbre all begin to saturate, brimming and overflowing.
I push, struggle to channel this exuberant headwater, this vasty perilous inundation, but it trickles, percolates lazily, until the dam bursts and it cascades tumbling down my arm, through my ball-point in a terrible unbroken flow, pouring unrestrained onto the page.
And it is gone.
The flow subsides, the stream abates, the spring quiesces, evaporates, fades to sere desiccated clay.
It is gone.
My husband could not forgive that. Could not condone that one-way flow, the devils bargain that impelled my celebrated originality.
While I remember my promise, nor can I.
"Do you remember your mother's face? He puts a hand on my shoulder. Will you remember mine?"
Tomorrow I begin again.
"Do you remember your mother's face? Will you remember mine?"
It is not difficult, at present, to see why I left. Why I ended what Harpers declared "the most promising literary career since Palk," why I dropped out of sight and mind and decamped for the Catskills. The memory abides.
For now.
Remembrance clarifies; crystallizes. Five years since my retirement. Five years since my husband gave me his ultimatum, standing there breathless in the stinging snow, looking sad and old and oak-solid. He puts a pale hand on my shoulder, and he--but I must start further back. Beyond the fragments. Before I made kindling of memory.
The beginning, then.
A party, faculty and grad students. I recall each particular; every detail firm and clear in my mind as though it happened moments ago. The shape of the room (oblong, with an ovular apse at one end), the shade and texture of the wallpaper (cerise, faux bamboo), the pattern on the carpet (an unsubtle Turkmen dyrnak gül), the lighting (poor, stingily imparted by garish and ineffective chandeliers). I recall the odor of stale wine and sweat and cheap cologne, unwashed combover and tatty tweed wool, overripe feta and dry cumin crackers and the faintest inkling of mold. I recall the titters of coeds, the hearty practiced chuckles of professors, the wave of babble that rolled back and forth across the room on an unseen tide.
My gaze swept the room; weighed, measured, dismissed. Then lit upon a singular object, above the prosciutto table: a man; tall, betweeded, sturdy and crag-faced. And smiling. There was something about that smile--small, aloof, secretive; not Cheshire Cat so much as La Gioconda.
Our eyes crossed paths, and mine gave way. I flinched, turned away, picked up a glass of red without even asking what it was.
I wore a neutral gray knee-length skirt and matching top: armor, camouflage, nom de guerre. In pre-party imaginings the clothes made me sophisticated and sexy and untouchable; reality and fancy did not coincide. I felt flustered, fluttery, foolish.
A hand grasped my shoulder. I smelled his cologne behind me, dew and oak and soaring heights, and I turned and looked up.
Up close, the smile was more Messina than Da Vinci; it dominated his face. It overwhelmed the steep cheeks, the sharp nose, the alpine eyebrows and pocket-valley eyes.
My gaze went sideways; I sipped my wine.
"Hello," he said. His voice was low, pleasantly rumbling. His hand on my shoulder was comforting, warm.
I looked up from my wine glass, the fluster gone. "Hello." Our eyes met.
"Its killing you," he says. "It has to stop. I've seen what it does to you."
A wedding. Our wedding. My wedding.
The trappings were all in place: pews bedecked with twists of white silk tulle, bridesmaids in cerulean ruched chiffon, rose petals and lavish arrangements of morning glory, iris, and lily-of-the-nile all down the aisle.
The brides mother, dabbing at her eyes with an enormous handkerchief that obscured her face. Sundry kith and kin, those for whom this rite of spectacle had been contrived, smiling in anticipation. The minister, eagerness shining through a sedate veneer, standing on his toes, finger in his Bible. He looked at me expectantly.
And I--I stood rooted, a rabbit in headlights, a shieldless Perseus looking on Medusa, body and brain locked in fierce battle.
My mouth wished to open, to say the words. It could not--my mind raced in senseless circles. Would I destroy myself? Was I stepping into the bear-trap of lost self; would my identity be subsumed in his? Nearly a decade of battling status quos, of pushing through doors while men who had already passed tried to hold them shut, had taught me that I had to stand on my own. Had to be more intelligent, more ingenious, more intense, and without a nearby masculine escape valve to whom the drawbridge-raisers could conveniently attach credit. A small mad voice in the back of my brain screamed that if I said "I do," some grinning gatekeeper would leap from his seat and tear down my career like so much rotten cardboard. I could not suppress the voice; I could not honestly promise that it was wrong.
Common sense battled weathered mistrust; the silence in the church grew strained.
He never said a word. Never looked concerned, worried, embarrassed. He leaned in, pocket-valley eyes as serene and calming as always, and nodded, a fractional tilt of his head. He put a light hand on my shoulder, brushing a corner of the veil aside. And he smiled that Messina smile that was mine alone.
Warmth flooded me, and my lungs began working again.
"I do."
"I've seen your aftermaths." His eyes grow sad. "Every time, a piece of you vanishes. I can't let it go on."
Another minister. This one somber, solemn, serious. His eyes held a practiced sadness, a pinched melancholy that condoled without partaking. I did not begrudge his imperviousness, but the incongruity between surface and interior grated.
The casket was rough pine, a faux rustic abomination that was not of my choosing.
A Viking funeral, thats what he would have wished for: a longship cast off to sea afire, him at the mast, arms folded across his chest, named blade and painted wooden shield atop them, craggy face and Messina smile visible through the flames until the ship was lost to view, Valhalla-bound.
I couldnt bring myself to speak to Them, to counterfeit conciliation and mouth unearned politenesses.
They viewed me as an interloper. All those years and his family still thought me Jezebel, a painted woman who had swept into his life to bleed his money and appropriate his name. I wanted only a Jehu to storm in and cast me down, leaving my corpse for the dogs.
He hated that. He wanted me and Them to reconcile, to kiss and make up, to make-love-not-war. Hed endeavor to impose us on one another, compressing us together until he lost his grip and we sprung apart with greater force than ever. It had been one of his last wishes, reconciliation, at the bitter end in that sterile hospital room, pocket-valley eyes begging, rimed over and pooling under with final regrets.
His sister cast her eyes in my direction.
In popular lore, last wishes are fraught with meaning and good sense, underwritten with power and obligation. They are weighted with magical significance, with the potency and grace of death.
Were I following the script, I would have realized that I was in some measure to blame, that I and They were more similar than different, alike in our grief. I and They would have embraced, overcoming years of poisonous glares and barbed words, of intentional slights and raw, unreasoning hatred, and held hands as we wept freely onto one anothers shoulders.
I gazed back at the casket, rough hewn pine and hand-carved frivolity. He wouldve laughed at the affectation.
I stood and walked away.
"It ends, or I leave." His eyes hold mine, gently, firmly. "I won't be an accessory to your disintegration."
I am often asked about my writing process.
As elsewhere, a sketch; a vague outline: as I commence a work, the characters, the setting, all the elements of the work begin to take shape in my head. Themes arise, and counterthemes; background figures and foreground motifs; rhythms and counterpoints; harmonies of voicing; cadences and variations; texture and tempo and tone and timbre all begin to saturate, brimming and overflowing.
I push, struggle to channel this exuberant headwater, this vasty perilous inundation, but it trickles, percolates lazily, until the dam bursts and it cascades tumbling down my arm, through my ball-point in a terrible unbroken flow, pouring unrestrained onto the page.
And it is gone.
The flow subsides, the stream abates, the spring quiesces, evaporates, fades to sere desiccated clay.
It is gone.
My husband could not forgive that. Could not condone that one-way flow, the devils bargain that impelled my celebrated originality.
While I remember my promise, nor can I.
"Do you remember your mother's face? He puts a hand on my shoulder. Will you remember mine?"
Tomorrow I begin again.
Chilling winds wreak havoc through an autumn playground in a very similar fashion to thoughts of the past in minds entrenched in the present. Leaves, memories, are tugged from their resting place and tossed asunder, obscuring vision. Individuals linger long enough to be focused on, but drift off in the cool breeze within moments. Eventually, they all drop and are disposed of. Not all at once, mind. Some cling to the world they inhabit, marring the imagery. Do you sweep them away yourself or gamble on another zephyr to lift them up and remove them from view?
"I do."
Both.
Neither.
Something else.
I tried to this time. Scratched the itch myself though I can already feel it returning. Icy rain pierces the warmth of my skin and freezes the marrow of my bones. Next time, it will be heat and the sweat will roll off my oily skin.
Hundreds of parks, dozens of years, endless wasted time.
On film, I'd sit in the rubber seat of the swing as its flexible ends groped my hips. Rusted chains would cry out in anguish as I rocked back and forth, pushed by a ghost. I'd stare up at the full moon and bask in memories of good times spent with friends and family. There is no full moon tonight. The sky is cloudy; the ground is slick. I fly down the aluminum slide, propelled by ice. The ride continues once I hit the frosty rubber matting beneath the equipment. My back hits the ground and I close my eyes. Next time, the slide will be too hot to touch. I'll burn myself on the way down, but my feet will hit the mulch and I'll stand upright.
I had never been to a playground before. I've been to many over my life. I'll be back again after a time. That's the idea that will stick. The one leaf that is born again, unable to be swept away.
http://tidypub.org/PTAer
"I do."
Both.
Neither.
Something else.
I tried to this time. Scratched the itch myself though I can already feel it returning. Icy rain pierces the warmth of my skin and freezes the marrow of my bones. Next time, it will be heat and the sweat will roll off my oily skin.
Hundreds of parks, dozens of years, endless wasted time.
On film, I'd sit in the rubber seat of the swing as its flexible ends groped my hips. Rusted chains would cry out in anguish as I rocked back and forth, pushed by a ghost. I'd stare up at the full moon and bask in memories of good times spent with friends and family. There is no full moon tonight. The sky is cloudy; the ground is slick. I fly down the aluminum slide, propelled by ice. The ride continues once I hit the frosty rubber matting beneath the equipment. My back hits the ground and I close my eyes. Next time, the slide will be too hot to touch. I'll burn myself on the way down, but my feet will hit the mulch and I'll stand upright.
I had never been to a playground before. I've been to many over my life. I'll be back again after a time. That's the idea that will stick. The one leaf that is born again, unable to be swept away.
http://tidypub.org/PTAer
Encore (2079 Words)
Rust ate at the spade. A lengthwise crack split a quarter of the wooden handle of the shovel. Gillian took a breath, and the cold snatched the warmth of her lungs. She had a dead-serious look atop her face as she struggled to upend the near frozen dirt. Gillian took the handle by both her hands and raised the shovel, as if she were Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. She stabbed downward. Flechettes dislodged, but the ground looked unscathed. She repeated her strikes until she huffed.
She was fifteen and in as much love as fifteen years could comprehend. She was calculus problems and drumming practices and learning permits all rolled into five feet, five of a brown-haired teenage girl. And here she was in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night. Here she was burying her best friend on the tail end of Christmas day.
You think it works this way? she asked. She knew she had asked something similar earlier in the night. She looked down at the ground with a crease in her brow. Maybe she said, trailing off. She tried the shovel again, and the ground broke. Her arms chugged along, and the dirt piled. Gillian eventually found a rhythm to the shoveling, and a steady beat marched through her head.
I think this is it, said Ben.
Gillians parents were already asleep by nine. They had a little too much eggnog. They always did. Leaning against the side of her bed, Gillian sat on the floor of her bedroom. She wore pajamas that were about to be too small for her and, on her feet, fuzzy slippers that were too big for her. Ben stood over her in the room.
What? What do you mean? asked Gillian, looking at up him with searching eyes.
This, said Ben. He motioned toward himself with his arms. This is it. I think this is the last time. He looked down at her as if he were looking at a puppy.
Last time? she asked. She tried to process what it meant but couldnt. Why?
Ben shrugged. Its just he began. He tried to coalesce his feelings into words. Its starting to get weird.
Oh, she said. She knew what he meant. You think it works that way? Like theres an off switch?
Ben shrugged again and glanced at the ceiling. I dont know, he said. Maybe I know, but I dont know right now. When Im away, its different than when Im here. He crooked his lips. I dont know. Its sort of like when I used to visit my cousins sometimes. It was a different bed. A different sort of bathroom. Even the floor was different. And you even acted a little different since you were a guest and all.
And youd rather be there than here? she asked.
Dont be like that, he said. You know how it is, so dont be like that. He knew about her boyfriend.
They remained silent in the room for a few beats.
Okay, said Gillian. She put her diary atop a pile of sheet music and pushed it all under her bed. She outstretched her arms and scooped together the CDs that she had spread out. They clattered as she dropped them onto her bed. She eyed the milk and cookies that she had on her nightstand (she knew that he liked to watch her eat) before turning to stare at him.
Im going to need to change, she said. Perhaps that was the moment that they both really knew, like the first few notes of recognition that would become a known song. Six Christmases, Ben had returned, just on that day, like a ghost of Christmas Past. He had died when they were nine, but each year when he came back, he looked a year older and even hit a growth spurt to surpass her height. Each year, she would tell him how the year went, she would show him her Christmas presents, and she would play him her newest favorite band. But now this was it. It was something they both knew. It was like saying goodbye to an imaginary friend.
Like the ghost he was, Ben slipped through the bedroom door, and when the door opened, Gillian was dressed in jeans and bundled in a winter coat, hat, gloves, and a scarf. She was awfully woolly. Between her hands, in front of her, she held a small tin. The word COCOA appeared in big white letters on the side, and beneath that word, Santa Claus sat in a chair next to a roaring fireplace and appeared to be enjoying a steaming mug of the tins contents.
Thats it? asked Ben, nodding to the tin.
Gillian nodded in return and held it up to his face.
I remember that. That Christmas, he said. I only had three dollars and had to ask my mom for another.
We were six, she said.
I dont think the cocoa lasted into the New Year, he said.
She shrugged. She hovered her nose near the top of the tin. It still smells like cocoa, she said. She gave a sniff and stretched a smile across her face. Best Christmas present ever!
Gillian quietly unlatched the locks and opened the apartment door. She held the door for Ben, as if it mattered. Ben followed her down the flights of stairs, and he crooked his knees all the same and seemed to hit each step. They wound through a few dim hallways. Gillian felt the slap of winter when she opened the door to the outside at the back of the apartment building. She crossed a filled parking lot before stopping at a storage shed. A pair of gaunt dogs near the dumpster looked at her before returning to their scavenged scraps. She eyed the lock on the shed door before her fingers crawled under her beanie and pulled a hairpin from her hair.
Delinquent, said Ben, over her shoulder.
Gillian shook her head as she worked the lock with her hairpin. Remember when you broke that hair pin in your apartment door? she asked. You broke it off in the lock.
I remember how much my butt hurt after that. You probably heard it from downstairs, he said. Ben thought for a moment. Hey! That was you! You did that!
What?!? she said, turning to give him a mischievous grin. Youve gone mad. On the moon, you are. The lock clinked loose.
Well, I remember that you wanted to try to pick it, and you pulled at the pin, and somehow you broke it, he said. But I said that I did it. Thats how I remember it.
There was just enough moonlight to see what was inside the shed. Gillian grabbed a shovel. At least, you got some of my toys out of that, she replied.
The snow crunched under Gillians boots as they past the gas meters. The meters used to mark the bounds of their fields of play. Dont go past the gas meters, they were always told by their parents. A few yards out and up past a slope that wasnt high enough to go sledding on though they tried all the same, Gillian and Ben entered the woods. Tall lanky trees surrounded them.
Careful, said Ben, as Gillian crossed a small frozen stream. She reached for his support before remembering that he was incorporeal, and she almost lost her balance. As they continued into the woods, a pair of fireflies danced together in front of them before zipping off to some other mischief. The fireflies didnt seem to mind the cold. They took a few minutes to examine a broken bicycle and a discarded desk that had somehow been abandoned in the woods. They each had theories about how the eroded items had gotten there, though both Gillian and Ben tended toward the outlandish with the involvements of mud creatures or ninjas or intergalactic wars between metal and wood. She hummed something, but he did not know what song it was.
Gillian wasnt sure how far they had walked. It could have been Siberia for all she knew. However, the sky that she could see seemed to get lighter the deeper that they went into the woods. And the moon shone big and bright in the sky, as if a couple flight of stairs could take them to the Sea of Tranquility.
Will you go to the moon? asked Gillian.
Ben looked up and seemed entranced by the moon.
Or have you gone already? she asked.
Ben broke his skyward gaze and looked at her. Maybe here? he said. He spun a finger in a circle. Heres fine if youre tired.
I could go on, she said.
Ben shook his head. He looked at the surroundings. You still have to dig, he said. Its quiet here. Heres fine.
The dirt was frigid, and the shovel seemed like it could snap in two with any of Gillians strikes. But she had dug almost four feet into the earth. It wasnt a very wide hole but it was wide enough to fit three tins. You think Mr. Williams brained anybody with this shovel? she asked. Gillian looked at the rusted end. It looks it. She plopped the shovel to the ground and wiped her hands on her jeans before picking up the cocoa tin with both hands.
Well, youll always have Mr. Williams, said Ben. I think hell always be the handyman at the apartments.
Gillian didnt reply. She pondered the cocoa tin. She tapped a couple of fingers in a steady beat on the tin. The lid creaked open and fell back and hung on its hinges. Inside the tin, the paper was folded over in quarters. It was wide-ruled with three holes on one side. The edges were eroded and wrinkled. The paper undulated from having been wet. It smelled of chocolate. Gillian pulled at an edge as if her fingers were tweezers. The folded paper met the cold air of winter. She unraveled it.
Wow, you have awful penmanship, said Ben, standing behind her and looking over her shoulder.
Gillian gave him an elbow, even though she knew that she would hit only air. Hey, I was nine, she said.
Where Im going, we dont need handwriting, he said. He leaned in closer. Dear Santa
Gillian snapped the letter shut. Dont read it aloud, she said. She took a moment to let her order sink in before unfolding the letter.
Ben sighed. He leaned in closer with a bit of his shoulder passing into her. Dear Santa, he began reading aloud. He ignored the look that she gave him. How are you? I hope Ive been a good girl this year. For Christmas, please let Ben His voice trailed off as he read the rest of the letter to himself.
Gillian finished rereading the letter. She had many times before. She folded the letter up, not looking to see if Ben had finished or not. She sniffed her nose. She laid her letter to Santa back into the cocoa tin. The lid snapped shut. She finally looked at Ben before dropping to her knees and leaning over the hole that she had dug. Her right arm held the tin, and she stretched her arm into the hole until the tin hit dirt. She gave the tin a pat before removing her arm and using the shovel to refill the dirt.
She looked at the now filled hole. Is it okay? Is it alright? she asked. She looked at Ben. Will you be alright?
Ben smiled. He took her hand and dropped his head. She followed suit. Each thought a silent prayer.
Ben looked at Gillian. He stared for an awful long time. I wished I had danced with you, he said.
She smiled before shaking her head. Silly, she said. Were the band. She raised her hands with imaginary drumsticks ready.
He looked at his fingers, as ethereal as they were. He crooked his left arm to the side and rolled his left fingers. He readied his hand in front of him just above his waist. Ben gave Gillian three nods.
She dropped her hands and drummed a steady beat. He strummed his air guitar. And though they remained silent, they played the same song. Then another. And before morning returned, they played an encore.
Rust ate at the spade. A lengthwise crack split a quarter of the wooden handle of the shovel. Gillian took a breath, and the cold snatched the warmth of her lungs. She had a dead-serious look atop her face as she struggled to upend the near frozen dirt. Gillian took the handle by both her hands and raised the shovel, as if she were Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. She stabbed downward. Flechettes dislodged, but the ground looked unscathed. She repeated her strikes until she huffed.
She was fifteen and in as much love as fifteen years could comprehend. She was calculus problems and drumming practices and learning permits all rolled into five feet, five of a brown-haired teenage girl. And here she was in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night. Here she was burying her best friend on the tail end of Christmas day.
You think it works this way? she asked. She knew she had asked something similar earlier in the night. She looked down at the ground with a crease in her brow. Maybe she said, trailing off. She tried the shovel again, and the ground broke. Her arms chugged along, and the dirt piled. Gillian eventually found a rhythm to the shoveling, and a steady beat marched through her head.
I think this is it, said Ben.
Gillians parents were already asleep by nine. They had a little too much eggnog. They always did. Leaning against the side of her bed, Gillian sat on the floor of her bedroom. She wore pajamas that were about to be too small for her and, on her feet, fuzzy slippers that were too big for her. Ben stood over her in the room.
What? What do you mean? asked Gillian, looking at up him with searching eyes.
This, said Ben. He motioned toward himself with his arms. This is it. I think this is the last time. He looked down at her as if he were looking at a puppy.
Last time? she asked. She tried to process what it meant but couldnt. Why?
Ben shrugged. Its just he began. He tried to coalesce his feelings into words. Its starting to get weird.
Oh, she said. She knew what he meant. You think it works that way? Like theres an off switch?
Ben shrugged again and glanced at the ceiling. I dont know, he said. Maybe I know, but I dont know right now. When Im away, its different than when Im here. He crooked his lips. I dont know. Its sort of like when I used to visit my cousins sometimes. It was a different bed. A different sort of bathroom. Even the floor was different. And you even acted a little different since you were a guest and all.
And youd rather be there than here? she asked.
Dont be like that, he said. You know how it is, so dont be like that. He knew about her boyfriend.
They remained silent in the room for a few beats.
Okay, said Gillian. She put her diary atop a pile of sheet music and pushed it all under her bed. She outstretched her arms and scooped together the CDs that she had spread out. They clattered as she dropped them onto her bed. She eyed the milk and cookies that she had on her nightstand (she knew that he liked to watch her eat) before turning to stare at him.
Im going to need to change, she said. Perhaps that was the moment that they both really knew, like the first few notes of recognition that would become a known song. Six Christmases, Ben had returned, just on that day, like a ghost of Christmas Past. He had died when they were nine, but each year when he came back, he looked a year older and even hit a growth spurt to surpass her height. Each year, she would tell him how the year went, she would show him her Christmas presents, and she would play him her newest favorite band. But now this was it. It was something they both knew. It was like saying goodbye to an imaginary friend.
Like the ghost he was, Ben slipped through the bedroom door, and when the door opened, Gillian was dressed in jeans and bundled in a winter coat, hat, gloves, and a scarf. She was awfully woolly. Between her hands, in front of her, she held a small tin. The word COCOA appeared in big white letters on the side, and beneath that word, Santa Claus sat in a chair next to a roaring fireplace and appeared to be enjoying a steaming mug of the tins contents.
Thats it? asked Ben, nodding to the tin.
Gillian nodded in return and held it up to his face.
I remember that. That Christmas, he said. I only had three dollars and had to ask my mom for another.
We were six, she said.
I dont think the cocoa lasted into the New Year, he said.
She shrugged. She hovered her nose near the top of the tin. It still smells like cocoa, she said. She gave a sniff and stretched a smile across her face. Best Christmas present ever!
Gillian quietly unlatched the locks and opened the apartment door. She held the door for Ben, as if it mattered. Ben followed her down the flights of stairs, and he crooked his knees all the same and seemed to hit each step. They wound through a few dim hallways. Gillian felt the slap of winter when she opened the door to the outside at the back of the apartment building. She crossed a filled parking lot before stopping at a storage shed. A pair of gaunt dogs near the dumpster looked at her before returning to their scavenged scraps. She eyed the lock on the shed door before her fingers crawled under her beanie and pulled a hairpin from her hair.
Delinquent, said Ben, over her shoulder.
Gillian shook her head as she worked the lock with her hairpin. Remember when you broke that hair pin in your apartment door? she asked. You broke it off in the lock.
I remember how much my butt hurt after that. You probably heard it from downstairs, he said. Ben thought for a moment. Hey! That was you! You did that!
What?!? she said, turning to give him a mischievous grin. Youve gone mad. On the moon, you are. The lock clinked loose.
Well, I remember that you wanted to try to pick it, and you pulled at the pin, and somehow you broke it, he said. But I said that I did it. Thats how I remember it.
There was just enough moonlight to see what was inside the shed. Gillian grabbed a shovel. At least, you got some of my toys out of that, she replied.
The snow crunched under Gillians boots as they past the gas meters. The meters used to mark the bounds of their fields of play. Dont go past the gas meters, they were always told by their parents. A few yards out and up past a slope that wasnt high enough to go sledding on though they tried all the same, Gillian and Ben entered the woods. Tall lanky trees surrounded them.
Careful, said Ben, as Gillian crossed a small frozen stream. She reached for his support before remembering that he was incorporeal, and she almost lost her balance. As they continued into the woods, a pair of fireflies danced together in front of them before zipping off to some other mischief. The fireflies didnt seem to mind the cold. They took a few minutes to examine a broken bicycle and a discarded desk that had somehow been abandoned in the woods. They each had theories about how the eroded items had gotten there, though both Gillian and Ben tended toward the outlandish with the involvements of mud creatures or ninjas or intergalactic wars between metal and wood. She hummed something, but he did not know what song it was.
Gillian wasnt sure how far they had walked. It could have been Siberia for all she knew. However, the sky that she could see seemed to get lighter the deeper that they went into the woods. And the moon shone big and bright in the sky, as if a couple flight of stairs could take them to the Sea of Tranquility.
Will you go to the moon? asked Gillian.
Ben looked up and seemed entranced by the moon.
Or have you gone already? she asked.
Ben broke his skyward gaze and looked at her. Maybe here? he said. He spun a finger in a circle. Heres fine if youre tired.
I could go on, she said.
Ben shook his head. He looked at the surroundings. You still have to dig, he said. Its quiet here. Heres fine.
The dirt was frigid, and the shovel seemed like it could snap in two with any of Gillians strikes. But she had dug almost four feet into the earth. It wasnt a very wide hole but it was wide enough to fit three tins. You think Mr. Williams brained anybody with this shovel? she asked. Gillian looked at the rusted end. It looks it. She plopped the shovel to the ground and wiped her hands on her jeans before picking up the cocoa tin with both hands.
Well, youll always have Mr. Williams, said Ben. I think hell always be the handyman at the apartments.
Gillian didnt reply. She pondered the cocoa tin. She tapped a couple of fingers in a steady beat on the tin. The lid creaked open and fell back and hung on its hinges. Inside the tin, the paper was folded over in quarters. It was wide-ruled with three holes on one side. The edges were eroded and wrinkled. The paper undulated from having been wet. It smelled of chocolate. Gillian pulled at an edge as if her fingers were tweezers. The folded paper met the cold air of winter. She unraveled it.
Wow, you have awful penmanship, said Ben, standing behind her and looking over her shoulder.
Gillian gave him an elbow, even though she knew that she would hit only air. Hey, I was nine, she said.
Where Im going, we dont need handwriting, he said. He leaned in closer. Dear Santa
Gillian snapped the letter shut. Dont read it aloud, she said. She took a moment to let her order sink in before unfolding the letter.
Ben sighed. He leaned in closer with a bit of his shoulder passing into her. Dear Santa, he began reading aloud. He ignored the look that she gave him. How are you? I hope Ive been a good girl this year. For Christmas, please let Ben His voice trailed off as he read the rest of the letter to himself.
Gillian finished rereading the letter. She had many times before. She folded the letter up, not looking to see if Ben had finished or not. She sniffed her nose. She laid her letter to Santa back into the cocoa tin. The lid snapped shut. She finally looked at Ben before dropping to her knees and leaning over the hole that she had dug. Her right arm held the tin, and she stretched her arm into the hole until the tin hit dirt. She gave the tin a pat before removing her arm and using the shovel to refill the dirt.
She looked at the now filled hole. Is it okay? Is it alright? she asked. She looked at Ben. Will you be alright?
Ben smiled. He took her hand and dropped his head. She followed suit. Each thought a silent prayer.
Ben looked at Gillian. He stared for an awful long time. I wished I had danced with you, he said.
She smiled before shaking her head. Silly, she said. Were the band. She raised her hands with imaginary drumsticks ready.
He looked at his fingers, as ethereal as they were. He crooked his left arm to the side and rolled his left fingers. He readied his hand in front of him just above his waist. Ben gave Gillian three nods.
She dropped her hands and drummed a steady beat. He strummed his air guitar. And though they remained silent, they played the same song. Then another. And before morning returned, they played an encore.
Tangent's story:
17 years later (1348)
Will you marry me?
Not now. But I'll give you this: you have me hooked like a Lumbricus terrestris (earth worm) on a fishing rod. Maybe we can date first.
It's a deal, Neil, Aiden said.
Its Madelyn, I sarcastically corrected.
I shook his hand firmly. I had to at least give him a handshake for his effort. I was impressed. His hand felt warm and firm. I wondered if he was too. So we made out, like we did a breath before he proposed, before deciding on our first date. That Friday. But Id have to wait another 17 years to get auditory data
17 years ago, when he and I were only in Kindergarten, Aiden cried so loudly while cicadas destroyed his family's crops. Even though I was his neighbor, which was still a quarter of a mile away, I could hear him from my bedroom. I looked for him; I usually could see him from my window, but the swarm blocked visibility of his house, the sun, and even my poor, crazy Pa out front. Pa had early dementia and when the cicadas came out, he wailed, with his arms up, God have mercy on us! Take them other ravaged human souls if you must, but, Lord, please spare me! And spare my baby girl, Maddie! Tears tracked down his dusty, wrinkled face, and some of the cicadas slapped him in the face, poked him in the eyes, or unknowingly earned the fate of Pas twilight snack. Me? I stared in shock with my eyes open as wide as saucers and my palms suctioned to my bedroom window. When I got my senses back, I worried for Pa. I went out front with a baseball bat and started whacking the living daylights out of those bugs.
Despite whacking at those bugs, and growing up promising myself to never return, I came back 17 years later. Because of the cicadas. This time, not to whack them, but to track them.
When grandma passed away, she left me her wedding ring and dress. I sold both on eBay and bought a camera with incredible zoom. I took pictures of all sorts of critters and over the next dozen years, grew a deep passion for bugs. So after graduating from UC Berkeleys entomology program, and almost being diagnosed with Aspergers (with my obvious perseverative interest in insects) the hot label for geeks in the Bay Area I fell in love with what I tried so hard to get away from: cicadas and that damn hellhole of a town I grew up in with my poor, crazy pa.
The cicadas came slightly earlier than my professors predicted. I sprinted out through what had become a very flimsy front door, of my now former pas house, with my backpack. Down on my knees, I fished around for my recording equipment. My heart was racing with excitement but I fumbled: the cicadas flooded the bag to the brim.
I didn't hear Aiden approach over the loud buzzing. He gripped my shoulder so suddenly, I almost toppled over.
Miss! You need to get inside! His voice trembled. He didnt recognize me. His wild eyes looked for shelter. Poor Aiden. He was sort of grew into an odd kid to have as a neighbor friend, and he never got over his PTSD from that first cicada storm during Kindergarten.
Miss! he tried to yell over the buzzing and tugged on my shirt.
Bug off, Aiden! I snapped, pushing him away. I doubt he heard me with the buzzing. And I couldnt believe he was outside. I had heard, while I was in California, that he had developed some agoraphobia and never went outside. So he was out now?! Shit.
Recognition bore into his eyes and for just a moment, I saw something. Nostalgia? But the moment instantly passed, and his fear of the shadow of the mushroom cloud intensified. Self-preservation must have been overpowering any other thought processes.
Without providing any niceties after identification he said, Maddie? Maddie! Get down! He screamed hysterically, like a parent losing all sanity as a TU-95 hovered overhead and shook the earth. His hands shivered as he guided my shoulder blades down so that I could only hug my knees. Maddie, Maddie stay down, Maddie, he whispered through tears. Wow.
I needed to explain myself and the data I needed. I needed to calm him down but the cicadas were now blubbering around my face and I couldnt see or breathe well. His large hands pressed against my ribs and I waited, in fetal position.
In a few moments, I could see again. I looked up and Aiden filled my visual range. From my huddled position, I could only see the front of his shirt, his neck, and the underside of his chin. His clavicles pressed against his shirt as he breathed heavily.
Maddie, dont move, he pleaded, maybe more to himself. His left arm braced my entire body tightly and his right arm, chiseled with a protruding tricep, arched majestically as a wing, propping his dirty plaid flannel up in the air like a fort above both of us. His back must have been bombed by hundreds of cicadas his greatest fear but he remained motionless as a rock. He didnt run inside. He didnt run to his crops he inherited. He just hovered above me with his magnificently broad torso. I couldn't believe he was the same kid I knew 17 years ago from Kindergarten. Save his boyish features, he had really grown into can I say it? A man. As he shielded me from those cicadas, I took a deep breath and took in the smells: the salt soaked into the neck hole of his shirt, baking soda from his sandy hair (thats what we used instead of shampoo), and that thick smell of a wholesale Lever 2000 soap bar from the Thrift store he mustve got in town. I wanted to see his stormy eyes again. I wanted to see that moment amidst the fear. I can barely remember it. A glimmer of maybe nostalgia when I backed him away. I didnt get an ounce of data, but hell, Aiden that agoraphobic boy next door, who shielded me from my field research, was worth it.
Maddie he said once more and this time I could hear him clearly. His body shook a bit, trying to hold position, but he loosened up as the buzzing died away. The sun reappeared and I could see we were surrounded by molted skin. Once all was quiet, he rested over me. A smiled grew slowly on his face. Was he glad to see me? Or was he enlightened? Afterall, he had come outside after how many days, waiting inside expectantly? I had no idea. I had no idea what was going on in his mind.
I looked at his big, hazel eyes and remembered the lemonade stands we made for the RVs that rolled through in the summer. I remembered how we locked elbows as we lay on our own hands, gazing up at Seven Sisters and the Big Dipper. I remembered how we gutted pathetically small fish together after pretending not to notice how close we sat next to each other on an almost tipping-over raft. He looked back at me and his smile broadened and he drew me in and spooned me and then leaned over me again and kissed me gently on my jaw. And then I turned towards him and he pulled me close
Yes? I finally responded.
.
.
.
So even though I evaded his grand proposal, he still was willing to meet me on Friday. We went fishing. I brought my backpack, and tried to record dragonflies. He reclined close to me. Too close: the raft tipped over and my equipment splashed into the water. He jolted up to try to fetch it, but I pushed him down from his sternum and slipped my arm under his neck and kissed him firmly. I mean, dragonflies arent cicadas anyway.
Tangent sez:
17 years later (1348)
Will you marry me?
Not now. But I'll give you this: you have me hooked like a Lumbricus terrestris (earth worm) on a fishing rod. Maybe we can date first.
It's a deal, Neil, Aiden said.
Its Madelyn, I sarcastically corrected.
I shook his hand firmly. I had to at least give him a handshake for his effort. I was impressed. His hand felt warm and firm. I wondered if he was too. So we made out, like we did a breath before he proposed, before deciding on our first date. That Friday. But Id have to wait another 17 years to get auditory data
17 years ago, when he and I were only in Kindergarten, Aiden cried so loudly while cicadas destroyed his family's crops. Even though I was his neighbor, which was still a quarter of a mile away, I could hear him from my bedroom. I looked for him; I usually could see him from my window, but the swarm blocked visibility of his house, the sun, and even my poor, crazy Pa out front. Pa had early dementia and when the cicadas came out, he wailed, with his arms up, God have mercy on us! Take them other ravaged human souls if you must, but, Lord, please spare me! And spare my baby girl, Maddie! Tears tracked down his dusty, wrinkled face, and some of the cicadas slapped him in the face, poked him in the eyes, or unknowingly earned the fate of Pas twilight snack. Me? I stared in shock with my eyes open as wide as saucers and my palms suctioned to my bedroom window. When I got my senses back, I worried for Pa. I went out front with a baseball bat and started whacking the living daylights out of those bugs.
Despite whacking at those bugs, and growing up promising myself to never return, I came back 17 years later. Because of the cicadas. This time, not to whack them, but to track them.
When grandma passed away, she left me her wedding ring and dress. I sold both on eBay and bought a camera with incredible zoom. I took pictures of all sorts of critters and over the next dozen years, grew a deep passion for bugs. So after graduating from UC Berkeleys entomology program, and almost being diagnosed with Aspergers (with my obvious perseverative interest in insects) the hot label for geeks in the Bay Area I fell in love with what I tried so hard to get away from: cicadas and that damn hellhole of a town I grew up in with my poor, crazy pa.
The cicadas came slightly earlier than my professors predicted. I sprinted out through what had become a very flimsy front door, of my now former pas house, with my backpack. Down on my knees, I fished around for my recording equipment. My heart was racing with excitement but I fumbled: the cicadas flooded the bag to the brim.
I didn't hear Aiden approach over the loud buzzing. He gripped my shoulder so suddenly, I almost toppled over.
Miss! You need to get inside! His voice trembled. He didnt recognize me. His wild eyes looked for shelter. Poor Aiden. He was sort of grew into an odd kid to have as a neighbor friend, and he never got over his PTSD from that first cicada storm during Kindergarten.
Miss! he tried to yell over the buzzing and tugged on my shirt.
Bug off, Aiden! I snapped, pushing him away. I doubt he heard me with the buzzing. And I couldnt believe he was outside. I had heard, while I was in California, that he had developed some agoraphobia and never went outside. So he was out now?! Shit.
Recognition bore into his eyes and for just a moment, I saw something. Nostalgia? But the moment instantly passed, and his fear of the shadow of the mushroom cloud intensified. Self-preservation must have been overpowering any other thought processes.
Without providing any niceties after identification he said, Maddie? Maddie! Get down! He screamed hysterically, like a parent losing all sanity as a TU-95 hovered overhead and shook the earth. His hands shivered as he guided my shoulder blades down so that I could only hug my knees. Maddie, Maddie stay down, Maddie, he whispered through tears. Wow.
I needed to explain myself and the data I needed. I needed to calm him down but the cicadas were now blubbering around my face and I couldnt see or breathe well. His large hands pressed against my ribs and I waited, in fetal position.
In a few moments, I could see again. I looked up and Aiden filled my visual range. From my huddled position, I could only see the front of his shirt, his neck, and the underside of his chin. His clavicles pressed against his shirt as he breathed heavily.
Maddie, dont move, he pleaded, maybe more to himself. His left arm braced my entire body tightly and his right arm, chiseled with a protruding tricep, arched majestically as a wing, propping his dirty plaid flannel up in the air like a fort above both of us. His back must have been bombed by hundreds of cicadas his greatest fear but he remained motionless as a rock. He didnt run inside. He didnt run to his crops he inherited. He just hovered above me with his magnificently broad torso. I couldn't believe he was the same kid I knew 17 years ago from Kindergarten. Save his boyish features, he had really grown into can I say it? A man. As he shielded me from those cicadas, I took a deep breath and took in the smells: the salt soaked into the neck hole of his shirt, baking soda from his sandy hair (thats what we used instead of shampoo), and that thick smell of a wholesale Lever 2000 soap bar from the Thrift store he mustve got in town. I wanted to see his stormy eyes again. I wanted to see that moment amidst the fear. I can barely remember it. A glimmer of maybe nostalgia when I backed him away. I didnt get an ounce of data, but hell, Aiden that agoraphobic boy next door, who shielded me from my field research, was worth it.
Maddie he said once more and this time I could hear him clearly. His body shook a bit, trying to hold position, but he loosened up as the buzzing died away. The sun reappeared and I could see we were surrounded by molted skin. Once all was quiet, he rested over me. A smiled grew slowly on his face. Was he glad to see me? Or was he enlightened? Afterall, he had come outside after how many days, waiting inside expectantly? I had no idea. I had no idea what was going on in his mind.
I looked at his big, hazel eyes and remembered the lemonade stands we made for the RVs that rolled through in the summer. I remembered how we locked elbows as we lay on our own hands, gazing up at Seven Sisters and the Big Dipper. I remembered how we gutted pathetically small fish together after pretending not to notice how close we sat next to each other on an almost tipping-over raft. He looked back at me and his smile broadened and he drew me in and spooned me and then leaned over me again and kissed me gently on my jaw. And then I turned towards him and he pulled me close
Yes? I finally responded.
.
.
.
So even though I evaded his grand proposal, he still was willing to meet me on Friday. We went fishing. I brought my backpack, and tried to record dragonflies. He reclined close to me. Too close: the raft tipped over and my equipment splashed into the water. He jolted up to try to fetch it, but I pushed him down from his sternum and slipped my arm under his neck and kissed him firmly. I mean, dragonflies arent cicadas anyway.
Tangent sez:
Good to start these challenges again!!! Just a heads up about my story: this was a weird experiment. I very much liked the challenge this time around but really struggled with how to write this... and I felt like I was pulling a story line out of my butt but, hey, here's to experimenting!
Voting ends at Sunday, December 19, 2010 at 11:59 PM Pacific:
"Ten Steps" - Ashes1396 | (EasyRead)
"$500 and a Dildo" - ronito
"The Wizard of The Enchanted Forest" or "Return to Sender" - itsinmyveins
"Listerine and Wigs" - Tim the Wiz
"Sometimes They Don't" - crowphoenix
"Kindling" - Cyan
"Sandbox" - Irish
"Encore" - DumbNameD
"17 years later" - Tangent
"Ten Steps" - Ashes1396 | (EasyRead)
"$500 and a Dildo" - ronito
"The Wizard of The Enchanted Forest" or "Return to Sender" - itsinmyveins
"Listerine and Wigs" - Tim the Wiz
"Sometimes They Don't" - crowphoenix
"Kindling" - Cyan
"Sandbox" - Irish
"Encore" - DumbNameD
"17 years later" - Tangent
crowphoenix
Banned
Oh, it'll really get weird once people realize they're the same story.Cyan said:
Crow: Maybe I'm wrong in this, like I was with Cinder's piece but it seems to me like half of this piece was deciding where it was going to go. I love the concept, but it's really interesting in that it start light and almost scribble-esque then moves to a more dark almost DumbNameD tone. I really think it just needs one more edit though for you tighten the stuff up.
Hobbes: You let wordyness get the better of you.I get what you were going for, but can't sacrifice efficiency to tone. I really like how you used the secondary objective.
KissMeI'm: Nice and short but it didn't really have a strong hook.
Hobbes: You let wordyness get the better of you.I get what you were going for, but can't sacrifice efficiency to tone. I really like how you used the secondary objective.
KissMeI'm: Nice and short but it didn't really have a strong hook.
I only got about 40% of my story done for this. Will definitely finish it, although I won't be posting it here. It's a scifi idea that I know several friends of mine would get a kick out of.
I'll critique this week's entries real soon. It's beginning to rain here in southern california, meaning more time devoted to reading and writing.
I'll critique this week's entries real soon. It's beginning to rain here in southern california, meaning more time devoted to reading and writing.
Mike Works
Member
Hey guys, sorry I wasn't able to submit anything for this challenge (in my defense, I'm very lazy), but I wanted to make a small suggestion for the future:
I found a site called Tidy Pub that formats your text in an easier to read fashion. I quickly copy and pasted a portion of one of the entries in this thread to give you an idea what it looks like:
http://tidypub.org/vMSIK
I wasn't sure if you all would be okay with using the site, so I wanted to ask. As far as I can tell, the links remain completely private and there are no copyrighting issues or anything along those lines.
I personally find it a lot easy to read than directly on the forums, so maybe people could include a link to their story on TP within their submission post? Just throwing that out there.
I found a site called Tidy Pub that formats your text in an easier to read fashion. I quickly copy and pasted a portion of one of the entries in this thread to give you an idea what it looks like:
http://tidypub.org/vMSIK
I wasn't sure if you all would be okay with using the site, so I wanted to ask. As far as I can tell, the links remain completely private and there are no copyrighting issues or anything along those lines.
I personally find it a lot easy to read than directly on the forums, so maybe people could include a link to their story on TP within their submission post? Just throwing that out there.
Hmm. Interesting. Given that we (I, at least) mainly access the stories through a compilation of links anyway, I don't see it being a problem.Mike Works said:
And... completely private? Meaning we could use that, throw up the link in a post here, and not have given up first publishing rights?
That would be pretty awesome, given that some of the stuff I've put up here has, I've felt, been potentially publishable. It would be great if I could come back later and decide to polish up a piece and start sending it out...
Might make the thread less accessible to non-regulars if it's just a mess of links, though. This bears some thinking about.
Understood. I thought I might get that note. I was experimenting and stretching a bit, going for something very different from my usual sparse style. Might've... gone a little too far the other way.ronito said:
It was also in part a reaction to the month's worth of rushed, skeletal prose I'd been writing. But yeah, you're on the money.I'm definitely curious if the... meta-fictional aspect of it worked.
Mike Works
Member
I don't know much about the site itself- I just found it on StumbleUpon a few weeks ago and thought it'd be cool for this thread. I clicked on the 'Terms' portion of it, and I'm pretty sure it's private, I don't see any way to browse content through the site.
I was just thinking that (future) entries in this thread could look something like this:
Mike's Story
wordcount: 23
This one time I like totally banged this hot chick and it was awesome.
And then I woke up.
And now I'm sad.
I was just thinking that (future) entries in this thread could look something like this:
Mike's Story
wordcount: 23
This one time I like totally banged this hot chick and it was awesome.
And then I woke up.
And now I'm sad.
Tim the Wiz
Banned
Mike Works said:
Just the thing I've been scouring the internets for due to the reasons Cyan has already imparted, although with a lot less cause.
ZephyrFate
Banned
...ronito said:
"Ten Steps" - Ashes1396 - Gotta agree with my man Ron. This one's kind of all over the place. Really could do with tightening up and a strong direction. The second half with the maid shows promise (especially when she starts down the stairs... I shuddered!), but it's held back by the confusing and aggressively coarse first half.
"$500 and a Dildo" - ronito - Ok, this is also aggressively coarse. On the plus side, that's all in aid of a strong direction, so it works out. You had some words to spare, and I think you could've used them to do some more showing. There's too much dry explanation for a story that depends on manic energy to carry it through. Ending kicks ass. I love that dude.
"The Wizard of The Enchanted Forest" or "Return to Sender" - itsinmyveins - First impressions are everything... do remember to check for small errors! (i.e. "Thread lightly", "there after") Sir Duke of Dukelord, ha! Amusing tale. Probably could've been cut down a bit more. And I think you might've been better off mentioning the thing about them getting worse each time they're raised earlier; it kind of telegraphs what's about to happen. Anyway, good stuff, I got a chuckle out of him shouting "WEEEEEENCH!" and the ensuing awkward silence.
"$500 and a Dildo" - ronito - Ok, this is also aggressively coarse. On the plus side, that's all in aid of a strong direction, so it works out. You had some words to spare, and I think you could've used them to do some more showing. There's too much dry explanation for a story that depends on manic energy to carry it through. Ending kicks ass. I love that dude.
"The Wizard of The Enchanted Forest" or "Return to Sender" - itsinmyveins - First impressions are everything... do remember to check for small errors! (i.e. "Thread lightly", "there after") Sir Duke of Dukelord, ha! Amusing tale. Probably could've been cut down a bit more. And I think you might've been better off mentioning the thing about them getting worse each time they're raised earlier; it kind of telegraphs what's about to happen. Anyway, good stuff, I got a chuckle out of him shouting "WEEEEEENCH!" and the ensuing awkward silence.
Cyan said:
I knew you would say this! :lol
I've just been reading up horror, and I think I wanted you to feel things. Starting off with his erratic madness... erm what am I trying to say...let me think... erm, I wanted to... like get a reaction out of you, squeal and squirm, make you feel really uncomfortable... Like a good horror should... I think. But I also tried to make the plot simple enough, so that you could take away the main points, and tell it to your friends next time people tell ghost stories, like late at night or something at halloween, or round a camp fire or something.
But also just to clarify, I DON'T THINK YOUR WRONG CYAN. :lol so please don't take this as if I'm criticising your critique. That's really not my intention...
How can this kind of opinion be wrong anyhow? It's helpful advice. I think...
itsinmyveins
Gets to pilot the crappy patrol labors
Cyan said:
Ah, shit, totally missed that one :lol
Is this when I try to blame it on english not being my native or main language? If yes, then that! (Yes, I know, there are others here who aren't either I messed up on the tread/thread).
ronito: The Patrick Stewart-thing wasn't ment to be taken seriously and you're welcome to read everything I write in the voice of Shatner if you want
ZephyrFate
Banned
It's an intriguing effort, and I like the insight you give it, but when I go for dense and rich imagery I try to make it esoteric -- i.e., I want to give the reader the foundation of a room, the sketches of its denizens, be they inanimate or otherwise, and let them fill these characters in for themselves. It's kind of like a light flourish that paints a wide swath... it doesn't care for the minute details because the minute is not as important as the bigger picture. What I find most troubling with the piece is the overwrought imagery, such as the extensive attention paid more to the scene rather than the action. In other words, it's a bit densely packed. An allegory to this would be my piece, 'Neorxnewang', which was full stream-of-consciousness and pretty much image smattered upon image. While I love the piece, it comes off hard to chew and recite because the imagery is too dense. There's very little room for breather. Also, the flash-forward quotes seem awkward in tone in comparison to the rest of the piece -- is her ultimate destruction her writing? Or the loss of her Muse? For someone who seems to have such an infallible memory, why would she begin to 'forget' her family, her husband?Cyan said:
It has some gorgeous imagery, but I feel like if you want to emulate the way I do it, or at least see how I approach it, aim for something more esoteric. Inject the tone of your characters into the tone of the imagery, instead of contrasting the two. Your narrative voice, even if it's omniscient, shouldn't be so divorced from the inner voice of the character or even the dialogue itself, instead lending credence and support, buttressing the imagery with its tonal weight.
The reader's mind, I feel, does not care for the little things, but instead how those little things are perceived by whomever's voice that's describing it. It's not just the 'coffee maker', it's the 'bubbly cauldron where that spark-juice comes from'. Get what I'm saying? The piece is a bit claustrophobic.
"Listerine and Wigs" - Tim the Wiz - Ouch, that hurts. It's a strongly enough written story that I felt for the MC and her struggle. On the other hand... it wasn't really a struggle. The real struggle, the real decision, had already been made. She fought the battle in her head and lost, and this was the result. While it makes for a fine bit of storytelling, I can't help but wonder if bringing that struggle a bit more into the piece would've helped. P.S. Do all suburban buildings have black gates with gargoyles cresting their heights? I feel like I'd have noticed that.
"Sometimes They Don't" - crowphoenix - Some good banter, and it lays out a good backstory. The interplay between the Vulture and the Marine as a background works well. But the thing never quite gets off the ground. This is one of those ones where ronito says "too much runway." The real story isn't the Vulture busting shit up, or talking with Will. The real story is the Marine's retirement, and how the Vulture wants to bring him back. I'd like to see that sooner. In fact, with the secondary, it could've started off with "he's not coming."
"Sandbox" - Irish - Nice imagery and visuals. A bit too brief and empty for me to really get enough of a grip on it to feel anything about it. I want something longer next time! P.S. Always bet on zephyr.
"Sometimes They Don't" - crowphoenix - Some good banter, and it lays out a good backstory. The interplay between the Vulture and the Marine as a background works well. But the thing never quite gets off the ground. This is one of those ones where ronito says "too much runway." The real story isn't the Vulture busting shit up, or talking with Will. The real story is the Marine's retirement, and how the Vulture wants to bring him back. I'd like to see that sooner. In fact, with the secondary, it could've started off with "he's not coming."
"Sandbox" - Irish - Nice imagery and visuals. A bit too brief and empty for me to really get enough of a grip on it to feel anything about it. I want something longer next time! P.S. Always bet on zephyr.
ZephyrFate
Banned
I now understand.
Crits
@ronito: The plot moves along well, but I didn't get the funny, if you know what I mean. Well, it's unfair to judge it on that, because others might get it; so I'll add that for the plot/story itself, this sells the premise of an b-movie well and does the job nicely in that regard.
@itsinmyveins: Bearing in mind that I'm not referring to the stylistic choices, 'the prose needs work' was my immediate reaction, perhaps as soon as the second sentence. On a local level even, things like a 'large tower'; is it wide? tall? ; 'old bellowing man'... 'Labyrinthe of wrinkles' came out clumsy, as does 'midnight hour' etc. I only mention this, as it was littered throughout, I'm sure with more time and if you were sending this to a publisher you can easily fix that up, cause it was a really decent story. Anyway, I tried the Patrick Stewart reccomendation: mixed bag really and truth be told for a second I thought that it was part of the general jokiness of the text. Maybe intergrate it more into the story or just leave it out.
@Listerine and Wigs: <<Notice the title there mate, cause that's a damn fine title. Sheer dumb luck that the first thing that entered my head was the correct one, but I enjoyed the title all the more. It has the hallmarks of a good story, and I as a reader felt directed, albeit with niggles here and there, a weak start for one, and some sentences in between that were off colour. I like the emotional pull at the end; I got this one. One thing though, it occurs to me, that the psyche here sounds like the returning customer, rather than an sex worker. There is that subtle difference, I feel, between a sex worker, who knows what he/she is doing, and the customer, who can't help it like your MC. I don't know tbh, good disccussion point though.
@crowphonix: lacked cohesion or perhaps was overnourished, the fourth paragraph being the best example. Who is 'he', 'him', 'he', 'him','he'. Then Will, 'his', Oh the marine, he... okay I'm out of sync etc...If there is to be a mystery, there needs to be reason for the mystery, I don't see why you don't introduce Will from the off. Maybe write it in it's simplest form like you did in the latter half. It seemed like you were describing a cartoon rather than building the characters in a story; especially with the few mentions of framing stuff. But when it get's going, there's a secondary layer, and I liked that. Maybe if I wasn't looking to critique this story, I would have enjoyed it more.
@Cyan: For a piece that aimed to experiment with imagery, there was a lot more playfulness with words than actual strokes of the 'literary' paintbrush. Say for example:
"Tieing your heart to a kite''. For me with something like this, I can put my book of thoughts down, and just pause and think for a few seconds. Whereas your examples were mostly: he was a raging bull. Good, very good, but that is all it is. Even with 'kindling' which is one of the best examples in the piece, it's useful description: a metophorical rendition. Basically with some examples, nobody needs to say... Look again. And I myself, appreciate ones, that strike something instinctively, hmmm, Ashes, look again... Thinking about it, for me, maybe it's an attachment of emotion, like so: ''You are the sound of monsoons melting cardboard boxes'' and/or ''Tears hang on the chandelier.'' Am I making sense? Still, it had a grand old flow about it that I liked.
@Irish: Bravo good sir, that was poetry in motion for me. If I had money upon a walk through the speaker's corner at old Hyde Park, and you were a literary busker plying your trade, a tip of the old penny would make it to your hat good sir. Well played.
@Dmd: Simple and sweet, a real crowd pleaser. The shift between scenes earlier on could have been better, got lost a bit. But I liked it for the most part as it went at a lovely pace. six and nine reminded me of 'boots made for walking', don't know whether that was intentional or not.
@Tangent: You experimented and you came up with a romance? :lol I kinda liked it I guess. Not really much to say apart from the 'data' part. Could've left that part out or something..
Votes
1. Dmd
2. Irish
3. Cyan
Sorry to nominee(s): Tim the Wiz
@ronito: The plot moves along well, but I didn't get the funny, if you know what I mean. Well, it's unfair to judge it on that, because others might get it; so I'll add that for the plot/story itself, this sells the premise of an b-movie well and does the job nicely in that regard.
@itsinmyveins: Bearing in mind that I'm not referring to the stylistic choices, 'the prose needs work' was my immediate reaction, perhaps as soon as the second sentence. On a local level even, things like a 'large tower'; is it wide? tall? ; 'old bellowing man'... 'Labyrinthe of wrinkles' came out clumsy, as does 'midnight hour' etc. I only mention this, as it was littered throughout, I'm sure with more time and if you were sending this to a publisher you can easily fix that up, cause it was a really decent story. Anyway, I tried the Patrick Stewart reccomendation: mixed bag really and truth be told for a second I thought that it was part of the general jokiness of the text. Maybe intergrate it more into the story or just leave it out.
@Listerine and Wigs: <<Notice the title there mate, cause that's a damn fine title. Sheer dumb luck that the first thing that entered my head was the correct one, but I enjoyed the title all the more.
It has the hallmarks of a good story, and I as a reader felt directed, albeit with niggles here and there, a weak start for one, and some sentences in between that were off colour. I like the emotional pull at the end; I got this one. One thing though, it occurs to me, that the psyche here sounds like the returning customer, rather than an sex worker. There is that subtle difference, I feel, between a sex worker, who knows what he/she is doing, and the customer, who can't help it like your MC. I don't know tbh, good disccussion point though. @crowphonix: lacked cohesion or perhaps was overnourished, the fourth paragraph being the best example. Who is 'he', 'him', 'he', 'him','he'. Then Will, 'his', Oh the marine, he... okay I'm out of sync etc...If there is to be a mystery, there needs to be reason for the mystery, I don't see why you don't introduce Will from the off. Maybe write it in it's simplest form like you did in the latter half. It seemed like you were describing a cartoon rather than building the characters in a story; especially with the few mentions of framing stuff. But when it get's going, there's a secondary layer, and I liked that. Maybe if I wasn't looking to critique this story, I would have enjoyed it more.
@Cyan: For a piece that aimed to experiment with imagery, there was a lot more playfulness with words than actual strokes of the 'literary' paintbrush. Say for example:
"Tieing your heart to a kite''. For me with something like this, I can put my book of thoughts down, and just pause and think for a few seconds. Whereas your examples were mostly: he was a raging bull. Good, very good, but that is all it is. Even with 'kindling' which is one of the best examples in the piece, it's useful description: a metophorical rendition. Basically with some examples, nobody needs to say... Look again. And I myself, appreciate ones, that strike something instinctively, hmmm, Ashes, look again... Thinking about it, for me, maybe it's an attachment of emotion, like so: ''You are the sound of monsoons melting cardboard boxes'' and/or ''Tears hang on the chandelier.'' Am I making sense? Still, it had a grand old flow about it that I liked.
@Irish: Bravo good sir, that was poetry in motion for me. If I had money upon a walk through the speaker's corner at old Hyde Park, and you were a literary busker plying your trade, a tip of the old penny would make it to your hat good sir. Well played.
@Dmd: Simple and sweet, a real crowd pleaser. The shift between scenes earlier on could have been better, got lost a bit. But I liked it for the most part as it went at a lovely pace. six and nine reminded me of 'boots made for walking', don't know whether that was intentional or not.
@Tangent: You experimented and you came up with a romance? :lol I kinda liked it I guess. Not really much to say apart from the 'data' part. Could've left that part out or something..
Votes
1. Dmd
2. Irish
3. Cyan
Sorry to nominee(s): Tim the Wiz
crowphoenix
Banned
Ashes: It's too much. The main character is so whacked out, suffering from so many issues at once, he becomes unbelievable. Once you get past the first part, bring in the maid, and really start in on what is torturing the man, the story becomes very powerful.
Ronito: Oh, man. The sequel to this is going to be AWESOME!
Veins: It's either too tongue-in-cheek or not enough, and I couldn't really place my finger on which. That said, it was a really fun story, and I loved the juxtaposition of the cliched theatrics next to mundane.
Ronito: Oh, man. The sequel to this is going to be AWESOME!
Veins: It's either too tongue-in-cheek or not enough, and I couldn't really place my finger on which. That said, it was a really fun story, and I loved the juxtaposition of the cliched theatrics next to mundane.
DumbNameD: while this is very emotive and beautiful the pacing needs work.
GetYourOwnDamnAccountAlready: I feel this piece needs to decide what it's about. If it's about data then take out the romance. If it's a romance then at least give a good reason for the attraction. You spend so much time telling us what a strange kid Aiden is that the romance seems really fake.
Votes:
1. Gumshoe
2. crow
3. KissMeI'm
GetYourOwnDamnAccountAlready: I feel this piece needs to decide what it's about. If it's about data then take out the romance. If it's a romance then at least give a good reason for the attraction. You spend so much time telling us what a strange kid Aiden is that the romance seems really fake.
Votes:
1. Gumshoe
2. crow
3. KissMeI'm
I'll put my votes up in just a bit.
Ashes1396- "Ten Steps" : I'm going to have to agree with the others on this one. It's a little too floaty for its own good. I'm not really sure how to come at this piece in all honesty. Instead of participating in the story or even looking on through a window, it felt as if I was looking at a summary through a peephole. That's about all I can say. Sorry. :/
ronito- "$500 and a Dildo" : Hilariously awesome. There were a bunch of rough spots though. Grammar and odd word choices mainly.
itsinmyveins- "The Wizard of The Enchanted Forest" or "Return to Sender" : The first half was rather dull, but it definitely got better near the end. The wording was weird as well, however, that was probably due to the whole English not being your main language thing. I think you told a little too much, taking me out of the story. It was hard to visualize the events in my head, making the reading a bit of a chore.
Tim the Wiz- "Listerine and Wigs" : Interesting little piece. Unfortunately, I think it lacked any real substance. It's almost as if I'm missing more of the story than I'm getting. I mean, I know what you're going for, but I don't think you reached your goal.
crowphoenix- "Sometimes They Don't" : I really enjoyed it, however, I thought it could have been tightened up quite a bit. It was a little too meandering in places. I don't think you did enough with the premise.
Cyan- "Kindling" : Zephyr! It was all too much though. The prose just didn't feel right. Way heavier than it should have been. It just seems to be missing something.
DumbNameD- "Encore" : Nice.
Tangent- "17 Years Later" : Felt like half a story. I enjoyed the writing though.
Ashes1396- "Ten Steps" : I'm going to have to agree with the others on this one. It's a little too floaty for its own good. I'm not really sure how to come at this piece in all honesty. Instead of participating in the story or even looking on through a window, it felt as if I was looking at a summary through a peephole. That's about all I can say. Sorry. :/
ronito- "$500 and a Dildo" : Hilariously awesome. There were a bunch of rough spots though. Grammar and odd word choices mainly.
itsinmyveins- "The Wizard of The Enchanted Forest" or "Return to Sender" : The first half was rather dull, but it definitely got better near the end. The wording was weird as well, however, that was probably due to the whole English not being your main language thing. I think you told a little too much, taking me out of the story. It was hard to visualize the events in my head, making the reading a bit of a chore.
Tim the Wiz- "Listerine and Wigs" : Interesting little piece. Unfortunately, I think it lacked any real substance. It's almost as if I'm missing more of the story than I'm getting. I mean, I know what you're going for, but I don't think you reached your goal.
crowphoenix- "Sometimes They Don't" : I really enjoyed it, however, I thought it could have been tightened up quite a bit. It was a little too meandering in places. I don't think you did enough with the premise.
Cyan- "Kindling" : Zephyr! It was all too much though. The prose just didn't feel right. Way heavier than it should have been. It just seems to be missing something.
DumbNameD- "Encore" : Nice.
Tangent- "17 Years Later" : Felt like half a story. I enjoyed the writing though.
crowphoenix
Banned
Tim: I don't think you needed to be so vague. I would have liked more concrete images. I would have liked to know her old job, what it was like, or what her work clothes look liked. You spend so much time building up the escape, but you skip showing us what she escaped from. Still, I think you nailed the tone and the voice you needed.
Cyan: It's a bit obtuse. You spend a lot of time over building scene and then just blasting through the insight into the character that makes the piece resonate. As a result, I feel like I don't know the character as well as I should. One the other hand, once you actually get in scene, the voice becomes excellent. Also, having the Main character refer to the bride's mother at her own wedding seemed odd. Does that imply a strained relationship?
Irish: This is one of those stories that's a bit above me. I think I get what you are going for, and you have some wonderful imagery to propel you there, but in the end, I'm more confused than anything. Especially with the contradictory nature of the last paragraph.
Cyan: It's a bit obtuse. You spend a lot of time over building scene and then just blasting through the insight into the character that makes the piece resonate. As a result, I feel like I don't know the character as well as I should. One the other hand, once you actually get in scene, the voice becomes excellent. Also, having the Main character refer to the bride's mother at her own wedding seemed odd. Does that imply a strained relationship?
Irish: This is one of those stories that's a bit above me. I think I get what you are going for, and you have some wonderful imagery to propel you there, but in the end, I'm more confused than anything. Especially with the contradictory nature of the last paragraph.
crowphoenix
Banned
DND: The first paragraph is a little awkward, but once you got past that, it became an awesome story.
Tangent You gave us a lot about Maddie, but not so much about Aiden. As a result, the ending comes a bit quickly, especially considering Maddie comes off as having forgotten him. Still, I enjoyed it.
Tangent You gave us a lot about Maddie, but not so much about Aiden. As a result, the ending comes a bit quickly, especially considering Maddie comes off as having forgotten him. Still, I enjoyed it.
"Encore" - DumbNameD - Love it. Real with a dash of magic, seasonal, usual DND touch. The transition between the taco shell and meat needs some work--it took me a few paragraphs before I figured out what had happened. Hell, maybe just an asterisk or some other scene change marker. Also... there's a sort of expectation on the part of the reader, reading something like "she was burying her best friend", that we'll find out at some point how the person died. I suppose it wasn't ultimately important to the story, but I still felt somewhat let down not to know.
"17 years later" - Tangent - Bugs! I should've expected an entomology-related story from you at some point. I liked the consistent POV of this one, focused on her work. But that did make the switch to kissing her childhood friend rather sudden and surprising. It didn't quite feel motivated. Same with Aiden leaving his house--if he was so afraid of cicadas, and if he didn't recognize our heroine, what made him leave his house?
Votes:
1. DND- "Encore"
2. Tim the Wiz- "Listerine and Wigs"
3. ronito- "$500 and a Dildo"
"17 years later" - Tangent - Bugs! I should've expected an entomology-related story from you at some point.
I liked the consistent POV of this one, focused on her work. But that did make the switch to kissing her childhood friend rather sudden and surprising. It didn't quite feel motivated. Same with Aiden leaving his house--if he was so afraid of cicadas, and if he didn't recognize our heroine, what made him leave his house?Votes:
1. DND- "Encore"
2. Tim the Wiz- "Listerine and Wigs"
3. ronito- "$500 and a Dildo"
crowphoenix
Banned
1) DND
2) Ronito
3) Tim
2) Ronito
3) Tim
- Status