Advanced Fiction Checklist
□ One-page critical response to classmate’s story 1
□ One-page critical response to classmate’s story 2
□ One-page critical response to classmate’s story 3
□ One-page critical response to classmate’s story 4
□ One-page critical response to textbook story 1
□ One-page critical response to textbook story 2
□ One-page critical response to textbook story 3
□ Reading response exercise to Czieznejiewski
□ Reading response exercise to Coates
□ Extra credit reading response exercises (write in how many: _______)
□ Esthetics essay
□ Final fiction collection (note: 5-page introduction IS the esthetics essay)
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Long Story: The Heights
THE HEIGHTS
by Nate Kamiya
I. The Kitchen
Once the hallmark of questionable Industrial era
practices (child labor, poor safety codes, etc.),
The Kitchen is now the reminder of a time long gone.
--Mike Duncan, My City (1987)
The detective was fumbling around with his clipboard, leafing through carbon copies, stumbling for words. Rick eyed him patiently, gnawing a toothpick. If he concentrated, he could make out the channel, ever-present in the low urban hum as it sloshed against its human containment. The western span of the bridge loomed in the distance, its woven-steel suspension tracing rays across a darkening sky. Here, in its shadow, no one bothered to set foot. Apparently the officers who cased the scene were aware of that, not having bothered to tape it off. Not that this was a particularly bad part of town, just forgotten. Maybe some yuppies would convert one of the sweatshops into an art gallery.
The toothpick was splintering, its fibers succumbing to Rick’s salivations. Rick only chewed them when he was agitated, mostly he just liked to let them dissolve, throwing them away when they became uselessly soggy. He did so now, watching it get carried into a gutter. He chewed his lip,
“So, it’s bad?”
“Yea. Yea, that’s a good way to put it,” the detective looked relieved, tucking the clipboard under his armpit, “why don’t we take a looksy?”
He muttered this to himself as he turned to go. Wrestling with a steel door, he motioned to Rick as he pried it open. Rick followed him into the brick pile and down a narrow flight of stairs, steadying himself against the uneven concrete.
“Careful there. It’s slippery too.”
The department was running short. Obviously the Academy had lowered its graduation requirements. He gave the detective a curt smile. The crew cut turned and they continued downwards, their shoulders swishing the walls as they went. The stairway made a sharp knee at the bottom, spilling the two of them into a low-ceilinged basement. Bare incandescents created a smoky pallor. The walls were sweating, making the room humid and sticky. Rick ran a hand through his thinning hairline.
Before him, across a rickety pair of conjoined card tables, was a spread fit for an emperor’s last meal. This seemed to be the theme its designer had in mind. Around the table were arrayed a full court of mannequins, all colorfully, if haphazardly, attired. They were intent on their banquette. Some smearing food across their frozen faces, others midway through pouring drinks into their laps. At their head, on his own flimsy folding chair, sat what was left of a man. Rick assumed he was a man based on the cut of his jeans. Though they were effete, to say the least, rhinestone serpents climbing up each leg. His legs were the only thing that was left of him, the rest a mess of flesh and organs, sprouting like some strange flower.
“Okay, that’s disgusting, but why’d you call me?”
The detective pointed to a putrefying birthday cake, atop of which was planted a candle, a waxen numeral four. Rick pulled out another toothpick and began gnawing the end, his face blank. The detective grinned.
“This one’s yours,” he said, handing Rick the clipboard.
II. Saint’s Row
Named for its numerous cathedrals, the area is now
competitively priced and ripe for investment!
--Harmen Real Estate Co. Brochure
Rick wasn’t one for coffee. Something he had heard endless shit about over his years in the department. His caffeine tolerance was low, and it made him jittery. So instead he drank tea. No sugar. No milk. He just dropped a packet into some hot water and that was that. Right now he was slowly twirling a mug of P.G. tips, staring into space. He was hunched over the center island of his kitchen, a slab of marble that had taken the efforts of himself, the contractor, and his neighbor to wrestle through the lobby, up the elevator, into his door, and onto its wooden frame.
It looked absurd in the rest of his apartment, which was a shambles. The orphan of some half-baked plan to renovate the dump. He nodded to himself. He tried rearranging the files on his desk, but it didn’t help. There were four now, and the typewritten pages stared back at him humorlessly. This day and age and the department still had them hacking away on typewriters. Some war they were waging. The drip drip drip of the sink wasn’t helping his concentration. He leaned over, making a half-hearted attempt to tighten the faucet before giving up.
Nursing the warm mug, he stood up, moving to the window. It was colder on this half of the room. The glass drained the heat. He wrestled open the warped wood and stepped out onto the fire escape. He felt the grate pressing into the soles of his feet. It still made him giddy to stare down the five-story precipice. A cab was dropping off a fare. The woman stepped out, fumbling with a large duffle bag. Just around the corner, a couple emerged, shoving subway passes back into their pockets. Rick mentally admonished the woman with the duffle bag for bothering with the cab. Down the street, a small crowd from the university was spilling over the curb, probably visiting one of the local bars.
Rick turned to look at the mess of papers. He set his mug down and began searching for his coat.
III. Melville’s
One of the area’s many gems, this cozy establishment
is run by its namesake, a man always reliable for sagely
insight.
--City Voice (1979)
It was nearly empty. Then again, it was a Monday. Melville stood behind the counter, polishing a glass. Melville was an ancient creature. No one quite understood how he managed to move so effortlessly around his bar—named after himself. This was on account of his age, and his blindness. Yet he did so nimbly, following some mental map he’d created for himself, navigating not only the paneled maze of tables and booths, but the other bartenders and his customers as well. Sometimes Rick would just come in and watch him at his work. He had the feeling that somehow Melville knew he was being watched, as if it was some kind of performance, the youthful waltzing between huddled groups of patrons, followed by a comradely pat on the back and conspiratorial whisper, all of it a show just for Rick. Here was a man who loved his work.
“Heavy gait with a wool coat and slacks, leaning on the outside of the soles… and here on a Monday? Something strong’s in order.”
Rick had taken a stool along the bar. He strummed his fingers along the polished wood,
“Surprise me.”
Melville gave him a nod and shuffled down the aisle, setting to work. Rick pulled out a toothpick and let it dangle out of the corner of his mouth. He liked the cheap ones because he could taste the solvent that glued the fibers together. The flavor lasted for the first few minutes before mellowing out. It was an acquired taste.
Melville returned with an amber shot glass,
“Here you go, Rick. It is you, right? I didn’t just say that to some busty blond, did I?”
“Yea it’s me you old fuck. And why would you care if I was blond?”
“Oh, well I wouldn’t care if you were blond. Anyways, I have a new drink, made just for the occasion. Guess what it’s called.”
Rick rolled his eyes, “Hmm, let me guess, a Melville.”
Melville’s cloudy blue eyes twinkled, “Very good my man. A Melville. I think I might add it to the menu.”
“Don’t you already have a Melville?”
“Well I do, but I was thinking it needed a revamp. Some kind of re-imagining if you will. Now pull out that pacifier and sample my work.”
Rick did so, making sure to hand Melville the soggy toothpick. One of these days he’d prove him to be the charade he was, though grudgingly he acknowledged that he had been talking around the damn thing. Still. Rick dutifully kicked back the glass. He slammed it back down with a satisfying thud, wiping his face on his shirtsleeve,
“Is that tequila?”
“That it is. Pepper too, and a little lime. Some other stuff as well. I don’t want to give too much away, trade secrets and all.”
Rick reclaimed his saturated toothpick, “It’s terrible.”
“Someone’s in a bad mood. What is it this time? Am I going to hear about it on the radio?”
“I hope not. Do you know how many tips I’d have to sort through?”
“That’s okay. Now that I think about it, I’d rather not hear all the gory details. Your friend over there might, on the other hand.”
Rick sat up in his chair a little straighter before catching himself and returning to his slouch. He gnawed the end of his toothpick.
“Tell me about him,” Rick mumbled with his head to the table.
“Her. I know the sound of nylon, and I smell Chanel.”
Rick smiled wryly, “That’s nothing definitive.”
“Hush. She’s in the booth behind you and a little to your right. She’s reading a paperback. She’s got a drink. With ice. Probably water.”
“Say Melville, how ‘bout you go work some of your award-winning charm on yonder female.”
Melville flashed a well-worn set of teeth, “Like in the movies.”
“Like in the movies.”
Melville turned to go, then hesitated, “Hey, you’re not going to leave without paying, are you?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Melville’s grin returned. He continued out from around the bar and out of Rick’s sight. Rick kept his gaze fixed ahead as he gathered himself up. He bought himself some time by fumbling through his various pockets for change. He left a five-dollar bill and a bunch of quarters on the counter. Melville never specified how much the drink was, and it tasted like shit. As he turned to exit the establishment, Rick stole a glance at the developing scene between Melville and the lady. Melville was right, she was a lady, nylons and all.
He was working his patented charm on her, laughing at a joke he’d just cracked, none-too-subtly gripping her shoulder. Rick couldn’t tell her height as she was sitting, but she struck an imposing figure against the red cushioning of the booth. She had sharply defined eyebrows and a face shaped like an ax. A pair of dark brown eyes met his from under a lock of black hair, before returning too quickly to Melville. She knew what was up. She smiled with her lips, the rest of her face remaining cold and impassive. Rick continued out the door, the light from the bar pouring out behind him.
IV. The Yards
[…]
Rick always associated The Yards with the smell of rotting fish. That’s probably because the smell was pervasive. He cursed inwardly, knowing that his afternoon here would mean his clothes would be reeking of decaying sea life for the rest of the week. Frank and Deckard didn’t seem to mind. The two spent most of their time trading inane barbs about who had the most generic-cop name:
“Frank North, I mean come on, could I have gotten into any other profession? ‘Uh, yeah, presenting Meritus Achievement Visiting Scholar dick-up-his-ass Frank North, to be discussing Milton.’”
“Are you kidding me? I was doomed to be nothing but a cop. Not even Detective. Just Officer Deckard Jones. One of the extras in Law & Order. Not even the original. One of the spin-offs. And I’d just be one of the names they’d be playing in the background, you know, the dumb bitch on the intercom always paging some asshole: ‘Officer Jones, Officer Jones, you’re cold-hearted ex-wife on line 1.’”
Presently they were on a different topic of conversation as they rolled through the stacks of cargo containers in their unmarked Crown Victoria. Rick sat in the back, mostly watching the scenery, but occasionally picking up snippets of their exchange.
“I’m sorry but Jimmy McNulty doesn’t hold a candle to Horatio Caine.”
Between the stacks, which towered above them, some four or five containers high, Rick caught glimpses of the numerous cranes, straddling the piers like preying mantises. He couldn’t see the Downtown skyline or the bridge beyond them. The fog had rolled in thick and still hadn’t burned off.
“Horatio-fucking-Caine? Please. That bitch ain’t nothing without his fucking sunglasses.”
“Don’t knock the sunglasses.”
One hand on the steering wheel, Deckard used his other to crank up the stereo, blasting “Way Down in the Hole.” The rusting containers multiplied Tom Waits’ crooning. Rick could only imagine what most of them contained. Traffic to The Yards had plummeted after the steel mill was shut down. Yet the remaining longshoremen were somehow eking out a living. Rick began counting up the number of life sentences for trafficking that could be wrung out of the multicolored stacks when he caught a flash of nylon stockings,
“Hey, wait. Hold up, will you?”
“I can’t hear you bitch.”
“You’ve been playing this fucking song all week.”
Rick was going to further protest but it was too late. They stopped at a small crowd of longshoremen. It was a perimeter of overalls and battered hard hats. Deckard killed the ignition, the aging department vehicle gasping to a halt. All three stepped out, Frank donning a pair of David Caruso-esque sunglasses.
“You work your magic Dick, we’ll take care of crowd control,” Frank straightened his collar.
He and Deckard fanned out, hurling obscenities into the knot of people, who hurled them back with equal glee.
“It’s Rick,” Rick muttered to himself as he began working his way through the wall of people.
Despite the cooling fog, it was a sweaty bunch. Fortunately, the crowd was only a few people deep. Rick emerged only slightly rumpled and odor smeared. The concrete ended, and he was now standing on the steel pier suspended over the channel, in the middle of a temporary stage. Ahead of him was Don the Ukrainian, the heavy-jowled foreman. Rumor had it that he was actually from Croatia, but no one had ever bothered to check this with him, and after a drunken employee had christened him such, the name had stuck. Rumor also had it that his name wasn’t actually Don.
The Ukrainian was kneeling over the bloated corpse of a woman. Seeing Rick, he stood up.
“Detective! I never thought I’d be so glad to see your pasty face,” he said through a thick accent.
“What have you done this time?” Rick wrinkled his nose as he approached the body, he had thought the sweat was bad. It was hard to tell her age, but the woman looked like she was in her early thirties. The diffuse lighting gave her skin an eerie luminescence, like she was some pale blue mermaid that had washed onto the docks. A horn blasted a long, low note through the fog. Around the woman’s neck was a dog tag. Rick pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, using it to angle tag so he could read it. Etched in the metal was the number six.
“Six?” Rick crooked his head, working his jaw.
“We fished her out only a few minutes ago, she got caught over there,” he jabbed a meaty finger at a rusting pylon, half submerged in the water, “I have to give credit to your department, I am not used to such quick response.”
“Hmm?”
“You see, we hadn’t even made phone call yet.”
V. Downtown
[ … ]
Rick tightened his grip on the overhead rail as the car rocked on its tracks, gently swaying its cargo of early morning commuters. The smell of coffee and hurried cigarettes mingled with generously applied cologne and perfume. Outside, the trained clacked and groaned. Rick had a soft spot in his heart for the system he rode every day. He loved the order. He liked the contract that it implied. They were approaching the station. Every one in the car leaned forward in unison. He found himself sinking into the ample bosom of the woman standing next to him. She jabbed him with her keys.
The doors opened and Rick began wriggling his way through the tangle of coats, purses, and briefcases towards the exit. Outside of the car he was greeted by that unique blend of exhaust and something else—someone told him once it was rat poison, though he wasn’t sure if he believed that—that could only be found in the subway, or venting from one of the many grates along the sidewalk. Rick used one of the station’s Industrial era girders as leverage to pull himself towards the stairs. Along the grimy wall, surrounded in Art Deco tiling, brass lettering spelled out “Market Street.”
Something wasn’t right. The mass of people had stopped, frozen in their journey up the steps. Rick couldn’t see through the people in front of him, so he stood there like everyone else, waiting. Another train pulled into the station, the F, but when the doors opened no one could squeeze onto the platform, which was already full. There was a commotion starting at the first car, and the driver joined in, leaning out of his window up front and yelling at the immobile mass. Rick caught the eye of the woman from the car. They exchanged a raised eyebrow.
Then, just as suddenly as everything had ground to a halt, the crowd began moving again. As they streamed over the steps, Rick saw the source of the problem: shorted turnstiles. The new card-reading things were nothing but trouble. He missed the old coin operated ones. The Transit Authority employee looked on glumly from his booth as his fares scrambled over the gates. Rick himself joined in, climbing over the useless orange wedges that normally slid discreetly to the sides.
He was hit by a cold blast of salt tinged-air as he emerged into the throbbing heart of the city. A trolley racketed its way through the din of cars and people towards The Wharf. On all sides, glass and steel shot skywards. Every year the city seemed to shrink around him, but occasionally Rick found himself appreciative of its scale. He spied the revolving doors of the department labs and made his way towards them.
***
Rick settled himself into one of the gumdrop-colored plastic chairs that lined the hallway. He hated coming here. He’d sent a stray technician in to grab Jeanie. A draped gurney rolled by. The chemical pickling couldn’t hide the fact that he’d been sweating before he’d died. Someone was firing up one of the circular saws inside the lab. Rick grimaced.
“Hey there stranger.”
Rick looked up to see a pair of hazel eyes peering down at him. The fluorescent lighting didn’t do Jeanie’s Armenian features justice. He stood up,
“Sorry, I know the report’s not due yet, but I was in the area.”
Whenever Rick lied, he never looked away, he always stayed fixed on the person’s face, scanning it for any signs of doubt. Jeanie glanced back through the doorway, shrugging,
“It’ll be at least another few days on the blood work. I’d say probably strangulation, though don’t quote me on that. By her teeth I’d say she’s twenty-three,” Jeanie caught his surprise, “yea, she’s seen a lot, there were track marks along her arms, between her toes. It ages the skin. She has a tattoo of a snake on the inside of her left wrist. If I were to make a guess, she’s been hanging around King’s Crossing.”
Rick cleared his throat, “Well, we’re not in the business of guessing.”
Jeanie shifted to her other foot, “Sorry, not trying to step on your toes here.”
“It’s not that. I just want to make sure we do this right.”
Jeanie bit her lip, “Listen, I think I figured out why your perp skipped a number.”
“Hmm?”
“The girl was pregnant, Rick.”
***
Rick’s head was spinning. He stumbled through the maze of corridors, cubicles, and freezers looking for a water fountain to rinse out the brackish taste from his mouth. He wasn’t the only one seemingly in a panic, it was as if his mental state were being projected on the world around him. Techies in lab coats were scrambling about, following around maintenance crews in groups of twos and threes. Suits were talking rapidly in hushed whispers to clients over their Blackberries.
Rick felt dizzy, hurtling through time and space, as though the careful grid delineating the two had dissolved. He finally found one, a boxy thing wedged haphazardly between two uneven cement columns. He leaned over for a sip, turning the knob, but nothing came out. He tried again. Nothing.
A janitor dashed by with a bucket. Rick was in the lobby now. Outside he could hear car alarms and a chorus of horns. The secretary was busy pounding numbers into her phone and the doorman was nowhere to be seen.
Rick made for the revolving door. He was outside now. He was bewildered. Market St. had become canal. His feet were sopping wet with the frigid water, which was making its way up the steps. Exhaust was bubbling up around the half-sunken cars that were still running, their horns blaring furiously, sounding like one-note humpback whales. One-by-one their submerged lights were flickering off.
The water was pouring out of the subway stop, swipe cards, high heels, hats, mittens, jackets, sneakers, dollar bills, newspapers, and dead rats bubbling up with it.
“It was a water main.”
There she was, nylons and all. That damned bitch from the bar.
“Whaddya want?” Rick leered at her.
She seemed listless, distracted, staring with distress at the chaos in front of them, “We wanted you to know that we’re on to your game, detective.”
VI. King’s Crossing
This is the place where time reverses
--Elliott Smith, King’s Crossing
Rick liked Minerva. She had generous thighs and a deep, velvety voice,
“Don’t look so pensive, Dick. It’s a transaction. We’re trading commodities. Just like if we were wearing suits on Market.”
“It’s Rick. And I’m not pensive. I just don’t like the idea of doing this in such a public place.”
“Whatever. People make exchanges here all the time. They’d look at us weird if we weren’t trading anything.”
Rick strummed his fingers twice, then pulled a stuffed envelope from his pocket. He slid it across the table. Minerva picked it up gingerly, removing stray bits of lint that clung to it. Using a ruby red prosthetic nail, she sliced through the paper surgically, and began thumbing the stack of bills inside. She snapped at one of the waiters.
A dark-skinned man, slim, and with a youthful gate came over, balancing a large tray of drinks. Rick couldn’t tell his age, by the look of his skin he’d have to say someone in their early thirties, but everything else about him suggested someone much younger. Minerva stuffed the bills back into the envelope, handing it to him.,
“Get this to Trixie. Oh, and I counted them, so nothing funny.”
Rick saw a pair of serpents flash at him from the retreating figure. Minerva followed Rick’s glance, then grinned,
“Oh those, they have to earn those. Branding. I came up with it myself.,” she was pleased with herself, “even if they don’t work here. It’s like a membership, for members it guarantees a steady income, and for patrons it guarantees a level of… quality.”
“And for you?”
“Royalties.”
She let that sink in as she took a generous helping of her Bloody Mary. Rick thumbed his glass of water,
“Do you ever just get tired of all this?”
“Of what?”
“Of everything.”
She looked at Rick knowingly,
“Tell you what, I think Donna’s around here somewhere, and I’m sure she misses your company,” she gave Rick a conspiratorial smile, “this one’s on the house.”
***
They sat next to each other in cramped room on a rat-eaten mattress, staring at the wall that was only two feet away. She had taken off her boots, showing off her calves and the tattoo of a serpent that wound its way around her right ankle. She waited for Rick to make the first move, then groaning wearily, shut off the light and guided him to her, enveloping him in her softness.
VII. The Heights
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces,
And give them all another name
--Bob Dylan, Desolation Row
“You know, this place used to be the tallest part of the city.”
“I’m really not in the mood for this.”
“This was supposed to be the financial engine for the entire coast. Right here. Right where we’re standing.”
“So?”
“So? So? Rick, come on. Look around you. Are we very high up?”
“No. But there’s the bridge”
“Hmm. I see they’ve loosened things up at the Academy since I was there. They’ll make anyone a detective these days. Of course there’s the bridge. Up there, spanning over us like some Industrial web, us like two tiny flies. Astute observation, Rick. But where does the bridge go to?”
“Um. Downtown?”
“Brilliant. Yes. Away from here. You can still see the rail lines they laid in the concrete, connecting us to The Yards, The Kitchen, The Crossing. This was ideally located. This should’ve been Downtown, but instead they knocked it all over so people could get across the water.”
“Okay, so shit happens, things don’t go according to plan. Is that the lesson here? Let’s hurry this up. This place gives me the creeps”
“Rick. Be a little patient. I’m just trying to remind you that not everything is under our control. But -- ”
“Yea. Okay. I understand. I agreed to see this through, but I didn’t think I’d be doing it with those fuckers breathing down my neck.”
“But, despite that, we can still do okay for ourselves. This city may not have turned like it was planned, but it’s done okay for itself, hasn’t it Rick?”
“Yea, sure.”
“Maybe I can’t stop the new bull-dyke at Internal Affairs or her lackies, but they’re not going to find anything. And even if they do, who’re they going to go to? What judge in this town isn’t sympathetic to us? Which politician are we not donating campaign contributions to? Hmm? Am I right?
“Yea. Yea, you’re right.
“Good. Now don’t let me hear about anymore bitching from you. We are all in this together.”
VIII.
The man who sailed around his soul
Came back again to find a hole
Where once he thought compassion and the truth
Had laid to warm his freezing carcass on return
--XTC, The Man Who Sailed Around His Soul
esthetics essay
Esthetics Essay
Ronald Dahl has a very unique and entertaining style of writing. In his two stories, “Taste” and “Dip in the Pool” he sets up his protagonists in situations where they have a lot to lose or a lot to gain. From there he takes it to the next level and pulls the rug out from beneath the character and the reader. He uses effective dialogue among his characters, each of whom have a specific purpose to the particular story that they are in.
I really admire the set up of his stories because he gives the readers the just enough details to be surprised with the twist ending of the story but not find the ending too out of place. It’s a delicate balance because the author has to be careful to not give away the ending with too many clues or details but at the same time details or insight is necessary for the twist ending to not sound implausible. I have a hard time balancing this. I tried to incorporate this method in my short story, “Memory” where I used a boy who may or not have had a memory problem to tell the story. I tried to end the story with a twist at the end so that the reader is unsure of whether his mother is having an affair because they need to decide for themselves if the narrator is reliable enough to believe. I thought it was particularly clever to describe Mr. Botibol thinking about what to wear, how to jump off the boat, who he should dive in front of, etc. and then end it with the lady think that he is just going for a swim. It makes sense for her to make that assumption too because he dived in intentionally, dressed in exercise clothes. The ending with the maid finding Richard Pratt’s reading spectacles in the study where the anonymous wine was kept was clever, but the detail about the two of them having picked out a particular spot for the wine together made it that much more believable and ironic.
Dahl is efficient and effective in his selection and use of characters. In both of the stories we read in class, all the characters have a purpose. In “Dip in the Pool,” Maggie, the “bony and angular” woman, tells the older lady with “fat ankles” who saw Mr. Botibol dive off the ship to come in. In their brief dialogue exchange we see that she looks after and takes care of the elderly lady whose behavior is described as compliant and not very assertive. Maggie doesn’t pay attention or acknowledge what her old friend says about the man who jumped off the ship which shows. These two characters are essential to the ending because the reader sees that these women are not going to say anything about his un-heroic dive off the back of the ship. Mike’s wife and daughter in “Taste” are used to escalate the situation and emphasize to the reader how high the stakes are in the bet between Richard Pratt, the wine expert, and Mike. The bet entails that if Pratt incorrectly guesses the wine, Mike and his family attain possession of Pratt’s country house and if Pratt correctly guesses, he gets to marry Mike’s eighteen year old daughter, Louise. Mike’s wife plays the motherly role in the argument against making the bet and encouraging the party to eat their food before it gets cold. Her character chimes in as Mike tries to convince his daughter to take the bet but he overrides her, showing his dominance of the conversation and in the relationship. None of his characters are too small or insignificant in his stories.
This awareness or precision that he has with his characters is something I try to have as I write my stories, but the outcomes are not as successful as his. When I write, I’ve noticed that I tend to use as few characters as possible and as a result most of my stories have only one character and only refer to other characters or friends of my protagonist. I think in my longer story that I expanded I used two other characters to add an extra quality to my protagonist that I liked. It gave me more room to work with her personality and provided another dimension for the reader to learn about her because they can see how she interacts with them. In “Memory” however, I received comments about the necessity of my protagonist’s friend Thomas. He is mentioned several times throughout the story but he does not have an obvious or derivable purpose by the end of the story which is something I need to work on developing in this story and in the others.
Even though his stories are short, Dahl is skilled at creating a character arc in his stories. This draws the reader into the world that he creates, which in both of his stories we read are not as farfetched as they could be. He uses our modern day experiences and creates a scenario with very different characters to give the reader a glimpse of what life could be like with different kinds of people. His knowledge or just ability to describe the extreme types of people, those who will lie and cheat to get ahead and those who are too oblivious to see what is happening, is another thing that I would like to improve. I am pretty decent at describing or personifying children and elderly people, those are the styles that I particularly enjoy writing in but this year I’ve been trying to stretch past that and describe middle aged adults more. For example, in my first two stories I wrote I talked about how an elderly man’s life is like a chocolate box and the second one I tried to show how a young boy’s imagination can carry him away.
Dahl uses good dialogue in his stories as well. His dialogue is used as a fight for power in this example from “Taste”:
“It shouldn’t be too hard to name it.”
“You mean you want to bet?”
“I’m perfectly willing to bet,” Richard Pratt said.
In this snippet, we see that Pratt and Mike are challenging each other, in a mostly cordial manner, but with some undertones and desire of an advantage over the other. It hints at their gambling nature but mostly shows their struggle for power over each other. This dialogue strategy is effective in illuminating personalities of characters and giving insight into the relationships between characters. I need to work on improving this. I think it was well used in my longer story as I said before, but I need to expand it to all my stories with multiple characters.
Overall, I think my writing style and ability is appropriate in comparison to Dahl’s. I’m not trying to be the best writer ever; I am just focused on trying to improve my writing so that it is more entertaining to read and of a better quality than the story before it. Dahl has many good qualities that I would like to emulate: his character building, his dialogue techniques and his surprising plot twists. These are parts that constitute a good story and I would like to be able to incorporate into my own writing style as he does.
Ronald Dahl has a very unique and entertaining style of writing. In his two stories, “Taste” and “Dip in the Pool” he sets up his protagonists in situations where they have a lot to lose or a lot to gain. From there he takes it to the next level and pulls the rug out from beneath the character and the reader. He uses effective dialogue among his characters, each of whom have a specific purpose to the particular story that they are in.
I really admire the set up of his stories because he gives the readers the just enough details to be surprised with the twist ending of the story but not find the ending too out of place. It’s a delicate balance because the author has to be careful to not give away the ending with too many clues or details but at the same time details or insight is necessary for the twist ending to not sound implausible. I have a hard time balancing this. I tried to incorporate this method in my short story, “Memory” where I used a boy who may or not have had a memory problem to tell the story. I tried to end the story with a twist at the end so that the reader is unsure of whether his mother is having an affair because they need to decide for themselves if the narrator is reliable enough to believe. I thought it was particularly clever to describe Mr. Botibol thinking about what to wear, how to jump off the boat, who he should dive in front of, etc. and then end it with the lady think that he is just going for a swim. It makes sense for her to make that assumption too because he dived in intentionally, dressed in exercise clothes. The ending with the maid finding Richard Pratt’s reading spectacles in the study where the anonymous wine was kept was clever, but the detail about the two of them having picked out a particular spot for the wine together made it that much more believable and ironic.
Dahl is efficient and effective in his selection and use of characters. In both of the stories we read in class, all the characters have a purpose. In “Dip in the Pool,” Maggie, the “bony and angular” woman, tells the older lady with “fat ankles” who saw Mr. Botibol dive off the ship to come in. In their brief dialogue exchange we see that she looks after and takes care of the elderly lady whose behavior is described as compliant and not very assertive. Maggie doesn’t pay attention or acknowledge what her old friend says about the man who jumped off the ship which shows. These two characters are essential to the ending because the reader sees that these women are not going to say anything about his un-heroic dive off the back of the ship. Mike’s wife and daughter in “Taste” are used to escalate the situation and emphasize to the reader how high the stakes are in the bet between Richard Pratt, the wine expert, and Mike. The bet entails that if Pratt incorrectly guesses the wine, Mike and his family attain possession of Pratt’s country house and if Pratt correctly guesses, he gets to marry Mike’s eighteen year old daughter, Louise. Mike’s wife plays the motherly role in the argument against making the bet and encouraging the party to eat their food before it gets cold. Her character chimes in as Mike tries to convince his daughter to take the bet but he overrides her, showing his dominance of the conversation and in the relationship. None of his characters are too small or insignificant in his stories.
This awareness or precision that he has with his characters is something I try to have as I write my stories, but the outcomes are not as successful as his. When I write, I’ve noticed that I tend to use as few characters as possible and as a result most of my stories have only one character and only refer to other characters or friends of my protagonist. I think in my longer story that I expanded I used two other characters to add an extra quality to my protagonist that I liked. It gave me more room to work with her personality and provided another dimension for the reader to learn about her because they can see how she interacts with them. In “Memory” however, I received comments about the necessity of my protagonist’s friend Thomas. He is mentioned several times throughout the story but he does not have an obvious or derivable purpose by the end of the story which is something I need to work on developing in this story and in the others.
Even though his stories are short, Dahl is skilled at creating a character arc in his stories. This draws the reader into the world that he creates, which in both of his stories we read are not as farfetched as they could be. He uses our modern day experiences and creates a scenario with very different characters to give the reader a glimpse of what life could be like with different kinds of people. His knowledge or just ability to describe the extreme types of people, those who will lie and cheat to get ahead and those who are too oblivious to see what is happening, is another thing that I would like to improve. I am pretty decent at describing or personifying children and elderly people, those are the styles that I particularly enjoy writing in but this year I’ve been trying to stretch past that and describe middle aged adults more. For example, in my first two stories I wrote I talked about how an elderly man’s life is like a chocolate box and the second one I tried to show how a young boy’s imagination can carry him away.
Dahl uses good dialogue in his stories as well. His dialogue is used as a fight for power in this example from “Taste”:
“It shouldn’t be too hard to name it.”
“You mean you want to bet?”
“I’m perfectly willing to bet,” Richard Pratt said.
In this snippet, we see that Pratt and Mike are challenging each other, in a mostly cordial manner, but with some undertones and desire of an advantage over the other. It hints at their gambling nature but mostly shows their struggle for power over each other. This dialogue strategy is effective in illuminating personalities of characters and giving insight into the relationships between characters. I need to work on improving this. I think it was well used in my longer story as I said before, but I need to expand it to all my stories with multiple characters.
Overall, I think my writing style and ability is appropriate in comparison to Dahl’s. I’m not trying to be the best writer ever; I am just focused on trying to improve my writing so that it is more entertaining to read and of a better quality than the story before it. Dahl has many good qualities that I would like to emulate: his character building, his dialogue techniques and his surprising plot twists. These are parts that constitute a good story and I would like to be able to incorporate into my own writing style as he does.
response to "sunsets on the far side of the world"
i really like how this turned out. i think there is some absolutely beautiful language in this story and i love it. i am also very impressed with how the previous stories (sunsets part one and sunsets part two) were intertwined and mixed in this final story. it is still a little bit hard for me to follow in places, but that may be just because this is not exactly the kind of story that i would normally read on my own. but in saying that, i still enjoyed it and was able to stay with it. i think that the idea is great and i would like to see it finished and elongated even more.
response to "if only"
i still really like the wasy that kady sets up the three points of views. and i think a lot of the problems with the first draft of this story were very well taken care of. like the gun etc. i still have a problem with kendal showing up at sophia's house, though. she takes her in the backyard, which was unclear why in the first story, and in this new draft the reader is told that there is a party. but there was no previous mention of a party and sophia had just gotten out of the shower. we are given no party guest reaction to the gunshot, we dont even see the party. also, im not sure about the way the flashbacks are set up in the story. they seem very jumpy and it is all in a moment. like when kendal comes to the house and all sophia can think of when she is shot is carter. then carter thinking of sophia as she dies in his arms. over all, though, i really like the way this story developed from the first draft. there is a lot more detail and a great story backing to it.
"with God"
Colleen Mundy
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
"with God"
Colleen Mundy
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
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