Christina Ledesma
Advance Fiction Writing
Professor Barnstone
Critical Response #1
February 24, 2009
Critical Response to Nightmares by Ben Mitchell
After reading the story “Nightmares” by Ben Mitchell I thought that he had a great concept and vision that he was trying to portray in his story. I have read a number of Ben’s poetry and short fiction and I think he has a great way of using language and making his material sound real. I think Ben’s story is off to a good start; however I do think that he could have a better balance in his story if he added dialogue with descriptions. I like how he starts his story within the mind of the narrator who is having the nightmare, but I also think it would be interesting if he had added some dialogue around his character Jason. If he did this he could explain who Jason is and how he is an important figure in this story. In the third paragraph of the story I get a little confused about the relationship the narrator has with Jason. I also confused about how Jason and his parents die in the story. I think it would be a great idea if Ben elaborated on this part of his story and added more detail. Overall, I think Ben has some good material here that can be re-written into a great story. I understand that this story was written based on a bad dream that he had. And I think he needs to take this bad dream and turn into a real story that will appeal to his reader. Also in the ending of the story the reader is aware that the narrator was dreaming, I think Ben should ignore the fact that this story was based on a dream and re-write it as if it was a real life experience.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Dramatic Monologue
Bon Appetite.
Stop. Just think about this. Before you spear me with your fork, go ahead and take a second to reflect. Do you even know where I’ve been? Or what constitutes me? If I’ve been carefully prepared, or hastily unwrapped and microwaved? Do you see that spot on my left side? I’m not telling you what that is. You’ll have to guess. I guarantee you it wasn’t in the recipe book. Truth is, I don’t actually know what it is, either. That’s right, if you go through with this, you’ll be having a very intimate encounter with that mystery spot. The spot that not you, or me, or the person who dished this onto your plate, can identify. It could be some kind of culinary herpes. Oh, it looks a little fuzzy. Maybe it’s just mold. Not only that, but I’m feeling an itch on my underside, and I bet it’s a hair. Did you notice how no one was wearing hair nets? Let me just tell you, it always starts with minor infractions. Just cutting a corner here or there, not going that extra ten percent. Innocuous things. Innocent oversight. People not wearing hair nets, maybe forgetting to wash their hands after last night’s Taco Bell finally runs its course. Before you know it, beef’s being cut with rat meat, dirty and clean silverware are the same thing, last week’s rejected spinach-and- omelets are today’s tapioca. Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t supposed to be some kind of expose. Everyone back there is really kind. They’re really loving folks. At least I get that impression. Not from the way I was handled, but you know, I try to look past the surface of things. Just because I wasn’t treated in the most responsible or hygienic manner doesn’t mean the people responsible are bad. No. Maybe they were just having a bad day. I’m not saying it’s as bad as it was today as it is every day of the week back here. Not at all. Who am I to say? I only just came out of the deep freezer forty-seven minutes ago. You know what? Go ahead, do it. You look like a brave one. I can see it in your eye. Did I mention I’m good at reading people? Yea, I try to look below the surface. So I’d say that you’re just trying to game me with that green pallor and the slight tremble of your lip. You’re just trying to get me to feel secure so you can swoop in for the kill. But you know what? It’s okay. I’ve accepted my fate. I embrace it with open arms. I think I may have even become a Buddhist in our brief conversation here. So, go ahead, if you’re as brave as you look, bite me.
Implicit Plot Story
Corners.
I was swabbing the little corner where the faucet meets the sink when I started laughing. I couldn’t help myself—it was funny. Granted, my husband didn’t think too much of it, but I didn’t care. If he thought I looked sexy, swabbing the bathroom in a cocktail dress, he wasn’t showing it. I’d seen an ad in a magazine once, D & G or something like that. There was this thin little pterodactyl of a girl on her knees, a min skirt hiked up past her thigh—plunging a toilet. I don’t even remember what was being advertised. Maybe the real joke was that she got enough money to continue her coke habit while I was getting nothing but an empty stare. I didn’t want to look him in the eye, so I started dabbing at the base of the sink.
“You don’t think it’s funny?”
I’d already swept up the Lalique I’d knocked off the back of the wash stand. One of the pieces had nipped my finger. I chewed on it.
“Don't know why I bother.”
There were little hairs too, and plaster. The bigger chunks I’d picked up by hand. He shed like an animal. It got on my nerves. They collected in the corners of things, or right next to the baseboards, and I had to go in with the edge of the broom to get them out. Vacuums wouldn’t work, the suction couldn’t get into those edges. I’d be using the vacuum now, but I didn’t want to wake the neighbors. Not that they hadn’t already gotten used to his yelling. I’d already turned off all the lights. I’d been cleaning the whole time in the dark. I felt silly.
Now I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, that I stay home all day cleaning, that I agonize about picking up after my husband, that I’m trying to relive the Fifties out in Livermore or something. Far from it, my husband’s the one who’s usually picking up after me. And he’s the one whining when I come home late. Getting upset when I complain about a client, instead of complimenting the cheesecake he’d spent all morning preparing.
He’d certainly paid back in full. I’d spent my entire Muni ride home from the APA gathering coming up with adjectives for whatever concoction he’d prepared for me this time. Instead I had to deal with this. I’d have to get a contractor to fix the walls, and I couldn’t replace the furniture downstairs, I’d have to get a whole new set designed. I was surprised no one had heard his tantrum and dialed the police. Guess they couldn’t be bothered.
I certainly didn’t want to be. How was I going to stay in business if it got out that I couldn’t keep the head straight on my own husband? I’d be stuck filling prescriptions at Rite Aid, getting leered at by geriatrics as I handed them their Viagra. I sat down next to the tub, the corner where the wall met the basin pressed against my spine. It was cold. It made me shiver. We stared at each other over the rim of the tub. He was giving me that same cow-eyed look he’d always given me. I would’ve thought that his eyes would look different somehow, like something was gone. But they didn’t, they looked exactly the same.
I ran my finger through the water. It’d gone cold. There was a trace of warmth in it when I’d first found him. Now it was gone. My finger came back pink. I cursed inwardly. Couldn’t he have used pills or something? Couldn’t he have been less messy?
Response: "Brief Interviews with Hideous Men"
Response to “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men #40”
Great opening. Very succinct (four words total if count “it’s” as two). It’s small but I also liked the sub-heading (the interview number, city, date, etc.). It made it feel like some kind of file. The other small detail I liked was the author’s decision to use a capital “Q” to stand in for the questions by the interviewer. It’s enough to remind us that it’s an interview and the discussion is being led, but it doesn’t pull focus from the speaker by adding another character to dissect.
The author’s done also done a great job giving the character a very distinctive voice. While I’m reading it I can see a person in my mind’s eye saying the words and posturing, and shifting and hear him change his inflections, etc. All this without making the piece cumbersome or incoherent or confusing. I can read through it, picturing the speaker, while also getting a good image of the story he’s telling, all without having to go back over what I’ve read to try and sort out what he’s said.
That’s also impressive considering that the words themselves on the page aren’t all that organized. Each question is it’s own paragraph. Some running just a sentence, others spanning more than a page. Obviously, the writer’s trying to convey the freewheeling nature of the speaker, and also that the writing is spoken and not an organized narrative. It does just that, and it also nudges you to read it faster, as your eye wants to get to some kind of place marker to anchor it on the page.
This makes a great study for writing dialogue and characterization.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Story #3
Memory
In my brain there is a lack of something. The doctors call it thiamine and my mom says it’s the reason I have this disease called Korsakoff’s syndrome. She says it causes me to forget things. But I make up for what I forget. I once went to the aquarium and the octopus that floated by staring at me. It waved at me from in the tank with one of its giant tentacles and I waved back. I think it might have even winked back at me, but my mom told me I should stop making things up, and I will but I’m not. It did wink at me. I’m sure it did.
My friends and I went over to Thomas’ house a couple weeks ago, we were just playing around with the storm trooper action figures that just been released in stores. I had the coolest one out of all of them but I shared with the others. My mom always says that sharing is a good thing to do. While we were playing with the storm troopers, Thomas’ older brother came home from his school and showed us this trick where he could make an ace of diamonds turn into an ace of spades, all he had to do was flick the cards. It really happened, and when I came home to tell my mom and dad, my mom told me that it didn’t happen and I should stop making things up. Maybe I was making it up…
Another time, my mom had taken me to the park so she could talk with some of her adult friends and she told me to go play in the grass. I remember that day clearly. I had been walking around doing nothing in particular, these talks Mom had were usually really long, so I thought I’d try to keep myself busy. I tried to climb a couple trees but I got bored of that and I ended up walking a big loop around the park and found a twenty dollar bill hidden in the grass. When I showed my mom she told me not to make things up and that stealing was never okay. I had to give her the money and she said she would turn it in or something.
Yesterday, Thomas and I walked to my house after lunch because we didn’t feel like going to our afternoon math class. Multiplication tables and numbers weren’t our favorite so we figured we could maybe sneak home to my house and play some more with our action figures like we did a couple times before. When we got to my house, I used the spare key that we hid under the welcome mat by our front door. When we walked in, the house smelled almost like how Dad did before he would head off to work, but the smell was a little different. Usually our house is empty during the day but today, Mom’s work shoes and large pair of dark leather shoes waiting by the front door, they didn’t look like Dad’s because he had black ones and these were a tan brown color. We saw this other man with my mom, on the couch in the living room. It looked like something we were learning about in our health class. Mom says I should stop making things up.
In my brain there is a lack of something. The doctors call it thiamine and my mom says it’s the reason I have this disease called Korsakoff’s syndrome. She says it causes me to forget things. But I make up for what I forget. I once went to the aquarium and the octopus that floated by staring at me. It waved at me from in the tank with one of its giant tentacles and I waved back. I think it might have even winked back at me, but my mom told me I should stop making things up, and I will but I’m not. It did wink at me. I’m sure it did.
My friends and I went over to Thomas’ house a couple weeks ago, we were just playing around with the storm trooper action figures that just been released in stores. I had the coolest one out of all of them but I shared with the others. My mom always says that sharing is a good thing to do. While we were playing with the storm troopers, Thomas’ older brother came home from his school and showed us this trick where he could make an ace of diamonds turn into an ace of spades, all he had to do was flick the cards. It really happened, and when I came home to tell my mom and dad, my mom told me that it didn’t happen and I should stop making things up. Maybe I was making it up…
Another time, my mom had taken me to the park so she could talk with some of her adult friends and she told me to go play in the grass. I remember that day clearly. I had been walking around doing nothing in particular, these talks Mom had were usually really long, so I thought I’d try to keep myself busy. I tried to climb a couple trees but I got bored of that and I ended up walking a big loop around the park and found a twenty dollar bill hidden in the grass. When I showed my mom she told me not to make things up and that stealing was never okay. I had to give her the money and she said she would turn it in or something.
Yesterday, Thomas and I walked to my house after lunch because we didn’t feel like going to our afternoon math class. Multiplication tables and numbers weren’t our favorite so we figured we could maybe sneak home to my house and play some more with our action figures like we did a couple times before. When we got to my house, I used the spare key that we hid under the welcome mat by our front door. When we walked in, the house smelled almost like how Dad did before he would head off to work, but the smell was a little different. Usually our house is empty during the day but today, Mom’s work shoes and large pair of dark leather shoes waiting by the front door, they didn’t look like Dad’s because he had black ones and these were a tan brown color. We saw this other man with my mom, on the couch in the living room. It looked like something we were learning about in our health class. Mom says I should stop making things up.
Critical Response: Marquez's One of These Days
Response to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One of These Days
This is a story where the reader is meant to be kept in the dark with regards to certain events and inter-personal relationships between the characters. It starts out droll and standard, like any number of stories we’ve become used to reading. We are given little indication that something is wrong (save for the symbolism of the buzzards if it can be interpreted as such) until the dentist refuses to see the mayor, telling his son to inform him “I’m not here.” So now we see that something is amiss based upon a previous pattern of events which is barely alluded to throughout the course of the story.
The mayor’s implicit threat (“He says if you don’t take out his tooth, he’ll shoot you”) gives us insight into the nature of the time and place; the setting becomes apparent only at this point. The dentist’s possession of a revolver speaks of an unknown animosity between himself and the mayor and perhaps sets the tale in the realm of the Old West, where cavalier justice was no different than vengeance and corruption and graft held free reign. This is brought to light with the dentist’s comments that “now you’ll pay for our twenty dead men” implying a specific instance of conflict and misery in the past which strains the relationship between them both.
The mayor is revealed through the dentist’s comments as a man of questionable morality and excessive power. The mayor’s comment that “It’s the same damn thing” with regards to the dentist’s bill shows that he considers himself and the town in singular terms: he is the town and the town cannot function without him.
I personally admire this style of writing and enjoy building a plot somewhat esoterically (in the vein of true intellectual science fiction). The difficulty is striking a balance between curious ignorance and knowing credulity, so as to keep the reader on edge, wanting more but not frustrated from lack of prior understanding. One of These Days is an apt title for this piece because it plays against what is otherwise a largely esoteric backdrop where more is unknown than is known. It is a delicate line to walk and I strive to improve every day on this one thing specifically, because it is the key to tapping into the sublime. In this respect this style of writing is useful to my creative approach.
This is a story where the reader is meant to be kept in the dark with regards to certain events and inter-personal relationships between the characters. It starts out droll and standard, like any number of stories we’ve become used to reading. We are given little indication that something is wrong (save for the symbolism of the buzzards if it can be interpreted as such) until the dentist refuses to see the mayor, telling his son to inform him “I’m not here.” So now we see that something is amiss based upon a previous pattern of events which is barely alluded to throughout the course of the story.
The mayor’s implicit threat (“He says if you don’t take out his tooth, he’ll shoot you”) gives us insight into the nature of the time and place; the setting becomes apparent only at this point. The dentist’s possession of a revolver speaks of an unknown animosity between himself and the mayor and perhaps sets the tale in the realm of the Old West, where cavalier justice was no different than vengeance and corruption and graft held free reign. This is brought to light with the dentist’s comments that “now you’ll pay for our twenty dead men” implying a specific instance of conflict and misery in the past which strains the relationship between them both.
The mayor is revealed through the dentist’s comments as a man of questionable morality and excessive power. The mayor’s comment that “It’s the same damn thing” with regards to the dentist’s bill shows that he considers himself and the town in singular terms: he is the town and the town cannot function without him.
I personally admire this style of writing and enjoy building a plot somewhat esoterically (in the vein of true intellectual science fiction). The difficulty is striking a balance between curious ignorance and knowing credulity, so as to keep the reader on edge, wanting more but not frustrated from lack of prior understanding. One of These Days is an apt title for this piece because it plays against what is otherwise a largely esoteric backdrop where more is unknown than is known. It is a delicate line to walk and I strive to improve every day on this one thing specifically, because it is the key to tapping into the sublime. In this respect this style of writing is useful to my creative approach.
Critical Response #1
I enjoyed reading Girl by Jamaica Kincaid. In the story Kincaid uses the mother’s instructions about life and how she is supposed to do the laundry, what manners are appropriate and what are not, how she is to spit in the air without it hitting you, etc. to show how things were like at the time and most specifically what was expected of women at the time. I noticed that the author didn’t use any periods through the story, not even at the end of the story, instead she concluded it with a question mark almost as if to leave the story hanging or, this is a stretch, maybe to conclude that her list of how-to’s might not be what’s best.
I especially liked how the author went into specifics about how to certain things on how to do or not to do. One that stood out to me was when she was instructing her daughter how to smile to people depending on the different degrees to which you like or dislike them. It was interesting to me because it showed the deliberate thoroughness that you wouldn’t expect to be paired with how to iron pants or how to love a man. It seems like the girl the mother is talking to should already know how to evaluate a situation and smile appropriately if she is expected to iron clothes. That leads me to wonder how old this girl is because all these lessons seem like they are targeted for different ages or stages in the daughter’s growing up.
I especially liked how the author went into specifics about how to certain things on how to do or not to do. One that stood out to me was when she was instructing her daughter how to smile to people depending on the different degrees to which you like or dislike them. It was interesting to me because it showed the deliberate thoroughness that you wouldn’t expect to be paired with how to iron pants or how to love a man. It seems like the girl the mother is talking to should already know how to evaluate a situation and smile appropriately if she is expected to iron clothes. That leads me to wonder how old this girl is because all these lessons seem like they are targeted for different ages or stages in the daughter’s growing up.
Story #4
I enjoyed reading Girl by Jamaica Kincaid. In the story Kincaid uses the mother’s instructions about life and how she is supposed to do the laundry, what manners are appropriate and what are not, how she is to spit in the air without it hitting you, etc. to show how things were like at the time and most specifically what was expected of women at the time. I noticed that the author didn’t use any periods through the story, not even at the end of the story, instead she concluded it with a question mark almost as if to leave the story hanging or, this is a stretch, maybe to conclude that her list of how-to’s might not be what’s best.
I especially liked how the author went into specifics about how to certain things on how to do or not to do. One that stood out to me was when she was instructing her daughter how to smile to people depending on the different degrees to which you like or dislike them. It was interesting to me because it showed the deliberate thoroughness that you wouldn’t expect to be paired with how to iron pants or how to love a man. It seems like the girl the mother is talking to should already know how to evaluate a situation and smile appropriately if she is expected to iron clothes. That leads me to wonder how old this girl is because all these lessons seem like they are targeted for different ages or stages in the daughter’s growing up.
I especially liked how the author went into specifics about how to certain things on how to do or not to do. One that stood out to me was when she was instructing her daughter how to smile to people depending on the different degrees to which you like or dislike them. It was interesting to me because it showed the deliberate thoroughness that you wouldn’t expect to be paired with how to iron pants or how to love a man. It seems like the girl the mother is talking to should already know how to evaluate a situation and smile appropriately if she is expected to iron clothes. That leads me to wonder how old this girl is because all these lessons seem like they are targeted for different ages or stages in the daughter’s growing up.
Critical Response #1
Kelly Hanken
Critical Response #1
“Girl,” by Jamaica Kincaid, was a good read. I say that honestly, because it reads like a mix between stream-of-consciousness and a list, and you can practically hear the tired, exasperated, needling voice of the mother-figure the story is about. It’s all one huge run-on sentence, but it fits with what the story’s trying to convey about the relationship between a mother and a daughter.
You can feel the mother’s insistence of “this is how we do things around here” in every line. It’s something most any girl can relate to with an older mother, because they tend to insist on doing things the old-fashioned way and slight anything that might be less than traditional. This is really obvious in all the mentions of the daughter being a “slut” – it isn’t that the daughter actually is, but that she’s doing things that would have gotten her labeled as such when the mother was her age.
I really liked how the story moved from these things about how to wash clothes to mentions of the daughter singing, then saying “don’t sing” even though the daughter doesn’t. It’s an obvious miscommunication between the two characters. The occasional references to the daughter’s “sluttiness” just add build up to the last line, where the mother asks the daughter what kind of woman she’s going to be, if “the baker won’t let near the bread.” It’s all her way of turning the conversation around to “prove” to them both that the daughter isn’t going to be a reputable woman, and it’s done brilliantly with lots of circular logic.
Story #4: Implicit Plot
Kelly Hanken
"Relational Faux Pas"
When Lisa told the group at the cafeteria table, “This is my friend, Danielle,” nobody recognized it as a slight. They smiled and greeted Danielle with friendly waves and how-are-you’s, most of them not even noticing the expression she had on her face when she looked at Lisa. When she said nothing to correct the other girl, they assumed it was nothing and made room for the two of them to sit.
It wasn’t, after all, that Lisa was lying about their being friends; she just tended to leave out one little detail that usually changed how that sentence sounded. Maybe Lisa thought it was an arbitrary detail but Danielle really didn’t see it that way, especially when she tried to grab Lisa’s hand and was summarily shrugged away. It seemed silly, when she thought about it, but still – there really wasn’t much to worry about, but Lisa seemed to be pathologically incapable of just telling people the whole truth.
Danielle supposed that she should have put a stop to this at the beginning of the semester, when Lisa told her parents that she was just “my friend Danielle,” but it hadn’t seemed right at the time. After all, it probably wasn’t something you would say to your parents after the first two weeks of college. Being Lisa’s “friend, Danielle,” to her parents was par for the course.
When Danielle had had no problem introducing Lisa as her girlfriend to her own mother, Lisa had blushed she had smiled and shaken her mother’s hand. She even told Danielle, later, that it was nice to be able to be her girlfriend. But when Danielle had mentioned that it really wasn’t that farfetched to just say it, instead of referring to one another platonically in front of company, Lisa had gotten that far-away look and just kind of nodded. Just kind of.
It was Lisa who pulled Danielle out of her thoughts with a quick hand-hold and a polite headshake. She told the boy across from them that no, she wouldn’t be able to go to the movies with him – the look on his face when Lisa explained that the two of them were going to be having their anniversary dinner that night was priceless.
“You two are together?” someone asked, “Like, together together?”
Lisa shrugged flippantly. “I had to test the waters.”
“Next time,” the boy said, looking a little put out but grinning nonetheless, “Save us guys the trouble and just tell us she’s your girlfriend. Less heartache.”
Lisa grinned and nodded. “Sure. Next time.”
Danielle would have kissed her right then and there but, well, one step at a time.
Story #3: Dramatic Monologue
Kelly Hanken
"The Meaning is Lost"
The day I died, there was a large accident in the subway tunnels. A subway train derailed and crashed through the barrier, into an oncoming train, killing half of the passengers and causing the entire system to jam up. Being that the oncoming train was part of my daily commute, it was logical and almost acceptable that I had died (almost because no loss of life is really acceptable). Being that I had been late coming from work, I had just missed the train.
I had been contemplating dying for a while; well, not so much dying as disappearing off the face of the Earth. My life was dull and boring, with only a few friends and no real relationships, other than one with my girlfriend’s cat and my girlfriend herself, who tended to go off her meds more often than not and wasn’t always the nicest girl to get along with. It would be amazing to simply up and leave – disappear into the mists, go somewhere new and begin a new life.
I had been standing behind the red line, thinking about dying and getting on the next subway, when there was the screech of metal and the crunch of two trains connecting in a brutal fashion. A rising wave of dirt and dust crashed over the entire station from the tunnel, bringing screams from the accident with it. In that dust, I saw my getaway. I saw the world fill with light. This was my chance!
I fought through the crowds of people trying to help, up the stairs and into the street. Word had only just reached the surface and so it wasn’t entirely impossible to slip into the crowd.
So there I was, walking the streets, hearing about the accident that I was certain people would assume I’d died in. I felt free for the first time in twenty-five years. Finally, I could walk away from everything and be my own man. The word was my smoggy, opportunity-filled oyster!
I stepped into a train station, paid for the first train out of town and stood, waiting for this chance to finally fulfill itself. There was a red line here, just like in the subway station, and I took care to stand behind it because I didn’t want my chance to go to waste.
As I said, this was the day I died. What you might think is that I meant it metaphorically; that by “dying,” I meant “disappearing.” Maybe, if you’re supernaturally inclined (or just like movies with twist endings), you imagine that I did die in that accident and that I’m now a ghost unaware of the fact. Maybe you expect the train will crash and I’ll die there, in a little ironic, fatalistic twist.
I’m sorry to say, but none of these are the correct answer. Truth be told, I would have preferred any of these over the way everything did go down, because at least they would make for a decent, meaningful sort of story about life and futility and all that. At least they would have made sense.
But the fact of the matter is that, as the train was approaching the station at that still-deadly speed, my soon-to-be-ex girlfriend, off her meds for three weeks now, furious that I was leaving her and her cat, had followed me from work, through the subway, up the stairs, across town, into the train station, where she promptly shoved me into the oncoming train’s path.
Take what meaning you’d like from all of this, but remember that the only thing I worried about as I fell in front of that hulk of iron, steel and speed was: “I really hope she takes good care of the cat.”
Critical Response #1
A Brief Interview with Hideous Men
The way Wallace starts this story is definitely out of the ordinary. Not many stories begin in the middle so you actually have to catch up and figure out what’s going on, on your own. The description is incredible in this story the way you can really visualize what the arm looks like, it almost grossed me out just reading about it.
The one thing this author does a really great job of near the middle is making you feel bad for Johnny, but then revealing his true character. We get the vibe from him that he’s sort of sleazy and all he cares about is getting women into bed. He lures them in with arm, talking about how embarrassing it is and how ashamed he is of it, yet that is all part of his master plan, to get them to feel bad for him.
The author also does a really great job of telling this story so that we’re not really sure if we should believe the main character or not. He almost seems like he’s lying but part of us wants to believe his whole sob story.
They say the title is the window into the soul of the piece and in this story it is extremely true. A Brief Interview with Hideous Men right away tells us that this man is going to be a little sleazy. We already get the impression of this before we start to read the story, which could be a bad thing because we are assuming before reading which isn’t always a great idea.
I really like how you Wallace used long, run-on sentences to make the story feel like an actual interview. When most people are being interviewed, they just answer the question and move on. But Johnny keeps going off on these tangents about his arm and women and we’re not really sure what the interviewer asked, it’s left up to our imaginations.
The way Wallace starts this story is definitely out of the ordinary. Not many stories begin in the middle so you actually have to catch up and figure out what’s going on, on your own. The description is incredible in this story the way you can really visualize what the arm looks like, it almost grossed me out just reading about it.
The one thing this author does a really great job of near the middle is making you feel bad for Johnny, but then revealing his true character. We get the vibe from him that he’s sort of sleazy and all he cares about is getting women into bed. He lures them in with arm, talking about how embarrassing it is and how ashamed he is of it, yet that is all part of his master plan, to get them to feel bad for him.
The author also does a really great job of telling this story so that we’re not really sure if we should believe the main character or not. He almost seems like he’s lying but part of us wants to believe his whole sob story.
They say the title is the window into the soul of the piece and in this story it is extremely true. A Brief Interview with Hideous Men right away tells us that this man is going to be a little sleazy. We already get the impression of this before we start to read the story, which could be a bad thing because we are assuming before reading which isn’t always a great idea.
I really like how you Wallace used long, run-on sentences to make the story feel like an actual interview. When most people are being interviewed, they just answer the question and move on. But Johnny keeps going off on these tangents about his arm and women and we’re not really sure what the interviewer asked, it’s left up to our imaginations.
Story #3: Dramatic Monologue
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
What Happened
The room was white. And when I say white I don’t mean just blank like white, I mean blinding, shield your eyes white. I was in a paper gown in a doctor’s office sitting on one of those padded chairs. A woman in a white (I mean white) coat came over and shined a light in my eyes; as if that room wasn’t bright enough already. I turned my head away and flinched back from her. She came toward me again, but I pushed away from the chair and sidestepped away from her. She looked surprised and then comforting. She told me we were almost done. She eased me back down into the chair and I asked her where I was. The hospital. What happened? You were raped. No I wasn’t. Yes you were. I don't remember.
She put her hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me back in the reclining chair. I looked up and the overhead light burned my eyes and flashed my consciousness back. I had been at a party. The room I was in upstairs was white like the hospital room. I woke up flat on my back staring at the ceiling. I was on a bed and it felt like the mattress was sucking me in, pulling me down farther and farther with the plush comforter. I looked down at myself. My blouse was torn, my skirt was around my ankles and the sheet was the only thing covering me. I sat up slowly, my arms straining with the effort. I looked down to see fingerprint bruises covering my upper arms. My head pounded and I pressed the heel of my hand above my right eye. The door opened slowly and I looked up to see a man buttoning his jeans. Good time, babe, he said, flashing his rows of absolutely perfect and, of course, brilliantly white teeth. Great time, he said. But I gotta get to work.
I had never seen him before in my life.
The doctor smoothed the hair back from my head and brought me back to the hospital room. I felt a throbbing pain. He hit me pretty hard, she said. I had a black eye, too. I stared at her. You remember, don’t you? She said there were some police officers outside who wanted to talk to me. I swallowed against the lump in my throat as she pressed gauze to my forehead. I felt the blood as it oozed through the cloth. There was a knock on the door and a man and woman came in saying that they dealt specifically with rape victims. The woman came up and held my hand. The man looked at me and smiled a strangely familiar smile.
They had some questions for me.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
What Happened
The room was white. And when I say white I don’t mean just blank like white, I mean blinding, shield your eyes white. I was in a paper gown in a doctor’s office sitting on one of those padded chairs. A woman in a white (I mean white) coat came over and shined a light in my eyes; as if that room wasn’t bright enough already. I turned my head away and flinched back from her. She came toward me again, but I pushed away from the chair and sidestepped away from her. She looked surprised and then comforting. She told me we were almost done. She eased me back down into the chair and I asked her where I was. The hospital. What happened? You were raped. No I wasn’t. Yes you were. I don't remember.
She put her hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me back in the reclining chair. I looked up and the overhead light burned my eyes and flashed my consciousness back. I had been at a party. The room I was in upstairs was white like the hospital room. I woke up flat on my back staring at the ceiling. I was on a bed and it felt like the mattress was sucking me in, pulling me down farther and farther with the plush comforter. I looked down at myself. My blouse was torn, my skirt was around my ankles and the sheet was the only thing covering me. I sat up slowly, my arms straining with the effort. I looked down to see fingerprint bruises covering my upper arms. My head pounded and I pressed the heel of my hand above my right eye. The door opened slowly and I looked up to see a man buttoning his jeans. Good time, babe, he said, flashing his rows of absolutely perfect and, of course, brilliantly white teeth. Great time, he said. But I gotta get to work.
I had never seen him before in my life.
The doctor smoothed the hair back from my head and brought me back to the hospital room. I felt a throbbing pain. He hit me pretty hard, she said. I had a black eye, too. I stared at her. You remember, don’t you? She said there were some police officers outside who wanted to talk to me. I swallowed against the lump in my throat as she pressed gauze to my forehead. I felt the blood as it oozed through the cloth. There was a knock on the door and a man and woman came in saying that they dealt specifically with rape victims. The woman came up and held my hand. The man looked at me and smiled a strangely familiar smile.
They had some questions for me.
Critical Response #1
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
Critical Response
David Foster Wallace’s “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” was really interestingly written to me. The title implies that, as an interview, the reader may be presented with two voices: one as the interviewer asking questions and one as the interviewee answering them. This story, however, was all in one voice of the interviewee and there are only blank lines where the questions should be. In doing this, Wallace leaves it up to the reader to develop their own ideas of what the question may have been to produce the kind of answers we hear.
The character in the story, Johnny One Arm, is extremely strange. Wallace writes his answers to truly resemble an interview, with longer sentences, running on as if in honest conversation. Also, the way Johnny One Arm speaks is something to look at. He uses his arm as a way to attract women to him and gain their sympathy, only to turn around and use it against them to make them sleep with him. He calls his disfigured arm and “asset” because of this. I think that is disgustingly realistic of what some people would do in that situation.
Something else that struck me was that Wallace capitalized every word that was used in an interaction between Johnny One Arm and the girls he tries to convince to go to bed with him. I am not sure why Wallace does this, but it does do something. Capitalization draws the reader’s attention more to those words, implying some kind of extra importance to them. I think this may be the case for Wallace, or it may be a simple distinction between everything else that is written.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
Critical Response
David Foster Wallace’s “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” was really interestingly written to me. The title implies that, as an interview, the reader may be presented with two voices: one as the interviewer asking questions and one as the interviewee answering them. This story, however, was all in one voice of the interviewee and there are only blank lines where the questions should be. In doing this, Wallace leaves it up to the reader to develop their own ideas of what the question may have been to produce the kind of answers we hear.
The character in the story, Johnny One Arm, is extremely strange. Wallace writes his answers to truly resemble an interview, with longer sentences, running on as if in honest conversation. Also, the way Johnny One Arm speaks is something to look at. He uses his arm as a way to attract women to him and gain their sympathy, only to turn around and use it against them to make them sleep with him. He calls his disfigured arm and “asset” because of this. I think that is disgustingly realistic of what some people would do in that situation.
Something else that struck me was that Wallace capitalized every word that was used in an interaction between Johnny One Arm and the girls he tries to convince to go to bed with him. I am not sure why Wallace does this, but it does do something. Capitalization draws the reader’s attention more to those words, implying some kind of extra importance to them. I think this may be the case for Wallace, or it may be a simple distinction between everything else that is written.
Memoir
Memoir
By: Matt Carroll
It says take one daily as needed.
I stepped off the train with my briefcase in hand. It’s funny how such an item fits perfectly in my hand and conceals my secrets, but it was a beautiful day and that’s something I wouldn’t forget. I missed my wife. I haven’t seen her in days because she’s away on business or something like that.
The sights and sounds of the city are worth remembering. The buses pass so closely to the sidewalk I walk down. There are people on their phones or with earphones in their ears, text messaging, walking briskly in the cool morning air.
The double doors to my office open when I step in front of them. I’m an important man and I get to walk right past security. I smile as I walk to the private executive elevator. It crawls up the side of the building and I’m enclosed inside able to look out the glass case at the people below. That’s worth remembering.
The doors of the elevator open to the busy offices on the top floor. I smile as I walk by grabbing a cup of coffee as I go. Brittany is working. She is my secretary. Tall, brunette, emerald green eyes, fresh out of college, and I’m having an affair with her. I am ashamed and wish it was something I could forget.
“Good morning Mr. Walsh.” Her smile is subtle like a secret we only know. I smile back ashamed and at the same time thinking about her in ways I wouldn’t want my wife to discover.
The rest of the office begins to settle down into their offices and the situation unfolds to where Brittany is the only person that can hear my voice.
“Dinner tonight?” I asked her.
“Yes, at my place.” She insisted. I smiled, and once I turned I stepped funny causing me to drop my briefcase to the side.
It crashed to the floor with the contents splashing everywhere on the floor. Brittany came from behind her desk and helped me gather the folders and papers scattered across the floor. I started to pile the papers back into the case when Brittany came across an orange prescription bottle that read: Lethologica, take one daily as needed.
“What’s this?” She asked me.
“It’s just a prescription my doctor gave me for stress.” She cradled the bottle in her hand and gave it back to me. I shamefully tucked it away in my briefcase and walked towards my office. I couldn’t explain why I was sweating and panting. I sat down at my desk staring across the desk that had books and papers lying across it. There was so much paper on my desk I forgot what everything was for.
Lethologica. I forgot what the pills were for, but I was certain that when a moment came that I needed to take the prescribed pill as needed I would take it as recommended.
I did some work and kept my mind occupied until lunch.
Brittany and I went across the street to the park and ate our sandwiches feeding the crust to the birds. I felt like I was in high school playing hooky. I felt guilty and at the same time it was invigorating.
“Are you staying for the night?” She asked me.
“I can’t, just in case my wife comes back.” Brittany frowned and tossed another piece of the crust as we watched the pigeons eat it.
“You know she’s not coming back.”
I smiled at her. She was young and she couldn’t understand what we were doing, but I did like being around her. It was like she filled a void my wife now couldn’t.
Worked ended and the office was empty except for us. We took separate taxis to her apartment.
We opened a bottle of white wine and the guilt started to crawl into my heart. We started to kiss after dinner and one thing became another until I was lying next to her in the early hours of the morning. We had work tomorrow and my wife could be coming home at any moment.
“Brittany, I have to go.” I whispered into her ear. She rolled over and faced me.
With a groggy whisper she spoke. “I wish for one night you would stay.” She smiled at me.
“I know, but my wife.” I kissed her forehead and headed towards the street to call a taxi.
On the drive home there were plenty of nice things to remember. The way the fog hit the taxi. The way the mist drifted over the tall pines that lined my driveway.
The driveway was empty. The lights were off in the entire house. It looked empty and cold.
I opened the door to my taxi, grabbed my briefcase, paid the cabby, and watched it drive away until the headlights disappeared. For the second time today I dropped the briefcase sending all the contents scattering over my perfectly manicured grass. I reached for the papers and putting them back in the case.
I reached for a manila folder and papers fell out. They looked important.
My eyes scanned across the paperwork. My heart fluttered faster and faster. I began to sweat. My breath grew faster.
They were divorce papers over two months old. My wife filed divorce against me citing a “No-Fault” divorce.
I saw the pills and suddenly remembered what they were for. Lethologica: a pill meant for targeting and eliminating bad memories you hope to forget. I took one pill as needed as prescribed.
I woke up the next morning.
I wondered when my wife would return. I missed her and I haven’t seen her in days because she’s away on business or something like that. I also had to find a way to keep the affair I’ve been involved with for the past three weeks under wraps. I grabbed my briefcase as I stepped off the train and headed toward work noting all the things worth remembering like the people walking down the street.
Hourglass
Hourglass
By Matt Carroll
It’s my birthday so they have to listen to me.
I tell them about the championship game and how everyone actually paid attention to me, back when I was interesting, and back when people cared. I know they really don’t want to listen to me, but I continue anyway.
The stadium was packed and the roar of the crowd made the entire stadium shake. The grass was manicured to perfection. Our uniforms were neat without wrinkles. My face was put on the front page of the newspaper a million times that year. We were supposed to lose, but our fans didn’t care.
I am an old man now. I can understand why it’s so hard for them to understand I used to be strong because of the wrinkles age bombarded me with, or the weight I gained. I am so weak and fragile now.
I was a hero then. When I walked into the room I commanded respect. When I went to the dances I never stood alone. After a good game I got pats on the back from people I never met in my life, but they all knew my name.
I called the cadence at the line-of-scrimmage. I was the quarterback and the captain. My eyes scanned the eight man box at the opposing team. I checked the coverage the defensive backs were trying to hide. They couldn’t stem me this game because the whole world was slow to me. This is my world.
We called it the zone back when I played football, but no matter what the name is today I was in it. The ball was snapped. The world became slower. It was like I knew everyone’s intensions. I saw everything. The score was 17-21. A field-goal wasn’t enough and a touchdown would win it. 4th and Goal on their ten yard line. Five seconds left in the game. It’s every quarterback’s dream and worst nightmare. I wanted the football. I wanted to win this game.
I checked my first option in the right corner of the endzone. He was covered and I could feel the blitz coming as the pocket of offensive linemen started to collapse around me. I checked my second option and he had fallen to the ground. My third option was nowhere to be seen.
The defender lined up to tackle me. He was bigger than me, but I lowered my shoulder, tucking the football away, and attacked him head on. The collision sounded like a thunderclap and he fell to his back. The stadium roared and shook.
They all held their breath as I ran for the goal line. The entire defense was after me like a pack of wild dogs attacking their prey, but I wasn’t scared because I had been in this situation a million times in my life. Always the underdog everyone adored.
I collided with bodies and fell to the ground diving forward. I was unsure if I crossed the goal line, if I broke the plain, but once I heard the gasps of the crowd followed by cheering that made my heart beat faster I knew I made it. We won the game.
Standing to my feet I saw the fans rush the field. I was their hero.
I blew out all seventy three of my candles after my long winded story. They may not have cared, but they are my family and it’s my birthday so they have to listen to me.
Later in the night I clutch my cane near the dance floor. It’s hard for them to believe their old father and grandfather was once someone important. That I was someone who was proactive and made decisions that solely decided victory or defeat. I’ve made a lot of those decisions in my day, but the football days are the ones I miss the miss.
Yes, I was a grandfather and father to some of them, but to one of them I was a great grandfather.
My great granddaughter is five years old and in my old age she sees something different. She sees a sage where everyone else sees an old man. She sees someone who knows so much more than she could ever know. She loves me and to her I am strong.
I was alone when she walked up.
“Papa, dance with me.” She insists. I am sitting at a table near the hardwood dance floor.
“Okay my dear.” I smile at her. I clutch my cane again as I stand. My knees are aching, but I don’t care when I see her smile.
She stands on my feet as we dance. At least to one person I am not a frail old man who rambles about the old days. It’s not interesting to you at all because you’re thinking about your old dreams.
Even when the song changes she still wants to dance with me.
Story #4: Implicit Plot
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
I Want You
The gun felt heavy in my hand as I made my way through the crowd. I decided on my simple revolver for this one, but it still felt like it was going to rip through the bottom of my coat pocket. I looked around for her everywhere. I had assumed she would be by the bar since she wasn’t much of a dancer. The bright lights of the club bounced off of the bodies glistening with sweat and the music drummed in my ears. I loosened my tie.
I spotted her as she was coming out of the bathroom. Just as I thought, she was heading back to the bar. I moved through the packs of people around the back side of the dance floor until I got to the bar. I needed a beer. I watched her sip on her martini as the bartender flirted with her. What was she thinking? Marcus would kill her himself if he saw this. I walked up behind her.
“You look like you’re having fun,” I whispered in her ear as I pressed the barrel of my gun in the small of her back. “Marcus has been waiting. You’re late.”
I led her away from the bar and the bartender, who stood leaning over the bar wondering what just happened, and along the wall of the club. She walked without a word. She knew what she was in for. I kept my hand on her shoulder and turned her out the back door into the alley. It was dark and damp and her red dress stood out brilliantly against the building wall.
“How did you know where I was?” she grinned and grabbed hold of my tie.
“You’re not that hard to figure out,” I smirked.
She yanked on my tie and pulled me into her. I pulled my hand out of my pocket and let my coat cradle the gun. I don’t know why I ever thought this plan would work.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
I Want You
The gun felt heavy in my hand as I made my way through the crowd. I decided on my simple revolver for this one, but it still felt like it was going to rip through the bottom of my coat pocket. I looked around for her everywhere. I had assumed she would be by the bar since she wasn’t much of a dancer. The bright lights of the club bounced off of the bodies glistening with sweat and the music drummed in my ears. I loosened my tie.
I spotted her as she was coming out of the bathroom. Just as I thought, she was heading back to the bar. I moved through the packs of people around the back side of the dance floor until I got to the bar. I needed a beer. I watched her sip on her martini as the bartender flirted with her. What was she thinking? Marcus would kill her himself if he saw this. I walked up behind her.
“You look like you’re having fun,” I whispered in her ear as I pressed the barrel of my gun in the small of her back. “Marcus has been waiting. You’re late.”
I led her away from the bar and the bartender, who stood leaning over the bar wondering what just happened, and along the wall of the club. She walked without a word. She knew what she was in for. I kept my hand on her shoulder and turned her out the back door into the alley. It was dark and damp and her red dress stood out brilliantly against the building wall.
“How did you know where I was?” she grinned and grabbed hold of my tie.
“You’re not that hard to figure out,” I smirked.
She yanked on my tie and pulled me into her. I pulled my hand out of my pocket and let my coat cradle the gun. I don’t know why I ever thought this plan would work.
Wolves of God by Z. Goldstein
“On the day She died, people said that God died with Her. At the beginning of Time the Father gave us the Mother. When the seas rose, it was said that we drowned Her after we raped her. This was the sin that murdered God, the failure of the holy volition of Mankind. Some said that God took the land away from us. Others that She was angered at our abuse of Her treasures and the slaughter of Her kin, the flora and fauna driven to extinction by the ruthless excesses of unchecked consumerism. And then there were those men and women who believed that the cause of this great end, the true scapegoat of all this misery and desolation was the dark angel Satan himself. They argued that the Lord’s powers had become weakened by the sins of humanity, the will of the Mother world eroded through constant abuse and degradation. It was because of the children of men that the devil grew strong enough to destroy Her.” The Consular spoke with a despondent conviction denoting a passive acceptance of the prior sins of his race.
The newly accepted Disciple listened attentively and then paused in deep reflection of the holy man’s words. He thought his response through carefully, fully aware of the ramifications of speaking noise without purpose. “When I was seven years old my father told me the tale of how our ancestors drowned. He showed me their words preserved electronically within the buxom of Luna. I looked upon the writings of my father’s great-grandfather and I wept at first. He was a man torn by the breadth of the gap between his convictions and his experiences. In his time alive he watched the waves come over the mountains and into the cities and valleys. He was one of the last survivors to stand on Her soil. He loved God, though he had naught but anger in his heart. Most of all, he hated men. After the Son had died...he could not fathom how we could not have learned. We had to kill Her first. He hated men because they had killed her. This caused him to hate himself.”
The Consular paused, then spoke: “Do you believe She was angered?”
“No. She was helpless at the hands of our excesses. Lord Plato would have been ashamed.” answered the Disciple.
“At the excess, He [Plato] would. As for the deficiency, if He should have seen it, he would have regretted his profession in its entirety.” said the Consular. A sad, thin smile formed at the edges of his mouth.
“Master, it was not until years later that I realized why my ancestor chose to direct his anger towards himself. It was because of society. He hated himself for his participation in what he believed to be an unholy arrangement between inborn greed, the false free market and the perversion of Her religions. He reasoned that it all began with society.”
“But what formed society...in the beginning?”
“Religion.”
“Though he...loved God, as you say?”
“He loved God. He hated organized religion. He would have hated...what I am participating in now.”
“Would he have hated you for believing in the appointed servants of the God he loved?”
At this the Disciple hesitated, then thought quietly. After a few moments, he answered: “Who appointed them—Fusion barons, politicians, pirate kings or military hegemonies, pseudo-religious dictatorships like our own?”
“Once, long ago a group of forward-thinking intellectual men had a silly idea that they could separate the governments and the religions of mankind. They tried to create a government of the people...under God. They made a paradoxical distinction between holy and secular spirituality. For millennia, humanity had marched blind without comprehending the basic truth that spirituality is a deeply personal affair that may or may not involve communion with God in any variation. It was a magnificent theorem, though it did not survive long enough to be of much remembrance. It is something of the oral tales, this Land of the Free as it was called.”
The Disciple fathomed the Master’s chronicle of this lost nation of humanity. It was a free land...freedom unto excess. “In his worst moments, my ancestor decreed that the free market was the assemblage of Satanic ideology. He felt it to be a violation of God’s will. So, he strove to destroy it. Terrorist—that was what he was called by Her governments. He thought himself...a savior in his later, more deranged years. He thought he was...Her savior. He even writes of targeting the Antichrist, and becoming hopelessly frustrated because there were far too many candidates in his mind to choose from.”
The Consular studied his pupil, the calmness with which he spoke. He was under control. He had come to terms with the violence and the blood spilt in the name of the Lord. The Master spoke: “Do you approve of the jihads of your ancestors?”
“No. But I understand why he acted as he did. In the end, I can only imagine he faced the waters of his death with relief and jubilation.”
“This Land of the Free Market was called united under God.”
“How can we be free if we are bound by the shackles of the holy? A free world cannot be holy—a holy world surely cannot be free. This vision...was doomed to fail.”
“It failed because of men. It failed because men perverted the teachings of God unto the profit and power of their own design. This happened because men and women were free to worship as they saw fit. There was no holy control...guidance, if you will.”
Hearing these words, the first stir of agitation peaked in the Disciple’s throat: “Guidance, Master...unto enslavement to foolish dogmas and holy writ? Where does it end? The taint of slavery runs deep throughout the pages of the Bible—your censors cannot hide that from the youth, though you try.”
The Consular remained serene. He spoke deliberately: “The free men and women of this dead civilization once used the Bible to justify the taking of slaves from a foreign land. They ignored certain parts and focused on others. They used selective interpretation to validate their short-term goals, which could only be accomplished through a truly, brutally free market. You see, religion is a mold. Like...government. The two must always exist and one cannot subsist without the frame of the other. Everything depends on what we choose to shape those molds into—this is the essence of control...the crux of holy guidance.”
At this the Disciple laughed. The Consular frowned. He could not understand. Were his words somehow mistaken as jest? Nonetheless, he waited patiently until his pupil replied: “Forgive me, Master. Do you believe because your subjects are trained to see the holy and the spiritual on like terms that they have no spiritual lives independent of your sermons?”
“My son, anarchy and spirituality are not so far apart without faith to bind it all together. Without a hierarchy in religion you have no basis for dictating the proper behavior in any society. Without God, men would cut each other down without discretion or thought. There would be no moral law. And Lord Plato understood that religion was the basis for proper social conduct.”
The Disciple stared into his Master’s eyes. “Lord Plato did not believe in the same God that you do.”
“In his heart, he knew the pagan ways and false gods of his Greek temples were only methods of control until the population was ready for the fruition of the true faith.”
Even as the Master spoke these words something changed in the pupil. The Disciple knew he could never look upon the face of his teacher the same way again. Now it was the younger who was smiling. “Thank you Master. Finally, I understand the trials of my ancestor.”
The Consular was taken aback. He felt as if his student had gone, and another man was sitting before him—a different man. “My son, I have noticed patterns in your speech. Placements of certain words, tones and use of expressions—are you having any...doubts which you wish to share with me?”
“No Master, no doubts.” The Consular knew these words were true as he heard them. No doubt. The teacher was troubled by these revelations. The pupil continued: “My ancestor had a silly idea. He believed that the only way to save Her was to introduce...anarchy into the populace. The governments condemned him and the armies hunted him. In one of the last entries he wrote, he likened the grip of society to a ball of yarn rolling down a tilted table. The tilt is so slight that one cannot discern it—like a pebble falling into a vast, dark ocean. Eventually, the yarn will either unravel before it falls off the edge or fall off and...die, as he put it. He wanted to speed up the process of unraveling. He thought that society would end when the yarn ran out.”
“What happened instead?” queried the Consular.
“We fell off the edge.”
The Master looked confused. “My student, does the yarn not signify the decay of society?”
“No, Master. The yarn represents the ignorance of humanity.”
“Do you share the convictions of your ancient kin?”
“My ancestors were...misled. We were all misled—told an illusion as if it were truth before we were old enough to discern the difference.”
“What illusion, my son?”
The Disciple smiled again thoughtfully, his expression betraying sincerity with no arrogance. “Faith. I refuse to believe that spirituality and religion are one and the same.”
“Do you love God as your ancestor did?”
“Faith is control. Control depends upon the illusion that faith is reality. I have often heard you speak of guidance and control as if they were the same, Master. You control the cast but the mold is only there because people believe in it—in essence, all your powers exist as puppets and shadows do. You have no real authority, your decrees ring as hollow out across the universe now as they did when She was still living and nurturing us. No, I understand why my ancestor loved God. He did not have a choice—he clung to the deception, feeding off it, defining his whole reality by its demented sway. His mind was a bastion, and the wolves were already inside the keep. There was no hope for him, like so many to this day. But my perspective is different. I do not love God. I reserve my affections for the living and the real.”
“You speak blasphemy, child.”
“That word no longer holds any meaning in my heart.”
“If you persist in this heresy, you must leave us.”
“Yes Master, I will leave. God is not longer my shepherd—God...is the wolf. We are the castle. I must find my own way through the valley of darkness. Farewell, milord. If I see you in Hell, I’ll know we were both mistaken.”
The newly accepted Disciple listened attentively and then paused in deep reflection of the holy man’s words. He thought his response through carefully, fully aware of the ramifications of speaking noise without purpose. “When I was seven years old my father told me the tale of how our ancestors drowned. He showed me their words preserved electronically within the buxom of Luna. I looked upon the writings of my father’s great-grandfather and I wept at first. He was a man torn by the breadth of the gap between his convictions and his experiences. In his time alive he watched the waves come over the mountains and into the cities and valleys. He was one of the last survivors to stand on Her soil. He loved God, though he had naught but anger in his heart. Most of all, he hated men. After the Son had died...he could not fathom how we could not have learned. We had to kill Her first. He hated men because they had killed her. This caused him to hate himself.”
The Consular paused, then spoke: “Do you believe She was angered?”
“No. She was helpless at the hands of our excesses. Lord Plato would have been ashamed.” answered the Disciple.
“At the excess, He [Plato] would. As for the deficiency, if He should have seen it, he would have regretted his profession in its entirety.” said the Consular. A sad, thin smile formed at the edges of his mouth.
“Master, it was not until years later that I realized why my ancestor chose to direct his anger towards himself. It was because of society. He hated himself for his participation in what he believed to be an unholy arrangement between inborn greed, the false free market and the perversion of Her religions. He reasoned that it all began with society.”
“But what formed society...in the beginning?”
“Religion.”
“Though he...loved God, as you say?”
“He loved God. He hated organized religion. He would have hated...what I am participating in now.”
“Would he have hated you for believing in the appointed servants of the God he loved?”
At this the Disciple hesitated, then thought quietly. After a few moments, he answered: “Who appointed them—Fusion barons, politicians, pirate kings or military hegemonies, pseudo-religious dictatorships like our own?”
“Once, long ago a group of forward-thinking intellectual men had a silly idea that they could separate the governments and the religions of mankind. They tried to create a government of the people...under God. They made a paradoxical distinction between holy and secular spirituality. For millennia, humanity had marched blind without comprehending the basic truth that spirituality is a deeply personal affair that may or may not involve communion with God in any variation. It was a magnificent theorem, though it did not survive long enough to be of much remembrance. It is something of the oral tales, this Land of the Free as it was called.”
The Disciple fathomed the Master’s chronicle of this lost nation of humanity. It was a free land...freedom unto excess. “In his worst moments, my ancestor decreed that the free market was the assemblage of Satanic ideology. He felt it to be a violation of God’s will. So, he strove to destroy it. Terrorist—that was what he was called by Her governments. He thought himself...a savior in his later, more deranged years. He thought he was...Her savior. He even writes of targeting the Antichrist, and becoming hopelessly frustrated because there were far too many candidates in his mind to choose from.”
The Consular studied his pupil, the calmness with which he spoke. He was under control. He had come to terms with the violence and the blood spilt in the name of the Lord. The Master spoke: “Do you approve of the jihads of your ancestors?”
“No. But I understand why he acted as he did. In the end, I can only imagine he faced the waters of his death with relief and jubilation.”
“This Land of the Free Market was called united under God.”
“How can we be free if we are bound by the shackles of the holy? A free world cannot be holy—a holy world surely cannot be free. This vision...was doomed to fail.”
“It failed because of men. It failed because men perverted the teachings of God unto the profit and power of their own design. This happened because men and women were free to worship as they saw fit. There was no holy control...guidance, if you will.”
Hearing these words, the first stir of agitation peaked in the Disciple’s throat: “Guidance, Master...unto enslavement to foolish dogmas and holy writ? Where does it end? The taint of slavery runs deep throughout the pages of the Bible—your censors cannot hide that from the youth, though you try.”
The Consular remained serene. He spoke deliberately: “The free men and women of this dead civilization once used the Bible to justify the taking of slaves from a foreign land. They ignored certain parts and focused on others. They used selective interpretation to validate their short-term goals, which could only be accomplished through a truly, brutally free market. You see, religion is a mold. Like...government. The two must always exist and one cannot subsist without the frame of the other. Everything depends on what we choose to shape those molds into—this is the essence of control...the crux of holy guidance.”
At this the Disciple laughed. The Consular frowned. He could not understand. Were his words somehow mistaken as jest? Nonetheless, he waited patiently until his pupil replied: “Forgive me, Master. Do you believe because your subjects are trained to see the holy and the spiritual on like terms that they have no spiritual lives independent of your sermons?”
“My son, anarchy and spirituality are not so far apart without faith to bind it all together. Without a hierarchy in religion you have no basis for dictating the proper behavior in any society. Without God, men would cut each other down without discretion or thought. There would be no moral law. And Lord Plato understood that religion was the basis for proper social conduct.”
The Disciple stared into his Master’s eyes. “Lord Plato did not believe in the same God that you do.”
“In his heart, he knew the pagan ways and false gods of his Greek temples were only methods of control until the population was ready for the fruition of the true faith.”
Even as the Master spoke these words something changed in the pupil. The Disciple knew he could never look upon the face of his teacher the same way again. Now it was the younger who was smiling. “Thank you Master. Finally, I understand the trials of my ancestor.”
The Consular was taken aback. He felt as if his student had gone, and another man was sitting before him—a different man. “My son, I have noticed patterns in your speech. Placements of certain words, tones and use of expressions—are you having any...doubts which you wish to share with me?”
“No Master, no doubts.” The Consular knew these words were true as he heard them. No doubt. The teacher was troubled by these revelations. The pupil continued: “My ancestor had a silly idea. He believed that the only way to save Her was to introduce...anarchy into the populace. The governments condemned him and the armies hunted him. In one of the last entries he wrote, he likened the grip of society to a ball of yarn rolling down a tilted table. The tilt is so slight that one cannot discern it—like a pebble falling into a vast, dark ocean. Eventually, the yarn will either unravel before it falls off the edge or fall off and...die, as he put it. He wanted to speed up the process of unraveling. He thought that society would end when the yarn ran out.”
“What happened instead?” queried the Consular.
“We fell off the edge.”
The Master looked confused. “My student, does the yarn not signify the decay of society?”
“No, Master. The yarn represents the ignorance of humanity.”
“Do you share the convictions of your ancient kin?”
“My ancestors were...misled. We were all misled—told an illusion as if it were truth before we were old enough to discern the difference.”
“What illusion, my son?”
The Disciple smiled again thoughtfully, his expression betraying sincerity with no arrogance. “Faith. I refuse to believe that spirituality and religion are one and the same.”
“Do you love God as your ancestor did?”
“Faith is control. Control depends upon the illusion that faith is reality. I have often heard you speak of guidance and control as if they were the same, Master. You control the cast but the mold is only there because people believe in it—in essence, all your powers exist as puppets and shadows do. You have no real authority, your decrees ring as hollow out across the universe now as they did when She was still living and nurturing us. No, I understand why my ancestor loved God. He did not have a choice—he clung to the deception, feeding off it, defining his whole reality by its demented sway. His mind was a bastion, and the wolves were already inside the keep. There was no hope for him, like so many to this day. But my perspective is different. I do not love God. I reserve my affections for the living and the real.”
“You speak blasphemy, child.”
“That word no longer holds any meaning in my heart.”
“If you persist in this heresy, you must leave us.”
“Yes Master, I will leave. God is not longer my shepherd—God...is the wolf. We are the castle. I must find my own way through the valley of darkness. Farewell, milord. If I see you in Hell, I’ll know we were both mistaken.”
The Sovereign and the Damned by Z. Goldstein
You know they used to say that armies would never go fully mercenary. Said they were always going to be loyal to some sovereign or another. Thing is, people can’t see ahead of the curve, they can’t think why what with all our political triumphs and social progressions we need war. Since the beginning of time men (and a few women) have been looking for ways to justify killing each other. So society evolves. Now we are no longer killing each other over mating rights or food or infantile disputes of manhood. No, now we are killing because of religion. Because of God. The Muslims preach jihad on the infidels and the Christians condemn the Jews to hell. But you know the thing about gods? They are flexible. They mold to whatever you need them to be. Whatever your genocidal goals, there is a god to back you up. See, men need hope. Even if something is totally irrational, they will believe it so long as it sustains them in whatever struggle they face. It’s like...sovereignty. Somewhere down the timeline they got it into people’s heads this idea of nationalism. This is not a natural result; it was a propelled event in history. A drop in the pond, but still so significant. Just think, all the men who died in service of an idea—a country...what a concept. But you see that’s just an excuse. In the original societies, it was only tribes. Small bands of fifty and sixty men fighting over territory. Like city street gangs. I always said the gang culture was most in tune with the natural instincts and inclinations of men. Now, here’s the poetic part, see. As society evolves and consequently the power of the sovereign entity (which is all puppets and shadows) multiplies, it becomes harder and harder to kill. More importantly, it’s the justification for the kill. But that doesn’t stop us. So we come up with more and more ingenious and diabolical ways of reaping one another; poison the fruit you feed to the children, play deity and burn people’s eyes out of their skulls, feed a needled toxin into the flesh and listen to the lungs drown. It’s...creativity, really. But the main point is that it doesn’t matter how we kill one another. What matters is that it gets done. And since it is after all wholly inevitable, why shouldn’t it be profitable like every other damn thing in the universe? Do you think me...cold? Callous? We’d all like to believe that we are unique and special little petals of the rose. In actuality, we are the thorns. We just try to clean up nice now and again. Mostly for the women. I was always fascinated by women; the power that they can wield, and the limitations on that power by particular spheres of influence. I have an interesting theory. See, I think that if women had all the power, there would be lasting peace in all the realms of mankind. They’re just more protective of life. Remember history. The earliest prize of conquest for the all-male invading army was pillage and rape. In my experience I have found these sadistic urges to be largely foreign in the minds of women. This, my mentor explained, was the reason for the mainstream religious demonization of the female form and spirit. In the original tale of Genesis, haven’t you ever wondered why it was Eve who was tempted? When foolishly visionary men forged manuscripts of the Old Testament, they knew they wanted a male-dominated controlling institution. Thus the temptation of Eve represents the failure of women to follow and act unto the word of God. This way, war can still continue, and men could continue to profit from it. This profit was not always monetary, but it was always in the form of power. Fast forward...now, we are here. We control the foreign policy of nations and shape the fates of men. And yes, this too is all about progression. Evolution. We’re the future, see. The future of power. And we were here before any of them could even tell the difference.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Dramatic Monologue
A Tragedy of Mixed Identities?
Please don’t stick that needle in my arm. Ow, that hurts! Can you please tell me why you are drawing blood, I haven’t done anything wrong.
I really don’t understand why I’m here, I mean you clearly must have the wrong person. Yes my name is Anna Smith, but think about how common that name is, it is a possibility you got the wrong girl. Yes, I do live in Brooklyn, but so does the rest of the population. Okay, you have asked me so many questions I can’t even keep track any more, so how bout I ask you some. Why the hell are you looking at me like I’m some crazy person? Huh? Don’t divert your eyes from me, I want an answer!
Look around you doc, do I look like any of these people? And please be honest, I don’t have circles around my eyes, my blood was clean, I’m not on drugs right now, all I’m trying to do is have an honest conversation with you but you can’t even give me enough courtesy to look me in the eye.
Look, these cuts on my arms aren’t from a razor, I told you, I had bug bites that I itched to the point of my arms being raw. Fine, don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. I don’t cut to feel like I have some control in my life or whatever the reason people cut is, I have plenty of control over everything I do. I don’t need an outlet and if I get frustrated I go to the gym or something to work off my anger. So I’m not sure whom you’re getting your information from about me but they are mistakenly wrong. And don’t give me that shit that just because I talk to myself I’m a schizo, there are So many people that talk out loud to themselves and I just happen to be one of them. I mean come on doc, you probably even talk to yourself if you’ve got something on your mind you need to get off your chest and there’s no one around. How did you know about that incident? I was by myself in the bathroom; no one was around me so you must just be a lucky guesser. Would you please just listen to me! I’m not supposed to be here! I should be at home doing my math homework for class tomorrow, because that’s what I do; I’m a STUDENT! Not some crazy person who takes drugs and fucks herself up.
What kind of dream did I have last night? Your pretty typical, standard dream. I was floating among the stars, sitting in the milky way (which tastes like chocolate by the way) and I was having an extremely interesting conversation with my grandmother. I believe we were discussing the moon. Stop it! There is nothing weird or abnormal about that, it wasn’t drug induced and if you weren’t such a quack you’d be able to see that clear as day.
My home life? My dad left us when I was six and my mom has floated in and out of mental hospitals for a few years; the divorce nearly killed her. But that’s not me, I’m nothing like her I swear! All I want to do is go to school and get into college and be a doctor, so right now just know you’re fucking over my chances of that career; they won’t even touch me if they know I’ve been here. Will you please stop nodding your head and just look at me? Can’t you tell I’m not crazy, that I shouldn’t be here?
What do I know about the 70’s? Is that some kind of joke? There was a ton of shit that went down during that time, drugs, hippies, ECT, everything you can think of. What does that have to do with anything right now, really? What are you doing, get your hands off of me. I won’t go! You can’t make, I tell you you’ve got the wrong person! I’m not crazy, I’m really not, let me go now!!
Please don’t stick that needle in my arm. Ow, that hurts! Can you please tell me why you are drawing blood, I haven’t done anything wrong.
I really don’t understand why I’m here, I mean you clearly must have the wrong person. Yes my name is Anna Smith, but think about how common that name is, it is a possibility you got the wrong girl. Yes, I do live in Brooklyn, but so does the rest of the population. Okay, you have asked me so many questions I can’t even keep track any more, so how bout I ask you some. Why the hell are you looking at me like I’m some crazy person? Huh? Don’t divert your eyes from me, I want an answer!
Look around you doc, do I look like any of these people? And please be honest, I don’t have circles around my eyes, my blood was clean, I’m not on drugs right now, all I’m trying to do is have an honest conversation with you but you can’t even give me enough courtesy to look me in the eye.
Look, these cuts on my arms aren’t from a razor, I told you, I had bug bites that I itched to the point of my arms being raw. Fine, don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. I don’t cut to feel like I have some control in my life or whatever the reason people cut is, I have plenty of control over everything I do. I don’t need an outlet and if I get frustrated I go to the gym or something to work off my anger. So I’m not sure whom you’re getting your information from about me but they are mistakenly wrong. And don’t give me that shit that just because I talk to myself I’m a schizo, there are So many people that talk out loud to themselves and I just happen to be one of them. I mean come on doc, you probably even talk to yourself if you’ve got something on your mind you need to get off your chest and there’s no one around. How did you know about that incident? I was by myself in the bathroom; no one was around me so you must just be a lucky guesser. Would you please just listen to me! I’m not supposed to be here! I should be at home doing my math homework for class tomorrow, because that’s what I do; I’m a STUDENT! Not some crazy person who takes drugs and fucks herself up.
What kind of dream did I have last night? Your pretty typical, standard dream. I was floating among the stars, sitting in the milky way (which tastes like chocolate by the way) and I was having an extremely interesting conversation with my grandmother. I believe we were discussing the moon. Stop it! There is nothing weird or abnormal about that, it wasn’t drug induced and if you weren’t such a quack you’d be able to see that clear as day.
My home life? My dad left us when I was six and my mom has floated in and out of mental hospitals for a few years; the divorce nearly killed her. But that’s not me, I’m nothing like her I swear! All I want to do is go to school and get into college and be a doctor, so right now just know you’re fucking over my chances of that career; they won’t even touch me if they know I’ve been here. Will you please stop nodding your head and just look at me? Can’t you tell I’m not crazy, that I shouldn’t be here?
What do I know about the 70’s? Is that some kind of joke? There was a ton of shit that went down during that time, drugs, hippies, ECT, everything you can think of. What does that have to do with anything right now, really? What are you doing, get your hands off of me. I won’t go! You can’t make, I tell you you’ve got the wrong person! I’m not crazy, I’m really not, let me go now!!
Implicit Plot story
1,2,3, Me
She knew what was going to happen, she had for a long time, but never wanted to face the facts. She figured now was a better time than any to pick up the needlepoint she had so longed to finish and actually complete it. Dottie walked over to her armoire, opened the wooden drawer and took out a piece of cloth and thread. She shuffled back over to her leather, green armchair and sat down. She took a long sip of her peach iced tea, wiped her hands on the cat near her feet and picked up the needle. Her shaky hands were steadied as she recreated the motion of years of practice, threading the needle.
The first color to go was orange. She took the cloth in her tiny hands and poked the needle through. Back and forth, back and forth, meticulous motions with an amazing result. The orange thread was soon spent leaving a single shooting star darting across the white background.
Next was the brown. Again back and forth, back and forth until a small animal could be seen in the background as well. A loud crash came from outside, shaking the ground below. “That’s one,” she muttered to herself as she sipped the iced tea. She placed the needlepoint on the table in front of her, picked up the cat and proceeded towards the kitchen. She casually sliced the bread, placed tomatoes, pickles, onion and turkey on it and topped if off with more iced tea; back to the chair.
Dottie picked up the needle once again, only this time with green thread.
She poked it through and brought it back, poked it through and brought it back several hundred times before some as semblance of grass could be seen forming. She cut the excess thread with her teeth just as another crash emerged from outside. “That’s two,” she whispered to the cat as she pet it on his small, furry head.
Next was blue for the sky and more brown for the house. She diligently sewed these as quickly as her frail hands would let her. Her breathing began to quicken as she put the final touches on the sky and the quaint home. A window broke somewhere upstairs and glass flew everywhere. “That’s three,” she said as she took a deep breath and pulled out the pink.
More quickly than before, she constructed a head, a small body, shoes, eyes, a purse, some hair, glasses and a small, furry cat next to it all. A single whistle could be heard, moving closer and closer. As she cut the last bit of thread, she grabbed her cat, looked at the needlepoint one last time and breathed, “That’s me,” while closing her eyes.
She knew what was going to happen, she had for a long time, but never wanted to face the facts. She figured now was a better time than any to pick up the needlepoint she had so longed to finish and actually complete it. Dottie walked over to her armoire, opened the wooden drawer and took out a piece of cloth and thread. She shuffled back over to her leather, green armchair and sat down. She took a long sip of her peach iced tea, wiped her hands on the cat near her feet and picked up the needle. Her shaky hands were steadied as she recreated the motion of years of practice, threading the needle.
The first color to go was orange. She took the cloth in her tiny hands and poked the needle through. Back and forth, back and forth, meticulous motions with an amazing result. The orange thread was soon spent leaving a single shooting star darting across the white background.
Next was the brown. Again back and forth, back and forth until a small animal could be seen in the background as well. A loud crash came from outside, shaking the ground below. “That’s one,” she muttered to herself as she sipped the iced tea. She placed the needlepoint on the table in front of her, picked up the cat and proceeded towards the kitchen. She casually sliced the bread, placed tomatoes, pickles, onion and turkey on it and topped if off with more iced tea; back to the chair.
Dottie picked up the needle once again, only this time with green thread.
She poked it through and brought it back, poked it through and brought it back several hundred times before some as semblance of grass could be seen forming. She cut the excess thread with her teeth just as another crash emerged from outside. “That’s two,” she whispered to the cat as she pet it on his small, furry head.
Next was blue for the sky and more brown for the house. She diligently sewed these as quickly as her frail hands would let her. Her breathing began to quicken as she put the final touches on the sky and the quaint home. A window broke somewhere upstairs and glass flew everywhere. “That’s three,” she said as she took a deep breath and pulled out the pink.
More quickly than before, she constructed a head, a small body, shoes, eyes, a purse, some hair, glasses and a small, furry cat next to it all. A single whistle could be heard, moving closer and closer. As she cut the last bit of thread, she grabbed her cat, looked at the needlepoint one last time and breathed, “That’s me,” while closing her eyes.
Demons of the Border by Z. Goldstein
Demons of the Border
by
Zachary L. Goldstein
Nihilism:
1.
Total rejection of established laws and institutions.
2.
Anarchy, terrorism, or other revolutionary activity.
3.
Total and absolute destructiveness toward oneself and the world at large.
4.
Annihilation of the self or the individual consciousness.
“I was born a Texas boy, Terrell James to them that know me, and nobody’s business to them that don’t. I suppose I lived a pretty regular life up until I was about 19 years of age. I’d gotten into some trouble with the law now and again, been to jail a few times but then, I ain’t never had too much respect for authority figures, seemed all one and the same to me—ignorant bastards just itchin’ to break the teeth of any man, woman or child who won’t stand in line behind ‘em. It was ‘bout that time I reckon in the summer of ’71 that I fixed to leave sorry little Odessa an’ make my own way. My father always said I should go to school, get a degree in somethin’ or other, said it was the way of the future, everyone’s doin’ it, but I never saw no real cause behind it. I don’t need to give my bank to some soppy tenured professor up north just to get a damned piece of paper that says I know how to live now.
“So I went down to talk to the wise man of the town, ask him where I ought to set off to. He says to me head west: follow the border right along into California. He called it the golden land, said it was where all races and cultures were welcome. He said it’s where your dreams come true. He called it the land of stars and angels. Hell, what was I s’posed to say to somethin’ like that? I didn’t know no better. Either way, neither me nor that bald old wise man had any idea what I was in for.
“It wasn’t two days on the road ‘fore I met Grace. I never really knew her name was Grace until I saw it on her death bill, and that’s a helluva way to find out someone’s real name. She said she never liked her real name, said she let people pick a name. I chose one, though it don’t matter much now for the telling. We was at a gas station, I remember, right up parallel to the Arizona-Mexico line. First thing you noticed ‘bout Grace was that she always carried a handgun, strapped right up ‘round her waist like she was some kinda... outlaw vixen or somethin’. Like she didn’t need no man. Hell, I think she proved that fair enough.
“’Course, Grace herself was a disturbed individual. Not 16, when I first met her. Now when I say disturbed, now gather round, it’s important that you recognize the implications of the word. She’d tell me she was a nihilist, said she didn’t believe in nothing. Her father had beat n’ raped her from the time she was about 12, or so she said. It took her not two years to pump his heart full of lead and set his body all aflame. She said she just watched it burn, said it made her happy to watch him just burn.
“Wasn’t the handgun, though, that did her daddy in. She always had more than one gun. Said daddy had taught her to use the shotgun, even showed her how to saw it, make it into a killing machine. She said that’s what her daddy called it. Killing machine. She said it did its job, said it was his own damn fault, not for raping her, mind you, but for teaching her how to use that god damn shotgun. She said she was lost, said her soul was cursed. She said if there’s such a thing as a God, he’d send her to Hell, but since there ain’t, all’s left is to burn or go beneath the ground. She said she could be as much the devil as she wanted to be, said she fucked demons in her sleep. Hell, I ain’t never heard no other gal talk like that.
“She always said she was gonna commit suicide. I suppose it’s not so much that I didn’t believe her, as that I didn’t want to. One morning October 1973 I walk into the kitchen to find her with a handgun in her right hand. Then she says to me: “I’m going to do it, and you’re going to watch me do it.” She put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. When the law came, I’s afraid they wasn’t gonna believe me, think I was just one of them psychos runnin’ amok, killing pretty innocent young girls. But they knew who she was, said she had a history. Lawman told me she was first arrested at 7, for beatin’ on a young girl with a folding chair, and the like. Said the girl had insulted her name. Said that was the only reason.
“Hell, folks today still ask me what it’s like to watch somebody die, don’t even realize that I’ve been a killer myself. Six men in the ground ‘cause of me. Four of ‘em deserved it. The other two? Well, the time was just up, nothin’ we can do about that. Last boy I killed I just watched him bleed. Just watched. My daddy once said you’ll never get through life without killin’ or getting’ killed. Guess we know which ticket I pulled.”
Ghoul by Z. Goldstein
Ghoul
by
Zachary L. Goldstein
“Okay, Mr. Livingston. We’d like you to tell us what you saw when you came out to the fields this morning to file in our report.” The deputy stared gravely at the farmer, who still appeared a little shaken. The law man waited patiently for him to begin.
The farmer opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, starting again: “It was just before sunrise. First thing I do every morning is feed the hens. I go outside and I remember thinking it was strange, not hearing my rooster sing. In fact there was absolutely no noise at all, couldn’t even here the wind blowing between my ears.”
“When you got to the pen, what did you find?” asked the lawman.
“They were all lying down on their sides. The beaks were open and the eyes were...barren, cold.”
“Was there anything still alive inside there?”
“No. Just...silence. The hay bed wasn’t even ruffled. It was like whatever got them had no legs.”
“Any signs of struggle? Where did you see blood?”
“No...there was no blood. It was like something had drained them. The throats had all been cut into—I couldn’t understand why there wasn’t any blood.”
“You said the throats had been opened.”
“Yes, each wound was exactly the same. So precise—like someone was practicing a grisly surgery.”
“And the door of the barn housing the foul was deadbolt-locked, you say?”
“Yeah, I woke up in the morning and the lock was still there, good as before.”
“Could anything have gotten inside from the roof or high up along the sides?”
“It would have to be something small. The only access is an open-air window at the rear, some thirty feet up. The space isn’t more than a foot across, each way.”
“Okay. Tell me about the goats and the mares. You often leave them free to graze overnight?”
“Well yes, the property’s fenced off in all directions and I personally think it’s healthier that way.”
“For them or for you?” inquired the deputy.
“Both.” responded Mr. Livingston acutely.
“When you got to the grazing grounds, what did you find?”
“I saw rows of goats and cows lying in the soft green grass. They were all in a line: four going that way, five laying the other way. The angle was almost perpendicular—like some middle school kid’s art project.”
“Were the throats cut here, as well?”
“No, the throats were intact. But the necks were snapped—all of them. And not just snapped, mind you, but bent at damn near ninety degrees. The rows were so neat, and yet it was like whatever killed them was so fast that they just dropped where they had been standing. It was all very eerie, deputy. I can’t even describe how it felt. My livelihood was destroyed and for all I know a ghoul could be the culprit.”
“You said it looked as if they just dropped where they were standing. Like they didn’t even have a chance to react?
“Listen, I know animals. The sense of danger is an instinct. Call it God, evolution, witchcraft or whatever you please—it’s there, ingrained in them. It’s all they know. Fight or flight. But this—it was automatic. One moment they were all living and the next they were dead. Instinct didn’t even come into play on this one.”
“I’m having trouble believing it was some sort of animal. What creature do you know of that kills just...to kill? It doesn’t make sense that it would just leave the bodies. It’s against all—.”
“Instinct, deputy?”
“It does seem rather unnatural. Mr. Livingston, do you have any enemies? Any who would want to destroy what you have made for yourself and your family?”
“After this day, I’m certain that I do.”
The deputy thanked the farmer and sent him on his way. He decided not to tell him. He would find out soon enough anyways. Everyone would.
Metaphors-one thing as another
Eternal Damnation
(Opportunity is always knocking)
I couldn’t tell for sure where I was. I knew two things though: 1-the last memory I had was the flashing red lights of the ambulance and 2- I couldn’t feel my own heartbeat. I looked around, trying to figure out just where the hell I was. I looked up, there were cobwebs hiding in the corners with spiders dancing in their strands, there was bits of ceiling missing from years of termite abuse and the sky light, that was missing its glass, poured in the translucent light of the moon. I looked down at myself, wearing only a paper-thin gown, my arms were covered in bruises alongside the pinpricks of the now absent needles; I had one single key next to me.
Dead ahead of me, a single door jammed shut with a pad lock attached to it. There were three knocks that came from the old, rusted door. I looked through the peephole and standing before my eyes was the man of my dreams. He was the clichéd type, tall, dark and handsome and he was holding a single red rose. The rose was mesmerizing the way the water droplets balled up and one by one dribbled off towards the floor. I reached for the knob to meet this mystery man but it was nowhere to be found. I searched around the room but all that remained on the floor was the old Victorian key with no purpose in sight. I tried screaming for him to stay but only moths escaped my mouth; it was an eerie silence. I looked through the peephole once again, watched him glance at his watch and turn away. I tried yelling again and this time a small whimper came out followed by a single tear that made a cool path down my cheek. I walked to the middle of the room once again to sit and sulk in my own sorrow and confusion, but alas, another knock from that single door. Could it really be him again!
I sprinted to see my man but only laid eyes on a letter floating in midair with a “Congratulations you have been accepted” written across the top. I looked closer at it and realized it was the college letter I had ignored so many years ago. I watched the left corner begin to smoke and then the entire paper disinegrated before my eyes. From the ashes of the paper on the floor rose my two beautiful children now fully grown. I looked into their eyes but they were nothing more than deep, hallow pits. “You were never there for us mother, never, never, never…” This continued as their bodies began to crumble and wither away to nothing. I couldn’t bear to watch any more. I ran to the center of my windowless room, curled in the fetal position and thought what had I ever done to deserve this?
I rocked back and forth just staring at the bruises on my forearms, at the key to my left and at the empty room just waiting to take my soul. As my mind began to wander to all that I had seen, a tremendously loud knock came from behind me. I whirled around to find myself staring at a second rusting door, but one with a knob and lock this time. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and picked up the key; there was no peephole this time. The key slid in with ease, turned to the right and slowly opened. A white light flashed before me, blinding my vision.
When I regained sight, I was left staring at myself in a mirror. The dark circles under my eyes matched the color of the bruises and my weight was clearly in better shape than my skin tone, a pasty white. Above the mirror was a heart monitor completely flat-lined. A deep feeling of sorrow arose in my body as I realized this was heaven, hell or somewhere in the middle. I walked through the mirror and on the other side was an identical windowless room, like the one I had just escaped from, with a single key laying in the middle of the wooden floor. Three knocks could be heard from the door dead ahead of me. It was at this moment that the revelation hit me like a ton of bricks and the tears began to pour out from my eyes…everything I had missed.
(Opportunity is always knocking)
I couldn’t tell for sure where I was. I knew two things though: 1-the last memory I had was the flashing red lights of the ambulance and 2- I couldn’t feel my own heartbeat. I looked around, trying to figure out just where the hell I was. I looked up, there were cobwebs hiding in the corners with spiders dancing in their strands, there was bits of ceiling missing from years of termite abuse and the sky light, that was missing its glass, poured in the translucent light of the moon. I looked down at myself, wearing only a paper-thin gown, my arms were covered in bruises alongside the pinpricks of the now absent needles; I had one single key next to me.
Dead ahead of me, a single door jammed shut with a pad lock attached to it. There were three knocks that came from the old, rusted door. I looked through the peephole and standing before my eyes was the man of my dreams. He was the clichéd type, tall, dark and handsome and he was holding a single red rose. The rose was mesmerizing the way the water droplets balled up and one by one dribbled off towards the floor. I reached for the knob to meet this mystery man but it was nowhere to be found. I searched around the room but all that remained on the floor was the old Victorian key with no purpose in sight. I tried screaming for him to stay but only moths escaped my mouth; it was an eerie silence. I looked through the peephole once again, watched him glance at his watch and turn away. I tried yelling again and this time a small whimper came out followed by a single tear that made a cool path down my cheek. I walked to the middle of the room once again to sit and sulk in my own sorrow and confusion, but alas, another knock from that single door. Could it really be him again!
I sprinted to see my man but only laid eyes on a letter floating in midair with a “Congratulations you have been accepted” written across the top. I looked closer at it and realized it was the college letter I had ignored so many years ago. I watched the left corner begin to smoke and then the entire paper disinegrated before my eyes. From the ashes of the paper on the floor rose my two beautiful children now fully grown. I looked into their eyes but they were nothing more than deep, hallow pits. “You were never there for us mother, never, never, never…” This continued as their bodies began to crumble and wither away to nothing. I couldn’t bear to watch any more. I ran to the center of my windowless room, curled in the fetal position and thought what had I ever done to deserve this?
I rocked back and forth just staring at the bruises on my forearms, at the key to my left and at the empty room just waiting to take my soul. As my mind began to wander to all that I had seen, a tremendously loud knock came from behind me. I whirled around to find myself staring at a second rusting door, but one with a knob and lock this time. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and picked up the key; there was no peephole this time. The key slid in with ease, turned to the right and slowly opened. A white light flashed before me, blinding my vision.
When I regained sight, I was left staring at myself in a mirror. The dark circles under my eyes matched the color of the bruises and my weight was clearly in better shape than my skin tone, a pasty white. Above the mirror was a heart monitor completely flat-lined. A deep feeling of sorrow arose in my body as I realized this was heaven, hell or somewhere in the middle. I walked through the mirror and on the other side was an identical windowless room, like the one I had just escaped from, with a single key laying in the middle of the wooden floor. Three knocks could be heard from the door dead ahead of me. It was at this moment that the revelation hit me like a ton of bricks and the tears began to pour out from my eyes…everything I had missed.
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