Lucky 19
If it was fate, coincidence, or some higher power I will never know. All I can say is that it was real for those 24 hours and then it was gone, just like that.
January was mine and my husband’s 19th wedding anniversary and naturally I was excited because my lucky number is ten. For our special day, my husband decided to surprise me and fly us up to San Jose to see John Bon Jovi! The morning of the nineteenth we took a limo to the airport, checked our bags and proceeded to board flight 379 headed directly to San Jose. I settle in my seat and realized I was sitting in A19 on Southwest. I laughed at this coincidence as I nodded off to sleep for the hour flight. Upon arriving at the Marriot Hotel, the receptionist handed us the keys to room 319 and once we were settle in, my husband presented me with the tickets; we were in row 19! After this one, it was no longer a coincidence; we were now looking for it. Everywhere we went we would try to spot the number, but it only seemed to pop up where we least expected it.
We went through that entire day, not finding one 19 until we came upon the Museum of Science, and it was back in action. The table tent for our food was number 19 and my Gatorade expired on the 19th. After dinner, we flagged down a yellow cab, number 219 and began our journey back to the hotel; but not before we were stopped. Another couple couldn’t seem to hail a cab and offered to pay for ours if we were willing to split the cab with them. We agreed and after talking about our crazy experience with the number 19, the couple smiled and told us they were celebrating their 10th anniversary, the number had come full circle.
After those 24 hours, it disappeared. No matter how hard we looked on our way home, 19 was nowhere to be found. It was almost as if we had been suspended in a different universe for that amount of time, just long enough to witness the magic of something beyond our control; something that only happened once and made you realize how truly spectacular it had been an will always be.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Character twist story
Bye Bye Benny
Today was the day my life began to go to hell, my world came unraveled, and I unhinged…
I remember when it all started; Ben came home from school yelling about his drug test. I should have taken it to heart, and actually listened. This is the last memory I have of my little Benny.
“Mom, I got drug tested today at school, I didn’t know you signed me up for that.”
“Well, surprise!” I exclaimed, “I just figured I had nothing to worry about with you, so why not? So how’d it go?”
“Oh mom, you know me.” And then I watched my son strut down our hall to his room, and shut the door. I heard the blast of his music coming from beneath the door, and thought to myself, what a good kid he is.
The next morning he came running upstairs, flew past me into the pantry, grabbed a raspberry granola bar, and ran out the door. I gazed out our kitchen nook window as he climbed into the back seat of the mini van. I waved to the driver Jimmy, and as Ben closed the door, I noticed three strange boys in the back seat that I had never seen before. “That’s odd.” I exclaimed as my husband wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed my neck.
“I’m sure it’s nothing pumpkin. Maybe Ben made some new friends, God knows it’s about time.” I nodded as he kissed me, than ran out the door to work. But part of me just couldn’t shake what I had seen; three boys, two with black hair, one with brown, metal belts, tight pants, and big jackets. I remember I couldn’t shake the feeling that their dark, shifty eyes held more than just your average teenager. As I pondered this, my oven went off, and the thought vanished from my mind.
The next few days were moderately normal, everything was fine except when that mini van pulled up each morning. Those same three boys were always there, awaiting my son’s arrival. I decided to ask him who they were.
“Hey Ben, before you go flying out of here, who are your new friends?”
“Oh, they’re some guys I met in my Calc. Class. They’ve been helping me a lot. I have to go mom, love ya.” Now I was satisfied, what nice boys I thought, to help my little Benny in class. They may have an interesting way of dressing, but at least they’re nice boys.
That afternoon when I got home, the mail was waiting for me on our welcome mat. I picked up the stack and began to sift through the pile, bills, bills, and more bills, and then I came across Ben’s drug test. I nonchalantly opened the sealed envelope while watching Jerry Springer, and peered down at the results. I nearly fainted when I read them. They said he tested positive for Methamphetamine and Cocaine. I couldn’t even believe what I was reading, my little Benny, a Meth addict! Ben didn’t do drugs, he was a good kid! The paper fell from my hands to the floor, but the check marks were forever engrained in my mind.
Still looking at the spot where the paper had been only seconds before, I remember Ben came running in the front door. The smile faded from his face as he stared at the paper on the ground.
“Honey, it says you tested positive for a few things…”
“Oh mom, you know how those things are, I mean it’s a school test for God sakes.” He left the room while I still lingered on his last word. Doc, why didn’t I take that as a hint, am I honestly this naïve?
“No, you just chose not to see what was in front of you, but please, go on.”
The days wore on, and slowly I began to see a change in my son. He no longer ran around, played sports, did anything! All he cared about were those three boys; I think he would have died for them. He started wearing the tight pants and big jackets, but that didn’t bother me as long as his grades kept up.
One day he came home from school and about gave me a heart attack. His hair was no longer brown. Oh no, it was black with choppy layers and blond streaks; and to go along with that, he had his report card in dangling from his hand. I knew by the look on his face that I wasn’t going to be happy, and before I could say anything he butted in with, “Mom, now listen, I know my grades aren’t going to be exactly what they are supposed to be, but I have a really good reason, I-“
“What are you getting?” I asked
“You have to understand I-“
“What are you getting?” I asked again.
“I’m failing math.”
I remember I started screaming at him. “Ben go to your room right now! I’ll deal with you when your father gets home!”
Doc, do you think if I’d been more understanding and willing to listen he wouldn’t have, you know, gone and done it?
“It’s hard to tell. But you can’t keep blaming yourself for this. You tried your best and that’s all I can ask of you. If you can, please continue.”
Well, I waited until his father, Mike, came home. I told him everything that had happened, and he told me I should go try and sort things out with him. I agreed with him and walked the twenty-five steps down the hall to his room. I walked in his room, he was nowhere to be seen, but I saw the light coming from beneath the bathroom door. I kneeled next to the door, still staring at the family portrait he had framed on his desk and began.
“Ben, look, I’m sorry. I’ll admit, I overreacted, but I just couldn’t accept it. Not you, you were supposed to be different. I’m sorry, and whatever you’re going through, I’m here and willing to listen. We will get through whatever is going on. I promise.”
I waited, no response. I remember I pushed the door slowly open and caught a glimpse of his foot. I think the next few moments felt like slow motion. I lunged forward to see if he was breathing, he wasn’t. I screamed for my husband to call 911 as I held my little Benny in my arms just one last time. I picked him up and put his head in my lap as an unmarked pill bottle rolled out from his hand. I lost the only thing I really loved, and it was all- I’m sorry, I can’t go on.
“It’s alright, it’s not your fault. You have to believe that you did all you could. Susan, you can’t keep blaming yourself for this. I think we’re finally making progress, you were finally able to get to the end of the story, now it’s time to let go.”
Today was the day my life began to go to hell, my world came unraveled, and I unhinged…
I remember when it all started; Ben came home from school yelling about his drug test. I should have taken it to heart, and actually listened. This is the last memory I have of my little Benny.
“Mom, I got drug tested today at school, I didn’t know you signed me up for that.”
“Well, surprise!” I exclaimed, “I just figured I had nothing to worry about with you, so why not? So how’d it go?”
“Oh mom, you know me.” And then I watched my son strut down our hall to his room, and shut the door. I heard the blast of his music coming from beneath the door, and thought to myself, what a good kid he is.
The next morning he came running upstairs, flew past me into the pantry, grabbed a raspberry granola bar, and ran out the door. I gazed out our kitchen nook window as he climbed into the back seat of the mini van. I waved to the driver Jimmy, and as Ben closed the door, I noticed three strange boys in the back seat that I had never seen before. “That’s odd.” I exclaimed as my husband wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed my neck.
“I’m sure it’s nothing pumpkin. Maybe Ben made some new friends, God knows it’s about time.” I nodded as he kissed me, than ran out the door to work. But part of me just couldn’t shake what I had seen; three boys, two with black hair, one with brown, metal belts, tight pants, and big jackets. I remember I couldn’t shake the feeling that their dark, shifty eyes held more than just your average teenager. As I pondered this, my oven went off, and the thought vanished from my mind.
The next few days were moderately normal, everything was fine except when that mini van pulled up each morning. Those same three boys were always there, awaiting my son’s arrival. I decided to ask him who they were.
“Hey Ben, before you go flying out of here, who are your new friends?”
“Oh, they’re some guys I met in my Calc. Class. They’ve been helping me a lot. I have to go mom, love ya.” Now I was satisfied, what nice boys I thought, to help my little Benny in class. They may have an interesting way of dressing, but at least they’re nice boys.
That afternoon when I got home, the mail was waiting for me on our welcome mat. I picked up the stack and began to sift through the pile, bills, bills, and more bills, and then I came across Ben’s drug test. I nonchalantly opened the sealed envelope while watching Jerry Springer, and peered down at the results. I nearly fainted when I read them. They said he tested positive for Methamphetamine and Cocaine. I couldn’t even believe what I was reading, my little Benny, a Meth addict! Ben didn’t do drugs, he was a good kid! The paper fell from my hands to the floor, but the check marks were forever engrained in my mind.
Still looking at the spot where the paper had been only seconds before, I remember Ben came running in the front door. The smile faded from his face as he stared at the paper on the ground.
“Honey, it says you tested positive for a few things…”
“Oh mom, you know how those things are, I mean it’s a school test for God sakes.” He left the room while I still lingered on his last word. Doc, why didn’t I take that as a hint, am I honestly this naïve?
“No, you just chose not to see what was in front of you, but please, go on.”
The days wore on, and slowly I began to see a change in my son. He no longer ran around, played sports, did anything! All he cared about were those three boys; I think he would have died for them. He started wearing the tight pants and big jackets, but that didn’t bother me as long as his grades kept up.
One day he came home from school and about gave me a heart attack. His hair was no longer brown. Oh no, it was black with choppy layers and blond streaks; and to go along with that, he had his report card in dangling from his hand. I knew by the look on his face that I wasn’t going to be happy, and before I could say anything he butted in with, “Mom, now listen, I know my grades aren’t going to be exactly what they are supposed to be, but I have a really good reason, I-“
“What are you getting?” I asked
“You have to understand I-“
“What are you getting?” I asked again.
“I’m failing math.”
I remember I started screaming at him. “Ben go to your room right now! I’ll deal with you when your father gets home!”
Doc, do you think if I’d been more understanding and willing to listen he wouldn’t have, you know, gone and done it?
“It’s hard to tell. But you can’t keep blaming yourself for this. You tried your best and that’s all I can ask of you. If you can, please continue.”
Well, I waited until his father, Mike, came home. I told him everything that had happened, and he told me I should go try and sort things out with him. I agreed with him and walked the twenty-five steps down the hall to his room. I walked in his room, he was nowhere to be seen, but I saw the light coming from beneath the bathroom door. I kneeled next to the door, still staring at the family portrait he had framed on his desk and began.
“Ben, look, I’m sorry. I’ll admit, I overreacted, but I just couldn’t accept it. Not you, you were supposed to be different. I’m sorry, and whatever you’re going through, I’m here and willing to listen. We will get through whatever is going on. I promise.”
I waited, no response. I remember I pushed the door slowly open and caught a glimpse of his foot. I think the next few moments felt like slow motion. I lunged forward to see if he was breathing, he wasn’t. I screamed for my husband to call 911 as I held my little Benny in my arms just one last time. I picked him up and put his head in my lap as an unmarked pill bottle rolled out from his hand. I lost the only thing I really loved, and it was all- I’m sorry, I can’t go on.
“It’s alright, it’s not your fault. You have to believe that you did all you could. Susan, you can’t keep blaming yourself for this. I think we’re finally making progress, you were finally able to get to the end of the story, now it’s time to let go.”
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Critical Response to Old Henry
Critical Response to Old Henry
Matt Carroll
The first thing I want to say about this story is the humor is delivered very well. The part about the mystery man being a “waitress” is very funny, as well as the “soggy balls” line, and the very end. I thought the ending was very good.
I think the biggest thing holding back this story is the format. We discussed some of the problems in class, and I think once they are worked out this can be a really good story to expand on. One idea I thought about was maybe making the friend’s dialogue part of the story. Here’s an example:
“Well, actually I have two things to tell you.”
Of course you do.
Instead of putting quotations around her dialogue make it like she’s an interactive journal writing back. I know this was the direction you were heading towards and it’s only a suggestion, but that may help. By making Lacey the only person “speaking” you get that journal-to-person feeling.
I do think the words traded back and forth between the characters works. I think the story can be improved if the characters were doing something. Some of the suggestions in class were to have the friend cooking when Lacey walks in, and there were others, but overall I think the environment needs a little more description to help enhance the story.
I think this is a great story! The biggest flaw is the format and once that’s taken care of I think people can really learn to appreciate the humor in it. If you wanted to expand on this story and make it longer I would suggest to use more dialogue because that’s something I think you are very good at.
The Big Symbol Story
[Disclaimer: this sucks]
PUBLIC MEDIATION
excerpts from the journal of Jeremy P------:
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story #11
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 24, 2009
Perfect
The candles, the sexy lingerie under my strategically planned, somewhat already revealing outfit, romantic music- I prepared everything. The night would be perfect. I paced around the house listening to the click clack of my stilettos and playing with the emerald, heart shaped ring around my finger. Finally, the sound of the doorbell reverberated off the walls and I opened the front door. I lead the way down the hall to the stairs, throwing seductive glances over my shoulder, until I heard a crack and felt my heel collapse under me. Determined not to let it ruin the night, I played it off as them being bad shoes anyway, and took advantage of the opportunity to show off my legs as I undid the other stiletto and kicked it to the side.
Upstairs, my room was low lit with candles by the bed and the smell of incense hung in the air like its own entity. I shut the door behind me as a slow jazz tune came on the stereo and sauntered toward the bed, making the floor my stage. I placed my foot on the bed where it was indenting in from a sitting body weight and leaned forward for the first kiss of the night. I was met with sudden, uncontrollable coughing instead, the incense invading nostrils to the point of near suffocation, and a head-on collision. Holding a hand to my head, I put out the incense and returned to the bed, desperate to get us back in the mood. I kissed a forehead, a cheek, the side of a neck, and finally lips and we were back.
As the kissing continued, clothing articles started to fly through the room. A shirt here, a skirt there, and pretty soon we were down to our underwear. Next, fingers grasped at my bra, tearing and tugging, unable to get it off. I replaced the fingers with my own, attempting to unhook the clasp, but it seemed to be stuck. I arched my back and gave a hard tug, consequently landing me on the floor. The pain in my backside was not as big as the bruise to my ego, but I pulled myself back up to my feet and my bra was finally beginning to be pulled down the length of my body. When it got to my underwear, though, the stubborn clasp continued to cause problems as it stuck to the back of my underwear. At last, my lingerie was stripped of me until we were both lying naked in bed.
We laughed to ourselves and I thought back over the ridiculous amount of planning I had put into the night only to have it take half an hour to get into bed. Regardless, we got there and there was nothing else in the way. The clothing boundary had been removed, we were both used to the incense, and we were where we wanted to be. I smiled as I threw back the sheet and my lips met skin again. I felt like I was in a trance. My body felt light, the recently extinguished incense still invaded my head, and I could have sworn, just for a second, that I smelt something other than the incense burning. I felt warm, hot, actually, and the room seemed to get brighter even though there was no longer a candle on the night stand.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 24, 2009
Perfect
The candles, the sexy lingerie under my strategically planned, somewhat already revealing outfit, romantic music- I prepared everything. The night would be perfect. I paced around the house listening to the click clack of my stilettos and playing with the emerald, heart shaped ring around my finger. Finally, the sound of the doorbell reverberated off the walls and I opened the front door. I lead the way down the hall to the stairs, throwing seductive glances over my shoulder, until I heard a crack and felt my heel collapse under me. Determined not to let it ruin the night, I played it off as them being bad shoes anyway, and took advantage of the opportunity to show off my legs as I undid the other stiletto and kicked it to the side.
Upstairs, my room was low lit with candles by the bed and the smell of incense hung in the air like its own entity. I shut the door behind me as a slow jazz tune came on the stereo and sauntered toward the bed, making the floor my stage. I placed my foot on the bed where it was indenting in from a sitting body weight and leaned forward for the first kiss of the night. I was met with sudden, uncontrollable coughing instead, the incense invading nostrils to the point of near suffocation, and a head-on collision. Holding a hand to my head, I put out the incense and returned to the bed, desperate to get us back in the mood. I kissed a forehead, a cheek, the side of a neck, and finally lips and we were back.
As the kissing continued, clothing articles started to fly through the room. A shirt here, a skirt there, and pretty soon we were down to our underwear. Next, fingers grasped at my bra, tearing and tugging, unable to get it off. I replaced the fingers with my own, attempting to unhook the clasp, but it seemed to be stuck. I arched my back and gave a hard tug, consequently landing me on the floor. The pain in my backside was not as big as the bruise to my ego, but I pulled myself back up to my feet and my bra was finally beginning to be pulled down the length of my body. When it got to my underwear, though, the stubborn clasp continued to cause problems as it stuck to the back of my underwear. At last, my lingerie was stripped of me until we were both lying naked in bed.
We laughed to ourselves and I thought back over the ridiculous amount of planning I had put into the night only to have it take half an hour to get into bed. Regardless, we got there and there was nothing else in the way. The clothing boundary had been removed, we were both used to the incense, and we were where we wanted to be. I smiled as I threw back the sheet and my lips met skin again. I felt like I was in a trance. My body felt light, the recently extinguished incense still invaded my head, and I could have sworn, just for a second, that I smelt something other than the incense burning. I felt warm, hot, actually, and the room seemed to get brighter even though there was no longer a candle on the night stand.
Exaggerated Description Rewrite
TREE
It was a dark and stormy night. The tangled branches of an ancient oak scratched against the window, as if trying to break the pane, reach through the glass, and crush the rumpled writer busy destroying the English language. The oak sighed, its extremities creaking. It looked out over the idyllic pastoral landscape—the kind that felt incomplete without Marie Antoinette sitting in the middle on a small stool, milking a cow—all under the ominous dominion of great mountainous storm clouds, the mountainous encroachment of a meteorological Mordor on a peaceful country setting. The cold made the tree stiffer, and the rain was making its trunk warp. Maybe it would become the pages for the author’s book. It prayed silently that it would give numerous paper cuts to whoever read it, that vengeance would reach its long winding branches out from the grave and slap humanity across the face. The grass hadn’t been trimmed in years, and it made its roots itch, the itch of terribly chafing. If the rain kept up like it had been the grass would all be drowned, and then there would be no point in trimming it. Though in an existential sense, maybe there was no point to trimming it anyways. The tree shook these thoughts out of it’s foliage, and instead fixed two knotted eyes on the gothic pile sitting next to it. Having a nemesis kept one alert, and that damned writer and his dilapidated Victorian monstrosity had the tree’s complete attention. Didn’t he have any idea? The oak tree had known the shingles and framing for the east side of the building. The whole thing was a cemetery, a perverted cathedral of bones and innards, a hollow mockery of the thing growing in its yard—and the tree had to stare at it every day. Fucking humans. Next time one of them was close enough it would drop an acorn on their head.
Response: Allyson Yuen’s Story #10, “College”
Well written with great development of relationships between the characters. Specifically, I thought the evolving dynamic between the roommate and the narrator was well handled (the narrator trying to appease the roommate with a green tee for St. Patrick’s, the blurring of boundaries, how after time spent together the narrator knows her roommate only does her laundry in the middle of the week), as well as the narrator and her boyfriend. The scene where she discovers he’s cheating on her was developed nicely—starting with the neglected present on the table and building from there. That said, there is a certain sketchy quality to all of the characters, which I’m assuming was intentional by the author, because the only names we’re given are for the two characters we never meet but that the narrator constantly refers to. So the world that the narrator has left behind and keeps meaning to get back in touch with is more detailed and real than the one she’s living in, if I’m getting this right, which is very cool (actually, it’s terrible, but for story material it’s great).
Which brings me to the part of the story I had trouble with, which was the ending, specifically the last paragraph. It may simply be an issue of expanding that last paragraph to something closer to a page, which I think would match better the pace of the rest of the piece, but the chronology of events gets confusing and quite a bit happens that gets left unsaid. Specifically, it takes her a month to notice she’s missed her period and she references “that night,” which, if she’s referring to the party, would have been 3 months ago. Also, it was also unclear when I was reading about the party that anything had happened besides lots of drinking and gossiping.
Overall, if I’m getting the ending right: her not treating college like a reality and her nostalgia for home means in the ends she has to face the even harsher reality of an unwanted pregnancy. I thought the pregnancy was a good way to wake the narrator up to reality, but it didn’t sit right for me with the rest of the story, because the focus seems to be more on her friends back home then her boyfriend. The tension of her constant “I’ll call Jessica and Sydney later” was the most interesting part of the story for me. This seemed more central to the story for me, especially in its structure (it’s repetition, the fact that only those two chars get names), then the pregnancy that happens at the end. It said more to me the narrator’s approach to life (reality is just around the corner, let’s just fill the empty space until we get there), especially college life. It’s not even necessarily that I ever need to see or find out any more about Jessica or Sydney, I just find that part of the story to be the most telling about the narrator.
Which brings me to the part of the story I had trouble with, which was the ending, specifically the last paragraph. It may simply be an issue of expanding that last paragraph to something closer to a page, which I think would match better the pace of the rest of the piece, but the chronology of events gets confusing and quite a bit happens that gets left unsaid. Specifically, it takes her a month to notice she’s missed her period and she references “that night,” which, if she’s referring to the party, would have been 3 months ago. Also, it was also unclear when I was reading about the party that anything had happened besides lots of drinking and gossiping.
Overall, if I’m getting the ending right: her not treating college like a reality and her nostalgia for home means in the ends she has to face the even harsher reality of an unwanted pregnancy. I thought the pregnancy was a good way to wake the narrator up to reality, but it didn’t sit right for me with the rest of the story, because the focus seems to be more on her friends back home then her boyfriend. The tension of her constant “I’ll call Jessica and Sydney later” was the most interesting part of the story for me. This seemed more central to the story for me, especially in its structure (it’s repetition, the fact that only those two chars get names), then the pregnancy that happens at the end. It said more to me the narrator’s approach to life (reality is just around the corner, let’s just fill the empty space until we get there), especially college life. It’s not even necessarily that I ever need to see or find out any more about Jessica or Sydney, I just find that part of the story to be the most telling about the narrator.
Critical Response #6
Kelly Hanken
Critical Response #6
“A Story About the Body”
“A Story About the Body” is a story that I surprisingly enjoyed. I say surprisingly because I normally dislike stories with obvious symbolism in them, but this story makes up for all of those that I’ve not liked. It’s simply told, with only bare descriptions that help you imagine the setting in a vague way, giving you more freedom over what you see. That’s the kind of description I like in short stories, and that’s what I tend to use myself.
The symbolism of the bowl of dead bees is lost on me, but I can give deciphering it a shot. I think that it may be a symbol for the fact that, while the composer’s romanticized vision of the woman seemed sweet and beautiful, like the rose petals, beneath its soft exterior lay the same feelings a bowl of dead bees incites in someone: a spark of fear (are the bees alive?!), followed by disgust and the desire to get rid of them. Alternatively, the dead bees are symbolic of live bees – in that case, the bees symbolize the fact that his dismissal of her because of something as simple as the fact that she had no breasts, stung and left an annoying prickly feeling in her heart.
Then again, I’m no good at deciphering symbolism.
critical response#5
“If Only” by Kady Oliker
I really like the way you chose to write your story. Using multiple narrators was a clever idea and allowed me as the reader to understand the story and the motives of all three characters without much confusion. I have a couple questions about the logistics of some of the details in the story but they can be easily fixed. We find out in Kendal’s narration that her lover or ex-lover is leaving her for another girl and that if she, Kendal, can’t have Carter then she doesn’t want anyone to have him. I thought from that line that she would be planning on killing Carter but we find out that she’s planning on going to “her house,” the other woman’s house, which is interesting as it builds tension in the story.
The slight overlap in what is happening with the switching narration is good. And then from there I got a good picture of what is happening and what each character is feeling as the story continues to be told. We find out that Sophia still loves Carter even though he left her five years ago, that Linda, whom I think we can deduct is Sophia’s mother, still likes Carter as well so that they must have had a decent break up, and that Carter is about to propose. These details seem a little fairytale like and a little implausible but it would probably be less so with a little more explaining about what happened five years ago and how the two left things. That’s what I’m really curious about. I like the concept of the story and the narration style. I would just like a little more clarification.
I really like the way you chose to write your story. Using multiple narrators was a clever idea and allowed me as the reader to understand the story and the motives of all three characters without much confusion. I have a couple questions about the logistics of some of the details in the story but they can be easily fixed. We find out in Kendal’s narration that her lover or ex-lover is leaving her for another girl and that if she, Kendal, can’t have Carter then she doesn’t want anyone to have him. I thought from that line that she would be planning on killing Carter but we find out that she’s planning on going to “her house,” the other woman’s house, which is interesting as it builds tension in the story.
The slight overlap in what is happening with the switching narration is good. And then from there I got a good picture of what is happening and what each character is feeling as the story continues to be told. We find out that Sophia still loves Carter even though he left her five years ago, that Linda, whom I think we can deduct is Sophia’s mother, still likes Carter as well so that they must have had a decent break up, and that Carter is about to propose. These details seem a little fairytale like and a little implausible but it would probably be less so with a little more explaining about what happened five years ago and how the two left things. That’s what I’m really curious about. I like the concept of the story and the narration style. I would just like a little more clarification.
critical response#4
“Sleeping Through Starvation” by Michael Czyniejewski was an interesting and very short read. I liked it. It was surprising for me that there could be such a short story that had such a well developed character arch. The protagonist goes from being examined in a doctor’s office with medical students taking turns sticking their fingers in his buttocks to feel his prostate and talking about an article about monkey evolving faster and faster. Then it switches to him going to see his wife and new son and they talk about the decision of castration. The protagonist discusses how scarring the process was for his older brother when he had it done when he was a school boy. With all these seemingly irrelevant even random events, the Czyniejewski is still able to end this story with a serious and powerful reflection.
I really admire his style of writing. It’s a pleasure to read because of the style in which he introduces the reader to his characters. I think what makes this story especially interesting is how he breaks your expectations of the main character in the last paragraph. He makes the protagonist sound like an easy going guy whose main focus at the present time is the increasing speed at which monkeys are developing. Then we find out that he is in the doctor’s office casually talking about monkeys while fingers continually are being inserted in his rear. It’s the comfort that the protagonist shows in this situation that indicates that he’s done this before or that it’s normal for him, and in this society this sort of procedure is not what the normal person goes through on a daily basis. But the realization at the end that his son will outlive him and that nature will indeed pass him by regardless, which is an issue that the male monkeys are facing as well because their offspring are growing up faster than expected. From this you see the connection between the monkeys and the protagonist in that his son will to start growing up faster than his father is ready for. Overall I really liked the how concise yet deep the story is.
I really admire his style of writing. It’s a pleasure to read because of the style in which he introduces the reader to his characters. I think what makes this story especially interesting is how he breaks your expectations of the main character in the last paragraph. He makes the protagonist sound like an easy going guy whose main focus at the present time is the increasing speed at which monkeys are developing. Then we find out that he is in the doctor’s office casually talking about monkeys while fingers continually are being inserted in his rear. It’s the comfort that the protagonist shows in this situation that indicates that he’s done this before or that it’s normal for him, and in this society this sort of procedure is not what the normal person goes through on a daily basis. But the realization at the end that his son will outlive him and that nature will indeed pass him by regardless, which is an issue that the male monkeys are facing as well because their offspring are growing up faster than expected. From this you see the connection between the monkeys and the protagonist in that his son will to start growing up faster than his father is ready for. Overall I really liked the how concise yet deep the story is.
story#11
The Faceoff
(edit of story #2)
He jumped off the playground, his sword slicing through the air. The air was cool and the grass was soft and damp beneath his newly buffed shoes. His armor was flawless, not a smudge was left unpolished. His glistening silver mass reflected its surroundings with such clarity that it would make mirrors jealous. Max could see through the grates in his armored helmet, for miles around; his vision was impeccable. Gazing towards the once tree covered hills, he saw the old recently chopped fir trees reaching for the sun, competing with the younger and quickly growing new sprouts for the warmth and attention from the glowing orb in the sky. Closing his eyes, he could smell the hills that smelled a thousand times stronger of the Christmas trees his father brought home every holiday season. He then focused his gaze to summon the x-ray vision he was infamous for. He observed, through the walls of his house, that his mother was stirring up a meal fit for a victor. He looked through to his neighbors’ houses; some were simply sitting on their couch watching their television set, others cleaning up the house, and some doing their homework; all were utterly unaware that the epic battle was to take place within minutes. It was no matter; they would thank him after he defeated his arc nemesis.
The porch light flickered on. The sky was growing darker and the mist was rolling in so thick that he had to cut through it with his sharpened blade; it was coming for him but Max was ready. There was no turning back now. He danced around the swing set slashing through the air, perfecting on his swordsmanship. The time was right. The Dragon was coming. Max could see beyond the fog, fifteen, no, now ten miles away. It was coming in fast, heading straight for him. Backing up along the side of the playground and turning his head, he hid against the plastic structure breathing softly waiting for the right moment to take the Dragon by surprise.
Flapping sound of thick leathery wings alerted him of the arrival of his foe. Watching with narrowed eyes, Max gazed through the wall as it touched down. Its gigantic body was covered in platter sized blue scales from nose to tail, its fiery red eyes glowing through the darkness. Showing off, it blew fire into the air as if asking for someone to challenge its magnificent self. Max leaped out from his hiding spot and with a hand on his hip he thrust his sword in the air, daring the Dragon to fight him, “Leave now, you wretched beast!”
It looked down and laughed again, little sparks shooting out from his snout, “Who are you to challenge me, little boy?”
Max narrowed his eyes. He did not appreciate being talked down to like that and glared up, “I am Sir Max. I am not little,” he said deliberately. “I’m big for my age. I’m here to send you away! We don’t want you here!” He thrust his sword upward threateningly.
The Dragon threw back its head and cackled, lighting up the night sky. “Give it up little one.”
“Make me,” Max whispered and danced about the Dragon. He dodged its ground shaking steps as it tried to crush him beneath. Max jabbed at him but to no avail. The Dragon’s scales were impenetrable. Max would need to find another way to take this beast down. The Dragon exhaled a fiery breath in his direction, he could feel intense heat blow by his ear. Close one, Max breathed. The lawn was ablaze and the flames were closing in on him, circling him and his opponent in a ring of inferno. He didn’t have much room to maneuver. Max needed a new strategy. He hesitated. This could end badly, Max sprinted to the Dragon’s underbelly resting inches from the ground. Willing himself to defy gravity, Max jumped up just high enough for him to grab hold on one of the Dragon’s scales, just as the Dragon stomped down at the place where he had stood a mere moment ago. Clinging on, the scale swung on started to peel away from the dragon’s soft flesh revealing a fleshy underside. Seizing this opportunity, Max stabbed his sword deep inside and the Dragon roared and thrashed for what felt like eternity before it soon fell to the ground.
“Max!” his mother called from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready.”
Dusting his hands off, Max stood up and walked back to the house. He waved good-bye to his imaginary dragon foe. They’d have another adventure tomorrow.
(edit of story #2)
He jumped off the playground, his sword slicing through the air. The air was cool and the grass was soft and damp beneath his newly buffed shoes. His armor was flawless, not a smudge was left unpolished. His glistening silver mass reflected its surroundings with such clarity that it would make mirrors jealous. Max could see through the grates in his armored helmet, for miles around; his vision was impeccable. Gazing towards the once tree covered hills, he saw the old recently chopped fir trees reaching for the sun, competing with the younger and quickly growing new sprouts for the warmth and attention from the glowing orb in the sky. Closing his eyes, he could smell the hills that smelled a thousand times stronger of the Christmas trees his father brought home every holiday season. He then focused his gaze to summon the x-ray vision he was infamous for. He observed, through the walls of his house, that his mother was stirring up a meal fit for a victor. He looked through to his neighbors’ houses; some were simply sitting on their couch watching their television set, others cleaning up the house, and some doing their homework; all were utterly unaware that the epic battle was to take place within minutes. It was no matter; they would thank him after he defeated his arc nemesis.
The porch light flickered on. The sky was growing darker and the mist was rolling in so thick that he had to cut through it with his sharpened blade; it was coming for him but Max was ready. There was no turning back now. He danced around the swing set slashing through the air, perfecting on his swordsmanship. The time was right. The Dragon was coming. Max could see beyond the fog, fifteen, no, now ten miles away. It was coming in fast, heading straight for him. Backing up along the side of the playground and turning his head, he hid against the plastic structure breathing softly waiting for the right moment to take the Dragon by surprise.
Flapping sound of thick leathery wings alerted him of the arrival of his foe. Watching with narrowed eyes, Max gazed through the wall as it touched down. Its gigantic body was covered in platter sized blue scales from nose to tail, its fiery red eyes glowing through the darkness. Showing off, it blew fire into the air as if asking for someone to challenge its magnificent self. Max leaped out from his hiding spot and with a hand on his hip he thrust his sword in the air, daring the Dragon to fight him, “Leave now, you wretched beast!”
It looked down and laughed again, little sparks shooting out from his snout, “Who are you to challenge me, little boy?”
Max narrowed his eyes. He did not appreciate being talked down to like that and glared up, “I am Sir Max. I am not little,” he said deliberately. “I’m big for my age. I’m here to send you away! We don’t want you here!” He thrust his sword upward threateningly.
The Dragon threw back its head and cackled, lighting up the night sky. “Give it up little one.”
“Make me,” Max whispered and danced about the Dragon. He dodged its ground shaking steps as it tried to crush him beneath. Max jabbed at him but to no avail. The Dragon’s scales were impenetrable. Max would need to find another way to take this beast down. The Dragon exhaled a fiery breath in his direction, he could feel intense heat blow by his ear. Close one, Max breathed. The lawn was ablaze and the flames were closing in on him, circling him and his opponent in a ring of inferno. He didn’t have much room to maneuver. Max needed a new strategy. He hesitated. This could end badly, Max sprinted to the Dragon’s underbelly resting inches from the ground. Willing himself to defy gravity, Max jumped up just high enough for him to grab hold on one of the Dragon’s scales, just as the Dragon stomped down at the place where he had stood a mere moment ago. Clinging on, the scale swung on started to peel away from the dragon’s soft flesh revealing a fleshy underside. Seizing this opportunity, Max stabbed his sword deep inside and the Dragon roared and thrashed for what felt like eternity before it soon fell to the ground.
“Max!” his mother called from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready.”
Dusting his hands off, Max stood up and walked back to the house. He waved good-bye to his imaginary dragon foe. They’d have another adventure tomorrow.
story #12
(Not following the prompt)
Stereotypes
She was the kind of girl loved to laugh. All jokes were fair game for her except those about race. That was the one thing she had little humor for because there were so many stereotypes, most of which were unwarranted. Sure Amy had grown up in a rather sheltered neighborhood where all she and all her neighbors and friends lived in suburbia, but she was always interested in the topic of diversity. She also was a strong disbeliever of stereotypes, that people are unfairly judged upfront and not given the opportunity to prove themselves contrary to the negative typecast.
Going away to college would be good for her, she and her parents agreed. If diversity was what she yearned for, it would be worthwhile for her to explore what interests her. She enrolled in a four year university in the Los Angeles area, where the distribution of ethnicities was much less one sided than her high school. At school she met many people from all over the world. She befriended classmates and floor-mates from out of state and even out of the country. She met people who came from similar neighborhoods like her own, to people who witnessed their friends get shot in a street fight. She met a girl who had not been able to return home to Haiti for years because of the dangerous people trafficking that was happening in the country. Amy spent every waking minute that she wasn’t doing her homework talking to friends until the wee hours of the morning.
One night Amy and her two best friends, John and Greg, went out to get a midnight snack as all college students do if they have access to a car. They drove out a ways to their favorite 24-hour fast food place that they always went to when the other food places were closed. It was farther than most places they went to and in a shadier part of town, but it was always open and hunger doesn’t have a regard for business hours. Tonight, though, it was still early only about midnight but she was craving one of those greasy beef burritos and the guys went along with her suggestion. It was unusually chilly that night so the friends decided to head through the drive through instead of getting out of the car. They waited in line while an old Audi placed its order then they eased forward to the glowing sign of deliciousness.
“How’s this?” John asked Greg as he rolled the driver’s window of his Mustang down two inches, “No one can shoot us from here.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Amy says rolling her eyes, getting a little irritated at the undeserved remark.
Before Greg could back John up, the voice from within the glowing sign asked for their order and John had to roll the window down more for the three of them to order. “Your total is $16.84. Thank you,” was the last thing they heard before John rolled his window up again.
“Brr, it’s so cold. I thought Southern California is supposed to be warm year round,” John said as he drove forward to wait behind Audi who was paying for its food at the window in front.
“It’s not that bad,” Greg commented and fiddled with his friend’s radio system. He switched the station to one that was playing some popular new song.
“Does this sound like Chris Brown to you?” John asked when the chorus started playing.
Greg pulled his hand back from the dial and leaned back in his chair, “Kinda, I guess.”
“I miss his voice. It’s so smooth and sexy,” Amy said as she leaned forward from the back seat to get into the conversation.
“You would like him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what that means.”
“Oh shut up, Greg. Don’t be jealous.”
John just shook his head and laughed at his friends.
“You’re the jealous one, I bet you wish you were Rihanna. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Greg retorted. The conversation continued on in a similar manner.
Out of the corner of her eye, Amy saw someone approach the driver’s side of the car in a black zip-up hoodie. “You think he’s gonna ask for money?” she asked.
Before the boys could turn to look the man in the black zip-up hoodie and his two accomplices pounded on their car windows. Confused, Amy looked at the man on the left. The man in black stood on John’s side. All she could see was his pale neck and his fast moving chapped lips saying something to the window. Looking to the right, she saw a pair of baggy jeans held up by a belt with a white wife beater exposing muscular arms with an obscure tattoo on his left pale shoulder and another pair of dark jeans with a dark gray hoodie with a gold banded ring on his right hand banging on the window. Time slowed down. She heard the handles of the doors lift and snap back down from the outside, her eyes wide and mouth open, not fully grasping what was happening. The men outside continued to hit the windows with their fists and pry at the doors but Greg had hit the lock switch on the inside of the car so the efforts outside were in vain. John threw the car in reverse and sped out backwards out of the drive-through. As their car was reversing, the men stepped back, mouthing some unfriendly words and moved on to the Audi still waiting at the window. She saw the man with the chapped lips grab at the door behind the driver’s door and open it while the other two banged on the car windows. Amy’s eyes widened and as their Mustang peeled out towards the street to take them back home. Craning her neck, she barely saw the Audi peel out of the drive through as they had done leaving the three men empty handed.
Breathing hard, Amy tried to mind her head around what had just happened. The three of them drove in silence.
Minutes passed. “Should I call the police?” Amy asked.
Both boys nodded, staring straight ahead. No one said more than they had to, each deep in their own contemplations. With a shaky hand, she dialed 9-1-1.
“911, what is your emergency?” a woman with a bored, blasé voice asked.
“I’d like to report a…” She didn’t know what to say. What should she say or not say? Amy didn’t finish her sentence and instead handed the phone to Greg in the front.
She heard Greg explain what had just happened and flinched at the line where he described the three Hispanic men. She cringed at the connotations the description had and wondered if the police officer on the line heard a lot of these reports daily or if she believed in stereotypes.
Stereotypes
She was the kind of girl loved to laugh. All jokes were fair game for her except those about race. That was the one thing she had little humor for because there were so many stereotypes, most of which were unwarranted. Sure Amy had grown up in a rather sheltered neighborhood where all she and all her neighbors and friends lived in suburbia, but she was always interested in the topic of diversity. She also was a strong disbeliever of stereotypes, that people are unfairly judged upfront and not given the opportunity to prove themselves contrary to the negative typecast.
Going away to college would be good for her, she and her parents agreed. If diversity was what she yearned for, it would be worthwhile for her to explore what interests her. She enrolled in a four year university in the Los Angeles area, where the distribution of ethnicities was much less one sided than her high school. At school she met many people from all over the world. She befriended classmates and floor-mates from out of state and even out of the country. She met people who came from similar neighborhoods like her own, to people who witnessed their friends get shot in a street fight. She met a girl who had not been able to return home to Haiti for years because of the dangerous people trafficking that was happening in the country. Amy spent every waking minute that she wasn’t doing her homework talking to friends until the wee hours of the morning.
One night Amy and her two best friends, John and Greg, went out to get a midnight snack as all college students do if they have access to a car. They drove out a ways to their favorite 24-hour fast food place that they always went to when the other food places were closed. It was farther than most places they went to and in a shadier part of town, but it was always open and hunger doesn’t have a regard for business hours. Tonight, though, it was still early only about midnight but she was craving one of those greasy beef burritos and the guys went along with her suggestion. It was unusually chilly that night so the friends decided to head through the drive through instead of getting out of the car. They waited in line while an old Audi placed its order then they eased forward to the glowing sign of deliciousness.
“How’s this?” John asked Greg as he rolled the driver’s window of his Mustang down two inches, “No one can shoot us from here.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Amy says rolling her eyes, getting a little irritated at the undeserved remark.
Before Greg could back John up, the voice from within the glowing sign asked for their order and John had to roll the window down more for the three of them to order. “Your total is $16.84. Thank you,” was the last thing they heard before John rolled his window up again.
“Brr, it’s so cold. I thought Southern California is supposed to be warm year round,” John said as he drove forward to wait behind Audi who was paying for its food at the window in front.
“It’s not that bad,” Greg commented and fiddled with his friend’s radio system. He switched the station to one that was playing some popular new song.
“Does this sound like Chris Brown to you?” John asked when the chorus started playing.
Greg pulled his hand back from the dial and leaned back in his chair, “Kinda, I guess.”
“I miss his voice. It’s so smooth and sexy,” Amy said as she leaned forward from the back seat to get into the conversation.
“You would like him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what that means.”
“Oh shut up, Greg. Don’t be jealous.”
John just shook his head and laughed at his friends.
“You’re the jealous one, I bet you wish you were Rihanna. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Greg retorted. The conversation continued on in a similar manner.
Out of the corner of her eye, Amy saw someone approach the driver’s side of the car in a black zip-up hoodie. “You think he’s gonna ask for money?” she asked.
Before the boys could turn to look the man in the black zip-up hoodie and his two accomplices pounded on their car windows. Confused, Amy looked at the man on the left. The man in black stood on John’s side. All she could see was his pale neck and his fast moving chapped lips saying something to the window. Looking to the right, she saw a pair of baggy jeans held up by a belt with a white wife beater exposing muscular arms with an obscure tattoo on his left pale shoulder and another pair of dark jeans with a dark gray hoodie with a gold banded ring on his right hand banging on the window. Time slowed down. She heard the handles of the doors lift and snap back down from the outside, her eyes wide and mouth open, not fully grasping what was happening. The men outside continued to hit the windows with their fists and pry at the doors but Greg had hit the lock switch on the inside of the car so the efforts outside were in vain. John threw the car in reverse and sped out backwards out of the drive-through. As their car was reversing, the men stepped back, mouthing some unfriendly words and moved on to the Audi still waiting at the window. She saw the man with the chapped lips grab at the door behind the driver’s door and open it while the other two banged on the car windows. Amy’s eyes widened and as their Mustang peeled out towards the street to take them back home. Craning her neck, she barely saw the Audi peel out of the drive through as they had done leaving the three men empty handed.
Breathing hard, Amy tried to mind her head around what had just happened. The three of them drove in silence.
Minutes passed. “Should I call the police?” Amy asked.
Both boys nodded, staring straight ahead. No one said more than they had to, each deep in their own contemplations. With a shaky hand, she dialed 9-1-1.
“911, what is your emergency?” a woman with a bored, blasé voice asked.
“I’d like to report a…” She didn’t know what to say. What should she say or not say? Amy didn’t finish her sentence and instead handed the phone to Greg in the front.
She heard Greg explain what had just happened and flinched at the line where he described the three Hispanic men. She cringed at the connotations the description had and wondered if the police officer on the line heard a lot of these reports daily or if she believed in stereotypes.
Critical Response 5
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 24, 2009
Critical Response #5
The visiting writers that came to Whittier to read some of their works included Michael Czyzniejewski. The story he chose to read us, “Cwm”, was extremely interesting to me because of its humor and caught so much of my attention that I decided to buy his book: Elephants in Our Bedroom.
“Cwm” starts with a man in a gym locker room shower and right from the very first line, Czyniejewski captures the attention of the reader with the line about peanuts not being nuts. I love the way that he revisits this line throughout the story, saying that peanuts weren’t nuts, but actually beans. The narrator’s excitement at sharing this fact with his wife when he got home, in addition to his deep thought on the subject which caused subsequent thoughts of his own, and his desire to go back and really talk to the man who knew about the peanuts, all made him seem like such a real person and made me get into the story. Also, the scene in the shower where he speaks to the other men, but is not heard, and when he contemplates when to go back to the gym so as to run into the man again-all very realistic things.
Also, the way that Czyniejewski read his work aloud made it come to life. Obviously it is his work, he knows how he wants it to be read, but the humor he put in his voice made it all seem that much more realistic and humorous to me.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 24, 2009
Critical Response #5
The visiting writers that came to Whittier to read some of their works included Michael Czyzniejewski. The story he chose to read us, “Cwm”, was extremely interesting to me because of its humor and caught so much of my attention that I decided to buy his book: Elephants in Our Bedroom.
“Cwm” starts with a man in a gym locker room shower and right from the very first line, Czyniejewski captures the attention of the reader with the line about peanuts not being nuts. I love the way that he revisits this line throughout the story, saying that peanuts weren’t nuts, but actually beans. The narrator’s excitement at sharing this fact with his wife when he got home, in addition to his deep thought on the subject which caused subsequent thoughts of his own, and his desire to go back and really talk to the man who knew about the peanuts, all made him seem like such a real person and made me get into the story. Also, the scene in the shower where he speaks to the other men, but is not heard, and when he contemplates when to go back to the gym so as to run into the man again-all very realistic things.
Also, the way that Czyniejewski read his work aloud made it come to life. Obviously it is his work, he knows how he wants it to be read, but the humor he put in his voice made it all seem that much more realistic and humorous to me.
Story #12 - Symbol
Kelly Hanken
“Tell Me What It Means”
It was there when he came home. Simple, unassuming, sitting on the counter like it had been there all along. It was so inconspicuous that at first, he didn’t even realize it was there. He sorted through the mail, made several phone calls, took out the trash and began making dinner before he noticed it.
As the oven-cooked deep dish pizza baked, he took the object in from all sides. Above, from every angle, at countertop-level – and tried to make sense of it. There was no previous mention of it in any conversation, just distant looks and irritatingly expectant fingertaps on the tabletop.
Like so many things in his life, it came as a surprise. Surprised that he lived through high school, surprised to wake up in the morning after a heavy night of alcohol and pills, surprised to see someone recognize him on campus – all surprises like this one. All more pleasant than this one.
He went to watch TV while the pizza cooked but his eyes would stray back to the thing on the counter. It needed no explanation – he wasn’t stupid – but it still confused him in a strange, intolerable way.
When the oven timer went off, he fetched his pizza and let it cool, watched some more Cartoon Network and continued to glance over to the counter. He finally got up, took his slices of pizza, and sat at the counter. He stared at the key and ate alone.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Story #11 - Exaggerated AND Twisted!
Kelly Hanken
“Lemon Flowers”
The first crack against his skull sounded distant to him, a report of gunfire at a military funeral across the valley. The second was much closer to home and softer, somehow, more like waves at a beach, or a watermelon in a Gallagher act.
The guy above him smelled like he kept fish in his freezer – rotten fish. He imagined hundreds of rotting, foul sea bass in a freezer, mouths open in the middle of a rendition of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”, all looking depressed that they just couldn’t get eaten in time.
Another kick and everything went black.
When he awoke it was in a field, dusty and downtrodden with only a few lemony colored flowers to make it seem homey. He sat up and viewed the world from two perspectives – the one from the eye still in its socket, and the one presented by the eye hanging against his cheek. His head felt concave and he had a very sudden urge for a drink or sixty. No pain, though, which was a blessing.
The sun was setting on the two horizons he could see and it was a bit disorienting so he reached up and replaced his eye in its socket. Just another night out. When he tried to stand, he found himself in a shallow grave, recent rains having driven the dirt into muddy streams away from him. He was an island in a muddy ocean and that wouldn’t do.
He had to admit that this undead shtick was fun for the first few months, but now that he’d harassed everyone in his hometown to the point where they had a watchtower waiting for him, it seemed to be kind of pointless. It was time to set his sights higher – higher than either horizon and higher than the lemon flowers growing in the fields. Maybe it was time to step up to bat – get his bearings and go back to school (night school, with a hoodies and three cubic liters of cologne every night), maybe round up others of his ilk and form a union. Hell,
A new goal in mind now that he’d tired of getting his head kicked in by angry townsfolk, he turned himself as though on a lazy Susan and started for the west – wherever that was.
Have You Ever Wanted and Idiot to Drop Dead?
Have You Ever Wanted an Idiot to Drop Dead?
By Matt Carroll
It was obviously a symbol.
“So, do you guys want to hear a real joke?” The man on stage asked the audience. A few people humored him by saying yes. “Women’s rights!” A few of the men in the crowd humored the comedian and laughed, some really tickled, their girlfriends frowning and spinning the ice in their drink with their fingertip.
I like intellectual comedy more than the type that required a slapstick punch-line. This man was a coward. The overweight, underachieving, man had a glass of scotch in his hand and a cigar in the other. That image was a little more played out than it should be.
“What do you get when you put ninety Cal-Trans workers in the same room with ten lesbians?” He asked. I’m on the edge of my seat—moron. “One-hundred people who don’t do dick all day.” A few people laugh—I’m waiting for a knock-knock joke.
Why does a man like me sit at a comedy hour somewhere in the middle of the city?
I won’t answer that.
It probably bugs you that I’m telling the story and I won’t tell you another thing about me except my feelings of this man standing on stage.
I hate racist people. There’s irony in that sentence. That’s funny.
Why do fifty women run for Mrs. USA, but only two people run for president?
When you go to the store needing a new mouse for your computer do you ask “Where are the computer mouses?” or “Where are the computer mice?” Does it change between living mice and electronic ones?
“So, why does President Obama want higher taxes?” I wonder if we can get a joke that doesn’t require a question to start. “Cause, he’s not the one paying them.” Was that a black joke? I can’t wait to see Rush Limbaugh’s fat ass dance out on stage singing “Barak the Magic Negro.”
The room is filled with smoke and people laughing at this. I like jokes that are funny—these aren’t. His delivery sucks, he’s fat and sweating, and the jokes he says are for people who fall under certain stereotypes to laugh at sterotypes. This is the NRA vs. Michael Moore, Glen Beck vs. Patty Hearst, and Bill O’ Riley vs. Hippies. There are certain people in the world that I like to call “brand” people—people who insist that you be a blue Democrat, or a red Republican, and I laugh because there are people in certain parts of the L.A. basin that make you pick between certain colors like red and blue. It’s all the same. Can’t a person be a person? I’m not being smug; I just like to make educated opinions.
“I mean, I hate how blacks complain about ‘racism,’ are you kidding me? We basically gave them a free boat ride over here, bred them to become some of the greatest football players of all time—I mean have you seen the mosquitoes in Africa? We saved those people, hahahah!” Oh God, he’s laughing at his own jokes.
Normally a man like this wouldn’t bother me, but I had to sit here and watch him. Don’t ask why. I’m tolerant of people, or I have the ability to stand up and walk out of the room. I didn’t have the second option. Have you ever wanted someone like him to drop dead?
“Why don’t Mexicans play the game Uno?” Another damn question! “Because they’re always stealing the green card!” The crowd erupted again. Does anyone have any jokes directed for the typical white man?
I imagined him suddenly stopping his act.
The act suddenly stopped.
I imagined him trying to recover by wiping his forehead and continuing with another horrible joke.
“How do you say ‘that’s not right’ in Chinese?” He wiped the sweat off his forehead.
I imagined him starting to pant, his breath growing rapid, but weaker.
“Sum. . .” He breathed in and out, “Ting… Wong.”
I imagined him clutching his arm and kneeling to the ground, the crowd breathless as they wondered if this was another horrible joke.
He clutched his arms, and knelt to the ground until he fell to the floor on his back.
I stood up from my chair. The audience walked closer to the stage.
I walked outside and it was raining. Maybe that’s a symbol?
Memoir (Revised)
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 all my secrets, but it was a beautiful day and that’s something I wouldn’t forget. Even when I accidently bumped into a stranger holding a newspaper he apologized to me first, and we both went on our way with smiles, and that was worth recalling in this city. I continue my walk, my long coat swaying in the bitter cold morning fog, and I miss my wife. I haven’t seen her in—I couldn’t tell you how long—because she was away on business in Baltimore, or maybe it was Boston?
The sights and sounds of the city are worth remembering. The buses drive so closely to the sidewalk that when they pass my coat ruffles and I have to readjust it. I have to pull down one of the corners of my collar on my coat and while doing so I drop my briefcase. Luckily the latch keeps it shut. Maybe it’s my age, but I feel clumsier as the days pass. I pick up my briefcase and note all the faces of people as I go by. Some held journals they were going to read at work, a cup of coffee, and others have briefcases like mine, but no one has a case that was as sleek as my leather cover and shining handle.
The double doors to my building are opened by a man wearing a tall hat.
“Good morning Mr. Walsh.”
“Good morning.” I always feel horrible when I forget names. He’s only been opening the door for me for the past ten years.
I’m privileged enough to walk right by security and to the executive elevator. I’m enclosed in glass and I look down at all the people below me. That’s worth remembering.
It’s quiet in the elevator until the doors open and the sound of chaos meets me. People say hello to me as I walk, I don’t remember all of their names, and I grab a cup of coffee heading toward my corner office. Brittany is working. She’s my secretary. Tall, brunette, fresh out of college, eyes like the ocean depths at the far end of the dock I remember as a boy, and I’m having an affair with her. Immediately I can feel my cheeks start to warm. It’s something I would like to forget.
“Good morning Mr. Walsh.” Her smile is a subtle secret. I smile back and nervously sip my coffee while gripping my briefcase until my knuckles went white. I’m thinking about her in a manner I don’t want my wife to know. She smiles and sits behind the fortification of piles of papers on her desk. She understood my dilemma at times, and other times I felt like she forgot about my feelings.
The office begins to settle down because everyone sees me, the boss, and that makes me wonder if they would get anything done if I took a few days off. No matter how sick I was, or how much I needed a personal day, I always came into the office. Always.
“Dinner at my place?” I’m the only person that can hear her voice. I begin to feel warm and dizzy. I clutch my briefcase harder as if it had all the answers to my problems.
“Okay, I’ll meet you after work.” I try to swallow, but my mouth is full of cotton. I step to the side and hit my knee against her desk sending my briefcase to the floor where the impact opened the latch, and all my paperwork spilled over the office floor.
Brittany came from behind her desk. I tried shoveling all the papers into my case, but a few were scattered too far away from where I knelt. Brittany handed me a large yellow envelope and to my dismay she reached for an orange prescription bottle that read: Lethologica: take one daily, as needed.
“What’s this?” She put me on the spot. I felt the sweat beads forming on the corner of my forehead.
“It’s, um, it’s a prescription. It’s for—stress.” I took the bottle of pills and threw it inside with the paperwork. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I had to take deep breaths. Usually I don’t care what others think of me. I was the richest man in the building and their jobs depended on my opinion of their work. I usually wasn’t embarrassed by anything once I stepped inside here.
I reached my office and felt better as soon as I was alone and the door closed behind me. I sat down and pulled a pitcher of water from the corner of my desk, pouring myself a glass, and tried to fight off the dryness with one gulp of water after another. It smelled horrible inside my office. I set my briefcase on my desk, papers stacked high and without method, and two things disturbed me. I was normally neat and tidy. That’s why I made it all the way to the top because of my attention to detail. My desk was never this messy. The second thing that bothered me was the old sandwich I forgot on my desk. I opened the lid of my garbage can and threw it away. The abyss of papers need organized and I forgot what they were for as I scanned through them.
I kept organizing my desk. I tried to occupy my mind until lunch.
Brittany and I went to a secluded spot in the park across the street. No one usually left the building for lunch and I was sure no one would find us where we fed the crust of our sandwiches to the pigeons. I felt a rush, like I was in high school playing hooky, and I felt guilty. The feeling Brittany gave me was invigorating, but I felt like I was missing something and my hands were clammy.
“You know, I’m not some stupid secretary. I’m smarter than most of the men you hire in the office.” Why was a girl ten years younger than me interested in me? I had a full head of hair with some graying, I was handsome and rich, but she was young and gorgeous with the type of beauty that made heads turn on the train. “Are you going to stay the night?” She asked me.
“I can’t, just in case my wife comes home.” Brittany frowned and tossed another piece of the crust. We watched the pigeons eat it.
“You know she’s not coming back.” I could hear the anger seep through her tone.
“So, are we having dinner at your place?” I asked trying to change the subject from my wife. My mouth was dry again and my palms sweaty.
“I already told you. My place tonight.”
She was young and she couldn’t comprehend what we were doing, but I liked having her around. She filled a void my wife no longer could. It wasn’t the fact that she was beautiful, she had curves in all the right places and a smile that made my heart skip a beat, but instead it was the fact that she liked poetry and turned her paperwork in on time—for a businessman that was something I appreciated.
Work ended and we took separate taxis so people wouldn’t suspect anything.
I had trouble finding the apartment, but I was a creature of habit and I eventually found it. Once inside we shared a bottle of white wine. I felt free at the beginning of the night. We smiled and she made me laugh. I watched as she sat on the other end of the couch with the wine glass in her hand and hair dancing on her shoulders. She came closer to me. I felt the pit of my stomach open and my heart scream at my consciousness when I thought about my wife, but I really wanted to forget her tonight and I kissed Brittany. One thing lead to another until we were tangled next to each other in the early hours of the morning.
We had work tomorrow. My eyes squinted and I strained to keep them open. My wife could come home at any moment.
“Brittany, I have to go.” I whispered into her ear. She rolled over to face me. Her shoulder is gentle and tender, and that’s something worth remembering as the city lights dimly fell across her body.
“I wish, for one night, you would stay.” She said with a groggy whisper. She smiled at me. She was too smart to be a secretary and I looked at her Ivy League degree hanging on her wall.
“I know, but my wife.” I kissed her forehead and left her apartment for the street corner to call a taxi.
On the drive home there were plenty of nice things to remember. I watched as the headlights of the taxi tore through the fog that wrapped itself around the tall pines like a vine around an ancient fountain in Rome. The moon seemed dull tonight as it shined through the cracks in the canvas of branches.
Her car wasn’t in the driveway. The lights were off in the entire house.
I opened the door to the taxi, grabbed my briefcase, paid the cabby, and watched the car drive away until the taillights disappeared in the mist. I was disturbed at how long the grass was to my usually manicured lawn. The grass was long and curling like long locks of hair. For the second time today, and without good reason, I dropped my briefcase and sent the contents over my untended grass.
A cold sweat came over me. My mouth dry. I felt my heart beat grow faster and faster as I clawed at my paperwork. I reached for a large yellow envelope and the papers fell out. My eyes scanned the letters faster and faster, my heart fluttering faster and faster, I was sweating in this damn cold! They were divorce papers over two months old. My breath was short and rapid. The statement claimed there was “No-Fault.”
I saw the pills sitting on the lawn. The divorce papers triggered a million thoughts. The sandwich I forgot to eat. Forgetfulness and loss of appetite were two of the side effects created by the pills. Brittany constantly prying when I was going to sign the papers. The clumsiness. She wasn’t in Baltimore, or Boston, I didn’t know where she was. I only knew where her lawyer’s office was.
Lethologica: a pill meant for targeting and eliminating bad memories you hope to forget. Take one daily, as needed.
I woke up the next morning in my own bed.
I wondered when my wife would arrive home from Baltimore, or Boston. I can’t remember because she was away on business. I took the train to work clasping my leather briefcase in hand as I smiled at the people reading newspapers and drinking their coffee. The wind created by the buses swept by. I noted all the things worth remembering. I had to find a way to keep the affair I’ve been having for the past three weeks a secret before my wife came home.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
COMICBOOKLAND [Character Swerve Story]
Hey Spence,
I figured with all the certificates on the wall and the corner office why not give you a crack at this one?
So, long story short, the kid’s your typical delusional case (a healthy dose of repressed anger, sexual confusion, etc. etc.), except with a twist -- he is obsessed with comics. He eviscerated his neighbor’s cat while wearing tights and a cape. What’s this world coming to?
There’s a Nobel for you in this one if you can crack it. At the very least, I’ll owe you a beer.
I gave him our usual prompt. He decided to answer the first part and completely ignored the second. Nothing special there.
Essay Response [2/14/2002]:
Think of a passion, and describe it in detail. Then, with equal detail, describe how that passion can become a tool for positivity.
-- 60 mg fluoxetine hydrochlorideorally once daily [begun 2/15/2002]
Here’s my interview with him, obviously a lot less lucid when he talks than in his writing.
Recorded Interview (Transcript) [2/18/2002]:
-- Lowered to 30 mg fluoxetine hydrochlorideorally orally once daily [begun 2/18/2002]
Incident Report [2:13pm 2/19/2002]
I had to keep a straight face through the rest of the session. Most difficult 23 minutes of my life.
-- Switched to 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily [begun 2/18/2002]
Night watch log [3:13am 2/22/2002]
[whoever was on duty was even kind enough to take a picture, it’s included in the file. If you just have to see it, take my advice and do so on an empty stomach, do you ever take a break for lunch by the way? I’m just wondering what the best way is to get ahead here…]
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift [begun 2/22/2002]
This is where it got weird. He started living out his comic book delusions literally. I mean literally as a comic book. He only moved in “frames.” I didn’t believe the on-duty nurse when she described it to me until I came in and watched him myself for an hour. AN HOUR. I finally had him sedated so I could figure out what to do with him.
It’d go something like this: he’d take a few steps, so he could get into position for his frame, then stay there frozen, only moving his lips to perform his “dialogue.” It didn’t matter that if the person he was talking to had left the room, he’d still be standing there, staring at where’d they’d been when he’d started talking as if they were still there having a conversation with him. I wish I had a video that I could show you, never saw anything like it in 16 years.
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift
-- 450 ml xylomenoglophatine I.V. after morning meal [begun 2/24/02]
Notice that one that start with the x? I finally got some grant money, believe or not. Not that that’s anything new to you. Whose ass do you
It gets even better after this. Here’s some of our conversations over the course of the following week (remember he’s saying all of this completely frozen):
I wish I could remember all of them. The staff had made a corkboard of them in the nurse’s station. If you’re ever actually in the East Wing come check them out. I understand the Administrative floor is its own world, why bother making rounds in the places where the actual work gets done?
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift
-- 450 ml xylomenoglophatine I.V. after morning meal
-- 1046 ml liprosiamorphoninekryptoid with afternoon yogurt [begun 3/1/02]
The lipro made him start vibrating. I couldn’t help it, I started laughing during rounds last Friday. What’s-her-face with the big tits gave me a look. I also had to replace the night watch, he was getting attached to comic book boy.
Wasn’t sure what to do next, so I went ahead and improvised. I know it isn’t what you’d do, but hey, you’ve got that nice view, right? Why should you care.
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift
-- 450 ml xylomenoglophatine I.V. after morning meal
-- 1046 ml liprosiamorphoninekryptoid with afternoon yogurt
-- 45 mg Tide High Concentrate™
This was where he started getting a little lethargic. No more sexual response to any of the female staff. I changed the dress code to shorts and cleavage-complimenting tees. The kind your wife wears. I changed up the dosages a bit.
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift
-- 450 ml xylomenoglophatine I.V. after morning meal
-- 1046 ml liprosiamorphoninekryptoid with afternoon yogurt
-- 45 mg Tide High Concentrate™
-- 666 mg I fucked your wife.
Okay, obviously you can tell I’m joking. But really -- not really. I mean every position. Face in the pillow, just begging, begging for obviously something that she just hasn’t been receiving in a long time. What with all that time you must spend dusting off those mahogany temples for all of your published work, I don’t see how there’s any time for your wife. But really, I should be the one feeling impotent right now. I know who’s on the rise and whose star’s faded. I know who’ll be getting the grants and research assistants and who’ll be stuck with hopeless in-patients. We both know who’s gonna make it outta this shithole and who’s going to work here till he get’s his pension so he can retire early and spend the rest of his days sitting on his ass and drinking Metamucil. But you know, what? It’s not all gonna be bad. Cause that pension’ll be paying for more time for me to be fucking your wife. I hope that you’ve already found about this. That she called out my name the last time she climaxed. But honestly, when I consider which is more likely to happen first: that you’ll get laid, or that you’ll get this memo first, I just have to resign myself to reality.
Yours truly,
Rick Dunlap, P.h.D
P.S. Cartoon boy’s real by the way. I taught him how to make a scene out of me and your wife. You should come by and see it, he’s pretty good. He even drew out a comic strip. I’ve included it.
P.P.S. Fuck you
I figured with all the certificates on the wall and the corner office why not give you a crack at this one?
So, long story short, the kid’s your typical delusional case (a healthy dose of repressed anger, sexual confusion, etc. etc.), except with a twist -- he is obsessed with comics. He eviscerated his neighbor’s cat while wearing tights and a cape. What’s this world coming to?
There’s a Nobel for you in this one if you can crack it. At the very least, I’ll owe you a beer.
I gave him our usual prompt. He decided to answer the first part and completely ignored the second. Nothing special there.
Essay Response [2/14/2002]:
Think of a passion, and describe it in detail. Then, with equal detail, describe how that passion can become a tool for positivity.
Each page is a like a window, and every panel a pane. It’s up to you to fill in the movement, the voices, sounds, colors, and everything else in between. People look down on comic books, they think they’re somehow less work to read than “regular” books. No I don’t think that’s true, and no, I’m not one of those people who’s started calling them “graphic novels.” That’s just an acknowledgment that they somehow don’t live up, that on its own, a comic book couldn’t stand muster against Ulysses. So that’s why I stubbornly refer to them as comic books. I do it because I respect them.
-- 60 mg fluoxetine hydrochlorideorally once daily [begun 2/15/2002]
Here’s my interview with him, obviously a lot less lucid when he talks than in his writing.
Recorded Interview (Transcript) [2/18/2002]:
“… well, that’s interesting phrasing, certainly. I mean, what more is there to say? Of course it’s an illusion. What does that make this, then? I don’t want to become… what I’m trying to say is… we’re all deluded anyways, right? What’s the point? How are you going to define escape? We’re all just escaping things. Freud said that. Of course I read them to escape. What’s great about reality? Do you like coming here every day?”
-- Lowered to 30 mg fluoxetine hydrochlorideorally orally once daily [begun 2/18/2002]
Incident Report [2:13pm 2/19/2002]
[…] broke -------‘s nose b.c. he “looked like fucking the Green Lantern. I hate the Green Lantern.” Group continued. Had him taken to Isolation. Change in meds rec.
I had to keep a straight face through the rest of the session. Most difficult 23 minutes of my life.
-- Switched to 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily [begun 2/18/2002]
Night watch log [3:13am 2/22/2002]
[whoever was on duty was even kind enough to take a picture, it’s included in the file. If you just have to see it, take my advice and do so on an empty stomach, do you ever take a break for lunch by the way? I’m just wondering what the best way is to get ahead here…]
[…] used feces to create comic strip along doorframe and across wall. Was trying to set clothes on fire with overhead lighting before he was restrained. Taken to Isolation. Sleeping meds rec.
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift [begun 2/22/2002]
This is where it got weird. He started living out his comic book delusions literally. I mean literally as a comic book. He only moved in “frames.” I didn’t believe the on-duty nurse when she described it to me until I came in and watched him myself for an hour. AN HOUR. I finally had him sedated so I could figure out what to do with him.
It’d go something like this: he’d take a few steps, so he could get into position for his frame, then stay there frozen, only moving his lips to perform his “dialogue.” It didn’t matter that if the person he was talking to had left the room, he’d still be standing there, staring at where’d they’d been when he’d started talking as if they were still there having a conversation with him. I wish I had a video that I could show you, never saw anything like it in 16 years.
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift
-- 450 ml xylomenoglophatine I.V. after morning meal [begun 2/24/02]
Notice that one that start with the x? I finally got some grant money, believe or not. Not that that’s anything new to you. Whose ass do you
It gets even better after this. Here’s some of our conversations over the course of the following week (remember he’s saying all of this completely frozen):
“Whatever you’ve done with Lois, it won’t be forgiven, not by me, not by Bruce, and not by humanity.”
“Whenever I look into your cold, dead eyes, I know evil.”
“When I get out of here, the world will know.”
I wish I could remember all of them. The staff had made a corkboard of them in the nurse’s station. If you’re ever actually in the East Wing come check them out. I understand the Administrative floor is its own world, why bother making rounds in the places where the actual work gets done?
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift
-- 450 ml xylomenoglophatine I.V. after morning meal
-- 1046 ml liprosiamorphoninekryptoid with afternoon yogurt [begun 3/1/02]
The lipro made him start vibrating. I couldn’t help it, I started laughing during rounds last Friday. What’s-her-face with the big tits gave me a look. I also had to replace the night watch, he was getting attached to comic book boy.
Wasn’t sure what to do next, so I went ahead and improvised. I know it isn’t what you’d do, but hey, you’ve got that nice view, right? Why should you care.
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift
-- 450 ml xylomenoglophatine I.V. after morning meal
-- 1046 ml liprosiamorphoninekryptoid with afternoon yogurt
-- 45 mg Tide High Concentrate™
This was where he started getting a little lethargic. No more sexual response to any of the female staff. I changed the dress code to shorts and cleavage-complimenting tees. The kind your wife wears. I changed up the dosages a bit.
-- 16 mg perphenazine orally once daily
-- 60 mg phenobarbitone orally before night shift
-- 450 ml xylomenoglophatine I.V. after morning meal
-- 1046 ml liprosiamorphoninekryptoid with afternoon yogurt
-- 45 mg Tide High Concentrate™
-- 666 mg I fucked your wife.
Okay, obviously you can tell I’m joking. But really -- not really. I mean every position. Face in the pillow, just begging, begging for obviously something that she just hasn’t been receiving in a long time. What with all that time you must spend dusting off those mahogany temples for all of your published work, I don’t see how there’s any time for your wife. But really, I should be the one feeling impotent right now. I know who’s on the rise and whose star’s faded. I know who’ll be getting the grants and research assistants and who’ll be stuck with hopeless in-patients. We both know who’s gonna make it outta this shithole and who’s going to work here till he get’s his pension so he can retire early and spend the rest of his days sitting on his ass and drinking Metamucil. But you know, what? It’s not all gonna be bad. Cause that pension’ll be paying for more time for me to be fucking your wife. I hope that you’ve already found about this. That she called out my name the last time she climaxed. But honestly, when I consider which is more likely to happen first: that you’ll get laid, or that you’ll get this memo first, I just have to resign myself to reality.
Yours truly,
Rick Dunlap, P.h.D
P.S. Cartoon boy’s real by the way. I taught him how to make a scene out of me and your wife. You should come by and see it, he’s pretty good. He even drew out a comic strip. I’ve included it.
P.P.S. Fuck you
Response: Matt Caroll’s “Sunsets on the Far Side of the World Part II”
First of all, the title intrigued me, and from reading the stories I felt like I was diving into just a small part of a much larger world (what’s Part I?). I liked the Tarantino-meets-Tolkien structure of the storytelling, and how the lighthouse keeper and the Captain are brought together in the end. This was also the point of most confusion for me, with the jumps between time, place and characters. As far as I could tell there were four major characters: the lighthouse keeper, the magician, the rider, and the Captain. The fate of the captain and the lighthouse keeper were satisfactorily resolved for me, but I was curious about the fate of the other two (what happens to the magician after he gets to Utah?, what is the letter the rider is in such a hurry to deliver? Etc.). I’m getting a sense of a much larger world that I want to know more about.
The jumps between these characters could be made clearer. Just putting some asterisks between the break or making a chapter break or something like that would probably do the trick. I’d say it would also be a good idea to either do the story entirely in the first person perspective of each character, or in the third person. Right now it seems split evenly (the lighthouse keeper third, the magician first, the rider third, and the Captain first), and it makes it hard for me to tell if the story is supposed to be more about the magician and the captain or an ensemble piece. Also, eliminating the jumps-within-jumps that happen (the magician having a flashback to his old village and love interest) would make the story clearer.
The last major point I had was about the inclusion of Utah. Right now, it takes me out of the setting of the fantasy world, and being a big Tolkien nerd this is always heart-wrenching for me, but at the same time I thought it opened up a lot of possibilities (what does a fantasy world look like that includes places like Utah? Do magicians and non-magicians keep entirely separate a la Harry Potter? Is there no separation? How screwed up are the politics? Etc. etc.). If the idea is to jar the reader’s preconceptions of a fantasy universe, this does the trick, but it needs to be expanded on and justified.
All in all a very compelling story. Basically, I just want to read more about this world.
The jumps between these characters could be made clearer. Just putting some asterisks between the break or making a chapter break or something like that would probably do the trick. I’d say it would also be a good idea to either do the story entirely in the first person perspective of each character, or in the third person. Right now it seems split evenly (the lighthouse keeper third, the magician first, the rider third, and the Captain first), and it makes it hard for me to tell if the story is supposed to be more about the magician and the captain or an ensemble piece. Also, eliminating the jumps-within-jumps that happen (the magician having a flashback to his old village and love interest) would make the story clearer.
The last major point I had was about the inclusion of Utah. Right now, it takes me out of the setting of the fantasy world, and being a big Tolkien nerd this is always heart-wrenching for me, but at the same time I thought it opened up a lot of possibilities (what does a fantasy world look like that includes places like Utah? Do magicians and non-magicians keep entirely separate a la Harry Potter? Is there no separation? How screwed up are the politics? Etc. etc.). If the idea is to jar the reader’s preconceptions of a fantasy universe, this does the trick, but it needs to be expanded on and justified.
All in all a very compelling story. Basically, I just want to read more about this world.
Metafictional Story
Day 14
I started keeping track of the days. Kind of arbitrary, really. Fourteen days ago I decided I’d do it. We’ll see how long I keep it up. It gets dark early now (how cliché is that?). I don’t know why I’m writing this now. They say we write stories to make sense of things. Maybe that’s why I’m doing this. Because it really doesn’t make any sense. It’s not from lack of time to mull it over, either. Time’s been ample. I’ve had a lot of it to think about this, and it makes even less sense the more I do. Maybe that’s why my husband’s given up thinking about it.
He’s sitting in a shredded armchair we pulled from a Macy’s. He’s working on Vanity Fair, going backwards—chronologically. Next it's The New Yorker. And after that, something else. He’s so meticulous about how he turns the page. He starts with his thumb and middle finger at the corner and works his way down. He hates it when I make fun of him for it, but it’s like watching a metronome. It’s how he passes the time.
See, he falls into the camp of people for whom passing the time has grown into a kind of currency. After trading for food and clean water its getting something to read. He was lucky to get The New Yorkers. We had heard they were at the Arcadia library, and we managed to hike down there (a whole ‘nother story), only to find the whole place empty, they hadn’t even left a single back issue of the Journal of Pediatrics (though I guess everything’s a back issue now). It just goes to show how desperate everyone is to find something to do. It was a long walk back.
Anyways the sun’s getting close to the horizon, and I’m skirting around the whole issue. There’s still too much interference for anything electronic to work. Not that I’m some kind of snob or something, don’t get me wrong I watched plenty of TV in my day (Law & Order was my favorite) and I’d watch some more if any of them would work. Or I’d even settle for old DVDs. But I can’t. Big deal. Anyways, it’s not like we’re lacking any entertainment. Even if nothing new’s being written, he has those back issues of The New Yorker ad infinitum, and there’s enough books, magazines, and old newspapers circulating around for anyone to spend a lifetime absorbing. And for people like my husband, that’s enough.
For others … ? Well I don’t really need to explain that’s it the end of the world. I mean after the end, really. And we’ve all seen a movie or read a book or whatever about the whole issue. There’s not anything more to be said about it. You probably have a better idea of what’s going on in the world around me from watching The Day After Tomorrow or Dr Strangelove or seeing Endgame or whatever. What do I have to add to that? I couldn’t even tell you what happened. Let alone make a story out of it. But that’s why I’m here, and that’s what I’m doing (though pretty soon there are going to be children who won’t know what I’m talking about when I say those things? Is that what I’m going to have to do, explain old movies and books to them to try and make sense of what’s happened to the world?).
For others it’s about rebuilding what’s lost. That’s the second camp. They’ve been trying to repopulate the public services and there’s been a massive collection of green backs (they can’t print any new ones) and they’re trying to reinstitute the dollar. Having an economy and a sense of purpose would bring us out of this malaise. At least that’s what they’re telling us. It has been nice having someone take away the garbage. Maybe they could do something about the rats…
And that would be the third camp (if we’re going to do this numerically?). Not the rats themselves—even though at this point they probly outnumber us, they come out in roaming mobs at night, picking through the vacants—but the people who have turned into rats, or maybe always were and finally have had the chance to fully realize themselves. Just yesterday one of them, I’ll call him Whiskers, since that’s the simile anyways, or metaphor, came in waving a tire iron around like some phallic symbol of his impotence and demanded that my husband hand over his copy of The Half Blood Prince. Word must have gotten around that we had it, and this guy had gotten up to Order of the Phoenix and couldn’t let go of Hogwarts. On top of that he demanded every can of creamed corn I had been saving. I gave him one of them. Real good. Right in his real phallic symbol.
He was one of the exceptions, an intellectual. Most of them just go after the food (or me). And there are more camps. More divisions of people. But why go into all of them? This isn’t helping. So it’s shitty and everyone deals with it through some preprogrammed personality trait. How enlightening. Maybe that’s the problem, anyways. We ran out of things to say and think and do and so we annihilated ourselves. A massive conspiracy about boredom. …that created boredom. God, this is just getting stupider. Why am I still writing?
Maybe I should go back to my childhood. A good memory. I remember this time I was in a Safeway with my mom, she was trying to cook for a party and she was on the phone with my dad, and she was mad because he hadn’t told her one of the guests was a vegan (“Vegan, what the hell do they eat?”), aand out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man slip a Milky Way into his pocket. I was three and therefore very short, and I was looking through a gap in one of the shelves. i never saw the man’s face, but when we got to the register I tried to tell her about it, and she was trying to shush me, because I guess I was telling the story wrong, and th;e store manager made us take off our coats and empty out all of our pockets and my mom had t o dump out everything in her purse and she was so embarrassed and I didn’t say a word the whole car ride hom e. It’s fun ny because yea rs later, I i sa w a scene in a movie that wes jst like that . oOr maybe i Was thinking abou t the m ov ie.
Its ‘ get ting toO d aark, I can’ t see what i’M writin g. m Ore tommoro
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