Showing posts with label by Colleen Mundy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label by Colleen Mundy. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
response to "sunsets on the far side of the world"
i really like how this turned out. i think there is some absolutely beautiful language in this story and i love it. i am also very impressed with how the previous stories (sunsets part one and sunsets part two) were intertwined and mixed in this final story. it is still a little bit hard for me to follow in places, but that may be just because this is not exactly the kind of story that i would normally read on my own. but in saying that, i still enjoyed it and was able to stay with it. i think that the idea is great and i would like to see it finished and elongated even more.
response to "if only"
i still really like the wasy that kady sets up the three points of views. and i think a lot of the problems with the first draft of this story were very well taken care of. like the gun etc. i still have a problem with kendal showing up at sophia's house, though. she takes her in the backyard, which was unclear why in the first story, and in this new draft the reader is told that there is a party. but there was no previous mention of a party and sophia had just gotten out of the shower. we are given no party guest reaction to the gunshot, we dont even see the party. also, im not sure about the way the flashbacks are set up in the story. they seem very jumpy and it is all in a moment. like when kendal comes to the house and all sophia can think of when she is shot is carter. then carter thinking of sophia as she dies in his arms. over all, though, i really like the way this story developed from the first draft. there is a lot more detail and a great story backing to it.
"with God"
Colleen Mundy
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
"with God"
Colleen Mundy
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Critical Response 7
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
April 7, 2009
Critical Response #7
Critical Response to Kelly Hanken
“Tell Me What It Means”
I like this story. It is short, though, which leaves me feeling somewhat empty when the main character’s surprises are listed. I am left without knowing the history of why he didn't expect to live through high school and I want to know why he drinks so much and takes so many pills. Or was that all in the past? I think if this was a little bit longer, and the author had a little bit more time, maybe, that this could develop more.
I really like how the author gives the key personality with some of the adjectives used. For example, the key sits on the counter, unassuming, it needed no explanation. I would like to know, however, what happened with the owner. I assume it was a lover who left the main character, but I feel like I just need to see a little bit more. I like the described “distant looks and irritatingly expectant finger taps on the tabletop,” though. It seems to give a sense of the kind of atmosphere in the house.
I also was drawn to the fact that he kept glancing at it, almost as if he couldn’t believe it was there. He went about his life, making dinner, calling people, and finally looking at it with careful consideration. I could imagine his confusion at the object when he was looking at it from all of the different angles. I think that this part of the story could be expanded and developed a little bit more and describe the key, relate it to things in the relationship.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
April 7, 2009
Critical Response #7
Critical Response to Kelly Hanken
“Tell Me What It Means”
I like this story. It is short, though, which leaves me feeling somewhat empty when the main character’s surprises are listed. I am left without knowing the history of why he didn't expect to live through high school and I want to know why he drinks so much and takes so many pills. Or was that all in the past? I think if this was a little bit longer, and the author had a little bit more time, maybe, that this could develop more.
I really like how the author gives the key personality with some of the adjectives used. For example, the key sits on the counter, unassuming, it needed no explanation. I would like to know, however, what happened with the owner. I assume it was a lover who left the main character, but I feel like I just need to see a little bit more. I like the described “distant looks and irritatingly expectant finger taps on the tabletop,” though. It seems to give a sense of the kind of atmosphere in the house.
I also was drawn to the fact that he kept glancing at it, almost as if he couldn’t believe it was there. He went about his life, making dinner, calling people, and finally looking at it with careful consideration. I could imagine his confusion at the object when he was looking at it from all of the different angles. I think that this part of the story could be expanded and developed a little bit more and describe the key, relate it to things in the relationship.
Critical Response 6
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
April 7, 2009
Critical Response #6
Critical Response to T.C. Boyle’s “Greasy Lake”
I actually really enjoyed reading this story. Boyle, in my opinion, did a great job drawing readers into his characters and getting them involved in the story. One thing that really stood out to me about his characters, however, is that they may have seemed like bad characters and may have gotten in that fight, but the only really bad thing that happened in that fight was the one swing with the tire iron. Also, Digby and Jeff seemed to disappear very quickly when the situation turned and other people showed up at Greasy Lake. They seemed to run away in my opinion and leave the narrator alone.
Another big thing that stood out to me was the fact that the narrator is never named. Digby and Jeff have specific names, but the narrator, who is relaying all of the information, remains unnamed. Even the dead biker is given a name. But when Digby tries to get the narrator to drive away at the end of the story, after the fight and after the car has been destroyed, he calls “his name,” but we as readers never know what that name is.
I think that Boyle includes some great plot twists, number one being the fact that the man was not dead after the fight. I also liked the finding of the dead biker. That is something that one would expect to find at a lake described so in detail as Greasy Lake.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
April 7, 2009
Critical Response #6
Critical Response to T.C. Boyle’s “Greasy Lake”
I actually really enjoyed reading this story. Boyle, in my opinion, did a great job drawing readers into his characters and getting them involved in the story. One thing that really stood out to me about his characters, however, is that they may have seemed like bad characters and may have gotten in that fight, but the only really bad thing that happened in that fight was the one swing with the tire iron. Also, Digby and Jeff seemed to disappear very quickly when the situation turned and other people showed up at Greasy Lake. They seemed to run away in my opinion and leave the narrator alone.
Another big thing that stood out to me was the fact that the narrator is never named. Digby and Jeff have specific names, but the narrator, who is relaying all of the information, remains unnamed. Even the dead biker is given a name. But when Digby tries to get the narrator to drive away at the end of the story, after the fight and after the car has been destroyed, he calls “his name,” but we as readers never know what that name is.
I think that Boyle includes some great plot twists, number one being the fact that the man was not dead after the fight. I also liked the finding of the dead biker. That is something that one would expect to find at a lake described so in detail as Greasy Lake.
Story #12
Colleen Mundy
Story #12 (against prompt)
Eggs
It was her very first egg and Kathy could hardly sit still while her mother carefully pulled it from the basket which cradled it. It was Kathy’s 11th birthday and the only thing she wanted was a pet. She sat in the middle of her backyard in the soft, full grass while her father sat at the patio table drinking a glass of scotch. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, hoping the egg would produce a nice hamster, a cat even, rather than a pig or God forbid an ostrich or something.
God love science, he thought as he watched his wife place the egg on the grass in front of their daughter. It was about the size of a soccer ball, but any size animal could be curled up inside waiting to be released. That was the new thing in 2036: all animals came from eggs, scientifically produced and manufactured; not enough animals remained from the extinction for natural reproduction. The eggs were sold with an added bonus of surprise, also. No one ever knew what animal would come from an egg until it was cracked, and an egg could sit without being cracked for years and still be good. Kathy’s father put down his empty glass and lit a cigarette as his wife handed Kathy a small hammer.
Kathy clutched at the hammer and starred at the egg with expectant eyes. Her mother backed away from her daughter, excited to see her first egg cracking. She folded her hands behind her back, threw a glance over her shoulder at her husband who took a long drag on his cigarette, and crossed her fingers that it would be a normal, domesticated animal. Kathy placed the head of the hammer on the very tip of the egg, pulled it back and let it drop ever so lightly on the egg; one little tap is all it took.
The egg split down from tip to bottom in four equal pieces and the shell opened like a rose. Kathy’s face dropped as she peered inside, down to the very bottom of the egg. Her mother inched forward and gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. Kathy’s father jumped up out of his chair on the patio, flinging his cigarette to the concrete and stepping on it on his way to his wife’s side. Kathy titled her head on angle and raised an eyebrow as she traced her finger along the shell of the first empty animal egg in history. Her father reached into his shirt pocket for another cigarette.
Story #12 (against prompt)
Eggs
It was her very first egg and Kathy could hardly sit still while her mother carefully pulled it from the basket which cradled it. It was Kathy’s 11th birthday and the only thing she wanted was a pet. She sat in the middle of her backyard in the soft, full grass while her father sat at the patio table drinking a glass of scotch. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, hoping the egg would produce a nice hamster, a cat even, rather than a pig or God forbid an ostrich or something.
God love science, he thought as he watched his wife place the egg on the grass in front of their daughter. It was about the size of a soccer ball, but any size animal could be curled up inside waiting to be released. That was the new thing in 2036: all animals came from eggs, scientifically produced and manufactured; not enough animals remained from the extinction for natural reproduction. The eggs were sold with an added bonus of surprise, also. No one ever knew what animal would come from an egg until it was cracked, and an egg could sit without being cracked for years and still be good. Kathy’s father put down his empty glass and lit a cigarette as his wife handed Kathy a small hammer.
Kathy clutched at the hammer and starred at the egg with expectant eyes. Her mother backed away from her daughter, excited to see her first egg cracking. She folded her hands behind her back, threw a glance over her shoulder at her husband who took a long drag on his cigarette, and crossed her fingers that it would be a normal, domesticated animal. Kathy placed the head of the hammer on the very tip of the egg, pulled it back and let it drop ever so lightly on the egg; one little tap is all it took.
The egg split down from tip to bottom in four equal pieces and the shell opened like a rose. Kathy’s face dropped as she peered inside, down to the very bottom of the egg. Her mother inched forward and gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. Kathy’s father jumped up out of his chair on the patio, flinging his cigarette to the concrete and stepping on it on his way to his wife’s side. Kathy titled her head on angle and raised an eyebrow as she traced her finger along the shell of the first empty animal egg in history. Her father reached into his shirt pocket for another cigarette.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Critical Response 4: Matt Carroll
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 17, 2009
Critical Response to Matt Carroll
“My Short Story About The Homecoming Dance (Too Long of a Title?)”
I like how the idea of questioning the writing is brought up right away in the title. Asking whether or not the title is too long brings the reader into the idea of being addressed right away. I also like the irony of making the title being “My SHORT Story” when the title is so long, and then calling yourself out on the length. That really pulls the reader into the meta narrative.
My only real problem with the way that this story is set up is that the meta narrative sections are used, or at least have the effect on me, as being more of a personal debate for the author. It seems that he is questioning his own writing more than addressing the reader at many points. He questions punctuation and word choice and makes it seem like he is really just talking to himself about his writing.
For me, the strongest points are when the author is being cynical and sarcastic. In these moments, for example talking about what kind of character he is being turned into and the Nicolas Sparks references, the author shows more interaction with the reader. I think the best revisions to this story would be to use more of these kind of techniques and less about the punctuation and actual writing.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 17, 2009
Critical Response to Matt Carroll
“My Short Story About The Homecoming Dance (Too Long of a Title?)”
I like how the idea of questioning the writing is brought up right away in the title. Asking whether or not the title is too long brings the reader into the idea of being addressed right away. I also like the irony of making the title being “My SHORT Story” when the title is so long, and then calling yourself out on the length. That really pulls the reader into the meta narrative.
My only real problem with the way that this story is set up is that the meta narrative sections are used, or at least have the effect on me, as being more of a personal debate for the author. It seems that he is questioning his own writing more than addressing the reader at many points. He questions punctuation and word choice and makes it seem like he is really just talking to himself about his writing.
For me, the strongest points are when the author is being cynical and sarcastic. In these moments, for example talking about what kind of character he is being turned into and the Nicolas Sparks references, the author shows more interaction with the reader. I think the best revisions to this story would be to use more of these kind of techniques and less about the punctuation and actual writing.
Story #10: Dear Jackie
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 17, 2009
Story #10
Dear Jackie,
I know you get a lot of letters like this. Horror stories and what not, right? Stories of loss and death, hate and horrible, life ruining things. Things that take people years to talk about. Things that change relationships and cut strings. Well, I know you get a lot of these kinds of letters. And I know that people all beg you to read them on your show and get their stories heard, but I think my story is a little bit different. See, my story has what other stories don’t. My story, though it may be just as heartbreaking as the next, has hope. My story goes like this.
I am a twin. Or at least I used to be. I don’t know yet if I still consider myself a twin since my twin is dead. Let me explain. In order for you to understand, though, you need to know me and my twin. His name was Gabriel. We were identical twins and when I say identical I mean identical. He liked his hair long, like mine, was a little bit thinner and shorter than the other boys our age, and he was just a tad feminine, so he really did look like me. We had the same mannerisms, the same quirks and facial expressions, and we liked all the same things. But liking boys was the one that led to Gabriel’s death.
Our parents raised us to be ourselves and stay true to our hearts; all that cliché crap that Gabe and I realized was bullshit when he came out of the closet. My brother was my life. Twins have that special kind of bond, you know? So when my father disgraced him and my mother couldn’t look at him for shame, they unknowingly disowned me, too. They were so ashamed of Gabe going against “God’s word” and “what God wanted” that we moved. It doesn’t matter where we came from or where we ended up, it was just the fact that we moved. It was the fact that my parents couldn’t bear their friends’ looks and opinions about their “faggot son.”
So we moved. And my parents lectured and preached and begged and guilt tripped my brother in attempts to “turn him back.” They forced him to see shrinks and preachers, took him to professionals who dealt with “problems” such as his, and practically locked him in church one day. None of it worked. It couldn’t work. But my parents just didn't understand. So they stopped talking to Gabe altogether. They turned me into the mediator to pass the salad at dinner and tell Gabe no, of course he couldn’t go out tonight. They were probably afraid he was going to some gay terrorist group meeting where they were planning to bomb a church or something. But they never noted the fact that every Sunday, Gabe was still sitting next to me in church. He still sang the hymns and said the prayers and he still believed in God, even though my parents proclaimed that He hated Gabe.
I don’t know how he took it all. The church thing was definitely the worst, though. That’s what Gabe and my parents fought the most about. Because my parents knew, for a fact, of course, that God didn't want Gabe to be gay. Other people could be gay, fine, but not Gabe. Not their son. No, God wanted him to stop being difficult, find a nice girl, and move on with his life. And no matter how Gabe tried to make them understand, they still thought it was a choice. Like Gabe woke up one morning and said, “How am I going to piss off my parents today? Oh, I know. I think I’ll be gay.” They couldn’t appreciate the fact that for the first time in a long time, Gabe was happy. That’s all that should have mattered, especially with all the crap they fed us growing up about follow your heart. I guess what they really meant was follow your heart as long as it follows the Bible. Because of course the Bible clearly states that it is a sin for one Gabriel Michael Henderson to be, gasp, gay.
I’m hoping that Gabe’s suicide makes the statement on the world that it failed to make on my parents. That’s why I want you to read my letter on the air. I want people to recognize what their hate is doing to the world and to the people who live in it. I want them to realize the power of their hate and how wide the ripples of it go. You would think that finding Gabriel hung up on the cross in the church would have told my parents something. But they just thought he was weak. Like he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, change so there was nothing left for him to do. What struck me the most was that they never cried. Between the two of them, they never shed a tear. I thought that the rosary dangling from Gabe’s hand when they found him would have done something. Hit some dead nerve in them and wake them up. After all, Gabe was still their son. But the rosary did nothing. They never cried. Not even at the funeral. I’m almost surprised they even had one.
But more than realizing what hate can do, I want people to realize what love can do. And I want people that are still in the closet, or suffering from just coming out, to know that there is hope. There is always hope. The day after we found Gabriel, I found his letter to me in my dresser drawer and that’s what he said. He said he was sorry for leaving me, but he had to. He had to leave for more than just him. He had to leave for my parents. Because one day they will realize what they lost and one day they will miss him. He had to leave to make a statement to the world, which is what I’m trying to help him do. He had to leave because no one should have to live with that kind of hate in their own home. But he told me not worry about him because he’s with God now, talking about how to help people see the bigger picture. He told me never to lose hope.
My parents go on with life almost as if Gabe never existed. They still ask me to pass the salad at dinner and we sit in the same order at church, like nothing had happened. But I know Gabriel was right. One day they will realize what they’ve done. One day they will realize that their son is gone. But until then I’m still here. And after everything that happened with Gabriel, I think you will understand when I tell you that I’m afraid to tell my parents that Gabe and I had more in common than they thought. That it wasn’t Gabe who needed to find a nice girl. I think you understand now why I’m afraid to tell my parents what I never even got to tell Gabe. I think you understand now why I’m afraid to tell my parents that I’m gay, too.
Marissa Renee Henderson
R.I.P. Gabriel
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 17, 2009
Story #10
Dear Jackie,
I know you get a lot of letters like this. Horror stories and what not, right? Stories of loss and death, hate and horrible, life ruining things. Things that take people years to talk about. Things that change relationships and cut strings. Well, I know you get a lot of these kinds of letters. And I know that people all beg you to read them on your show and get their stories heard, but I think my story is a little bit different. See, my story has what other stories don’t. My story, though it may be just as heartbreaking as the next, has hope. My story goes like this.
I am a twin. Or at least I used to be. I don’t know yet if I still consider myself a twin since my twin is dead. Let me explain. In order for you to understand, though, you need to know me and my twin. His name was Gabriel. We were identical twins and when I say identical I mean identical. He liked his hair long, like mine, was a little bit thinner and shorter than the other boys our age, and he was just a tad feminine, so he really did look like me. We had the same mannerisms, the same quirks and facial expressions, and we liked all the same things. But liking boys was the one that led to Gabriel’s death.
Our parents raised us to be ourselves and stay true to our hearts; all that cliché crap that Gabe and I realized was bullshit when he came out of the closet. My brother was my life. Twins have that special kind of bond, you know? So when my father disgraced him and my mother couldn’t look at him for shame, they unknowingly disowned me, too. They were so ashamed of Gabe going against “God’s word” and “what God wanted” that we moved. It doesn’t matter where we came from or where we ended up, it was just the fact that we moved. It was the fact that my parents couldn’t bear their friends’ looks and opinions about their “faggot son.”
So we moved. And my parents lectured and preached and begged and guilt tripped my brother in attempts to “turn him back.” They forced him to see shrinks and preachers, took him to professionals who dealt with “problems” such as his, and practically locked him in church one day. None of it worked. It couldn’t work. But my parents just didn't understand. So they stopped talking to Gabe altogether. They turned me into the mediator to pass the salad at dinner and tell Gabe no, of course he couldn’t go out tonight. They were probably afraid he was going to some gay terrorist group meeting where they were planning to bomb a church or something. But they never noted the fact that every Sunday, Gabe was still sitting next to me in church. He still sang the hymns and said the prayers and he still believed in God, even though my parents proclaimed that He hated Gabe.
I don’t know how he took it all. The church thing was definitely the worst, though. That’s what Gabe and my parents fought the most about. Because my parents knew, for a fact, of course, that God didn't want Gabe to be gay. Other people could be gay, fine, but not Gabe. Not their son. No, God wanted him to stop being difficult, find a nice girl, and move on with his life. And no matter how Gabe tried to make them understand, they still thought it was a choice. Like Gabe woke up one morning and said, “How am I going to piss off my parents today? Oh, I know. I think I’ll be gay.” They couldn’t appreciate the fact that for the first time in a long time, Gabe was happy. That’s all that should have mattered, especially with all the crap they fed us growing up about follow your heart. I guess what they really meant was follow your heart as long as it follows the Bible. Because of course the Bible clearly states that it is a sin for one Gabriel Michael Henderson to be, gasp, gay.
I’m hoping that Gabe’s suicide makes the statement on the world that it failed to make on my parents. That’s why I want you to read my letter on the air. I want people to recognize what their hate is doing to the world and to the people who live in it. I want them to realize the power of their hate and how wide the ripples of it go. You would think that finding Gabriel hung up on the cross in the church would have told my parents something. But they just thought he was weak. Like he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, change so there was nothing left for him to do. What struck me the most was that they never cried. Between the two of them, they never shed a tear. I thought that the rosary dangling from Gabe’s hand when they found him would have done something. Hit some dead nerve in them and wake them up. After all, Gabe was still their son. But the rosary did nothing. They never cried. Not even at the funeral. I’m almost surprised they even had one.
But more than realizing what hate can do, I want people to realize what love can do. And I want people that are still in the closet, or suffering from just coming out, to know that there is hope. There is always hope. The day after we found Gabriel, I found his letter to me in my dresser drawer and that’s what he said. He said he was sorry for leaving me, but he had to. He had to leave for more than just him. He had to leave for my parents. Because one day they will realize what they lost and one day they will miss him. He had to leave to make a statement to the world, which is what I’m trying to help him do. He had to leave because no one should have to live with that kind of hate in their own home. But he told me not worry about him because he’s with God now, talking about how to help people see the bigger picture. He told me never to lose hope.
My parents go on with life almost as if Gabe never existed. They still ask me to pass the salad at dinner and we sit in the same order at church, like nothing had happened. But I know Gabriel was right. One day they will realize what they’ve done. One day they will realize that their son is gone. But until then I’m still here. And after everything that happened with Gabriel, I think you will understand when I tell you that I’m afraid to tell my parents that Gabe and I had more in common than they thought. That it wasn’t Gabe who needed to find a nice girl. I think you understand now why I’m afraid to tell my parents what I never even got to tell Gabe. I think you understand now why I’m afraid to tell my parents that I’m gay, too.
Marissa Renee Henderson
R.I.P. Gabriel
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Story #9: meta fiction. Revelry
Colleen Mundy
Story #9: Meta narrative
March 10, 2009
Revelry
It was past noon and the only reason Taylor was even awake was because his phone vibrated on the table next to him. He rolled over, aggravated that someone should be texting him this early; didn't they know it was Sunday? That means every student at his college should be hung over. He rubbed his eyes and looked at a number he didn't quite recognize. The text read: “Hey Taylor. It’s Marissa. I’m outside. Let me in.”
Okay, hold on. I know what you’re thinking. Random drunk hook up from Saturday night, right? Right. Taylor had to read over that text about three more times for it to stick in his head. His mattress groaned as he got up and went to his door. Walking down the hall in his boxers he scratched his head trying to remember the night before. He opened the front door and Marissa was there, just as she said, her blonde hair blowing in a cyclone around her face.
“Hi,” her big white teeth greeted him. She kissed his cheek as she made her way into his dorm like she lived there herself. She moved quickly with deliberate movements and Taylor couldn’t have stopped her if he wanted to. At least that’s what he told himself. Right? In his room, she lounged, cat-like on the bed.
And this is where it stops. For you, for now. Because next was the decision, you see. I mean, what does Taylor do in this situation? Especially after everything that has already happened. Well, let’s take a look at his options.
First, he can be a college guy: Rip off her clothes, throw her on the bed and hook up with her just like he did the previous night and so many before that. Maybe he’ll even remember this one.
Next, he can be responsible and try to talk to her. Of course, she wouldn’t listen:
“You need to leave,” Taylor would say. “Last night was a mistake.”
“And what about the nights before that?” Marissa counters with implying eyes.
“We can’t be seen together.”
“I don’t care.” Marissa gets up from the bed and wraps her arms around Taylor’s neck. “And you shouldn’t either.”
Taylor drops her arms and leads her to the door. Sweat beads on his forehead. “I do care. ‘Cause it’s my ass on the line, little girl. Not yours. We can’t do this. You shouldn’t even be here. How did you even know where I go to school? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. God, Marissa. They’ll find out. How could you not tell me?”
Marissa would just smile and look up at him through her eyelashes. “It’s only a few years difference.”
“But that few years lands me on the ‘over 18 and in jail’ side and you on the ‘innocent, taken advantage of’ side.”
“But if I remember correctly, I came on to you,” Marissa would answer; innocently.
It wouldn’t matter to Taylor that she was naïve. After all, it was his ass on the line. How could she not tell him?
Then again, he could always try talking to her, and she could understand:
“You’re barely sixteen, Marissa,” Taylor would whisper, assertive so she knew he was serious, but soft in attempts not to hurt her. “And you lied to me about your age. We can’t keep doing this.”
“I know it was wrong to lie to you,” Marissa would see the light and be receptive to what Taylor was saying.
And she would leave. Simple as that, right? Wrong. Come on, now. You didn't really think that’s how it was going to play out, did you? No, no option number one was obviously the best option. Who doesn’t love morning sex? Well, it would technically be afternoon sex, but Taylor had just woken up, so same difference. However, as Taylor would soon find out, instead of morning sex, Marissa should have been looking into the morning after pill.
Story #9: Meta narrative
March 10, 2009
Revelry
It was past noon and the only reason Taylor was even awake was because his phone vibrated on the table next to him. He rolled over, aggravated that someone should be texting him this early; didn't they know it was Sunday? That means every student at his college should be hung over. He rubbed his eyes and looked at a number he didn't quite recognize. The text read: “Hey Taylor. It’s Marissa. I’m outside. Let me in.”
Okay, hold on. I know what you’re thinking. Random drunk hook up from Saturday night, right? Right. Taylor had to read over that text about three more times for it to stick in his head. His mattress groaned as he got up and went to his door. Walking down the hall in his boxers he scratched his head trying to remember the night before. He opened the front door and Marissa was there, just as she said, her blonde hair blowing in a cyclone around her face.
“Hi,” her big white teeth greeted him. She kissed his cheek as she made her way into his dorm like she lived there herself. She moved quickly with deliberate movements and Taylor couldn’t have stopped her if he wanted to. At least that’s what he told himself. Right? In his room, she lounged, cat-like on the bed.
And this is where it stops. For you, for now. Because next was the decision, you see. I mean, what does Taylor do in this situation? Especially after everything that has already happened. Well, let’s take a look at his options.
First, he can be a college guy: Rip off her clothes, throw her on the bed and hook up with her just like he did the previous night and so many before that. Maybe he’ll even remember this one.
Next, he can be responsible and try to talk to her. Of course, she wouldn’t listen:
“You need to leave,” Taylor would say. “Last night was a mistake.”
“And what about the nights before that?” Marissa counters with implying eyes.
“We can’t be seen together.”
“I don’t care.” Marissa gets up from the bed and wraps her arms around Taylor’s neck. “And you shouldn’t either.”
Taylor drops her arms and leads her to the door. Sweat beads on his forehead. “I do care. ‘Cause it’s my ass on the line, little girl. Not yours. We can’t do this. You shouldn’t even be here. How did you even know where I go to school? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. God, Marissa. They’ll find out. How could you not tell me?”
Marissa would just smile and look up at him through her eyelashes. “It’s only a few years difference.”
“But that few years lands me on the ‘over 18 and in jail’ side and you on the ‘innocent, taken advantage of’ side.”
“But if I remember correctly, I came on to you,” Marissa would answer; innocently.
It wouldn’t matter to Taylor that she was naïve. After all, it was his ass on the line. How could she not tell him?
Then again, he could always try talking to her, and she could understand:
“You’re barely sixteen, Marissa,” Taylor would whisper, assertive so she knew he was serious, but soft in attempts not to hurt her. “And you lied to me about your age. We can’t keep doing this.”
“I know it was wrong to lie to you,” Marissa would see the light and be receptive to what Taylor was saying.
And she would leave. Simple as that, right? Wrong. Come on, now. You didn't really think that’s how it was going to play out, did you? No, no option number one was obviously the best option. Who doesn’t love morning sex? Well, it would technically be afternoon sex, but Taylor had just woken up, so same difference. However, as Taylor would soon find out, instead of morning sex, Marissa should have been looking into the morning after pill.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Critical Response 3
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 10, 2009
Critical Response #3
To: Allyson Yuen
I think that this was an amazing idea for this story assignment. The idea of a money tree is a very easy idea to connect to a vast majority of people. I think everyone has wished for a money tree at least once in their life. I think that this story has the power to attract many people because of this idea.
The introduction for me was a little bit weak in the description, but the idea came across just as well. There were some tense agreements and personal narrative issues that I marked on the hard copy of the story, but other than that I think my only big problem with this story was the ending. It felt so rushed. Maybe if you had more time to develop it, the ending could have been more powerful, but I think the personal description of what the narrator did with the money and thought to do with the money was good. However, I think it could have been a little bit more developed. I wanted more of how the person felt with all of the money. It is not an everyday occurrence to find a money tree (obviously) and I wanted more on what they were feeling and also more on why they were so isolated from other people. That is a really powerful idea; isolation. I think you should build on that idea and move more into what the narrator was feeling toward other people. Were they afraid of people trying to take their money? Show me more description on the narrator and effects of the money. If that much money came into a person’s life with no sign of ever depleting, there life would change dramatically. And I think that you touched on that idea, but ran through it very quickly. It was description/explanation sentences one after another with nothing delving into the deeper aspect of the money’s effects.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 10, 2009
Critical Response #3
To: Allyson Yuen
I think that this was an amazing idea for this story assignment. The idea of a money tree is a very easy idea to connect to a vast majority of people. I think everyone has wished for a money tree at least once in their life. I think that this story has the power to attract many people because of this idea.
The introduction for me was a little bit weak in the description, but the idea came across just as well. There were some tense agreements and personal narrative issues that I marked on the hard copy of the story, but other than that I think my only big problem with this story was the ending. It felt so rushed. Maybe if you had more time to develop it, the ending could have been more powerful, but I think the personal description of what the narrator did with the money and thought to do with the money was good. However, I think it could have been a little bit more developed. I wanted more of how the person felt with all of the money. It is not an everyday occurrence to find a money tree (obviously) and I wanted more on what they were feeling and also more on why they were so isolated from other people. That is a really powerful idea; isolation. I think you should build on that idea and move more into what the narrator was feeling toward other people. Were they afraid of people trying to take their money? Show me more description on the narrator and effects of the money. If that much money came into a person’s life with no sign of ever depleting, there life would change dramatically. And I think that you touched on that idea, but ran through it very quickly. It was description/explanation sentences one after another with nothing delving into the deeper aspect of the money’s effects.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Critical Response 2: by the creek
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 3, 2009
Critical Response #2
By The Creek
I think that the idea of little boys turning into their fathers is a very interesting topic to write about. The pressures that are sometimes put on children to live up to what their parents have done in their lives or their parents’ expectations of them is immense. Children can feel defeated and emotionally damaged if they do not meet their parents’ expectations or live up to what they feel they should achieve. On the other hand, growing into the person that your father is as a young boy, is another story.
I feel like that saying, that little boys grow up to be their fathers, is very stressful and puts too much pressure on kids to sometimes be something that they are not. In By The Creek, the little boy puts on his father’s head in the expectation that he will grow up to be like his father. By the creek, half a dozen other little boys come down and stand with him, with their own fathers’ heads on their shoulders. This expectation to grow up to be your father is extreme.
The mother in the story also struck me. she was not at all surprised that her husband’s head was on her son’s shoulders, more so she was afraid that her husband would wake up, find his head missing and be angry. I think Yourgrau does a fine job portraying the fact that the idea of a boy turning into his father is not only expectable, but expected.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 3, 2009
Critical Response #2
By The Creek
I think that the idea of little boys turning into their fathers is a very interesting topic to write about. The pressures that are sometimes put on children to live up to what their parents have done in their lives or their parents’ expectations of them is immense. Children can feel defeated and emotionally damaged if they do not meet their parents’ expectations or live up to what they feel they should achieve. On the other hand, growing into the person that your father is as a young boy, is another story.
I feel like that saying, that little boys grow up to be their fathers, is very stressful and puts too much pressure on kids to sometimes be something that they are not. In By The Creek, the little boy puts on his father’s head in the expectation that he will grow up to be like his father. By the creek, half a dozen other little boys come down and stand with him, with their own fathers’ heads on their shoulders. This expectation to grow up to be your father is extreme.
The mother in the story also struck me. she was not at all surprised that her husband’s head was on her son’s shoulders, more so she was afraid that her husband would wake up, find his head missing and be angry. I think Yourgrau does a fine job portraying the fact that the idea of a boy turning into his father is not only expectable, but expected.
The Face (surreal story)
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 3, 2009
The Face
My mother always told me not to make that face so much. When I wouldn’t get my way, or I wanted to be a trouble maker, I would make that face. It was always the same. No variations, no changes. It was a furrowed brow and squinted eyes, pouty lips and a squinched up nose. It was my favorite face and I made it every day. My mother said it was only a matter of time before my face would get stuck that way. I didn't believe her, but I always said I wouldn’t mind it even if it did get stuck like that. I liked the face I did; if I didn't like it, why would I make it so often?
I remember making the face for that last time. It started with the nose just like every other time. My nose perked up and my lips went into this kind of moping act and pushed my nose up more. It’s like my face had a mind of its own. I didn't have to think at all as my eyes shrunk to being barely open. There was just a single slit of light coming in through the space between my eye lids. My forehead collapsed on itself and the face was complete. I held it for a few seconds, for affect, but when it stayed that way for a few minutes and I realized I couldn’t move it my mother could only say “I told you so.”
I got used to my face staying like that really fast. Not being able to see everything wasn’t as bad as I thought it might have been. I decided that I could use that as an excuse to ignore people and things that I didn't want to do. My mouth being stuck closed in that permanent pout helped, too. I learned quickly that if I ever needed to relay information to someone, I could just write it down. My mother got me a note pad that I hung around my neck on a piece of string so I could have easy access to it.
My teacher got used to the face almost as quickly as I did. She thought I was just being a brat the first day; like I was going to hold the face she knew so well all morning. Then I gave her the note from my mother explaining. My teacher smiled and after that she just sat me in the front of the class and had me write down all of my answers in my note pad and show her. All the kids in my class thought it was funny and tried copying me. It turned into the big thing at school. “The Face.” Everyone started to challenge each other to see how long they could hold the face.
None of them could beat me.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 3, 2009
The Face
My mother always told me not to make that face so much. When I wouldn’t get my way, or I wanted to be a trouble maker, I would make that face. It was always the same. No variations, no changes. It was a furrowed brow and squinted eyes, pouty lips and a squinched up nose. It was my favorite face and I made it every day. My mother said it was only a matter of time before my face would get stuck that way. I didn't believe her, but I always said I wouldn’t mind it even if it did get stuck like that. I liked the face I did; if I didn't like it, why would I make it so often?
I remember making the face for that last time. It started with the nose just like every other time. My nose perked up and my lips went into this kind of moping act and pushed my nose up more. It’s like my face had a mind of its own. I didn't have to think at all as my eyes shrunk to being barely open. There was just a single slit of light coming in through the space between my eye lids. My forehead collapsed on itself and the face was complete. I held it for a few seconds, for affect, but when it stayed that way for a few minutes and I realized I couldn’t move it my mother could only say “I told you so.”
I got used to my face staying like that really fast. Not being able to see everything wasn’t as bad as I thought it might have been. I decided that I could use that as an excuse to ignore people and things that I didn't want to do. My mouth being stuck closed in that permanent pout helped, too. I learned quickly that if I ever needed to relay information to someone, I could just write it down. My mother got me a note pad that I hung around my neck on a piece of string so I could have easy access to it.
My teacher got used to the face almost as quickly as I did. She thought I was just being a brat the first day; like I was going to hold the face she knew so well all morning. Then I gave her the note from my mother explaining. My teacher smiled and after that she just sat me in the front of the class and had me write down all of my answers in my note pad and show her. All the kids in my class thought it was funny and tried copying me. It turned into the big thing at school. “The Face.” Everyone started to challenge each other to see how long they could hold the face.
None of them could beat me.
Story #5: Puberty
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 3, 2009
Puberty
They started out like pimples. Jonathan was at that age. His voice was changing, he noticed girls, his face was breaking out in what everyone thought were pimples. It was understandable, expected. All of the other boys his age were going through the same things. They would laugh at each other at lunch time, leaning over their plates of pepperoni pizza and comparing pimples. Jonathan’s were by far the biggest.
He tried everything. Creams, ointments, dermatologists did nothing for him. The pimples just kept getting bigger. Soon his entire face was red. Then it spread to his neck. The pimples popped up on his forearms and the backs of his hands, they slid down his chest through the strands of hair poking their way into the world for the first time. The red bumps continued down his legs and covered his knees, they invaded the tops of his feet and crept between his toes. Soon he was left to his pepperoni pizza by himself in the corner of the lunch room.
His skin began to feel greasy. It was like rubber. Coating the crimson tint the pimples sent over his skin, his pigment changed to a pale yellow. Teachers didn't call on him in class anymore; he sat alone in the back of the room. His friends wouldn’t talk to him; his differences made him an outcast. Girls ignored him; they didn't know what was wrong with him. They were all repulsed by the protruding lumps that covered his body. They were frightened and confused about the heady scent that came from his burning, bubbling skin. And the pimples, what he thought were pimples, just kept growing. All he had was his plate of greasy, red, pepperoni pizza with the yellow cheese melting off the side of the plate like rubber.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 3, 2009
Puberty
They started out like pimples. Jonathan was at that age. His voice was changing, he noticed girls, his face was breaking out in what everyone thought were pimples. It was understandable, expected. All of the other boys his age were going through the same things. They would laugh at each other at lunch time, leaning over their plates of pepperoni pizza and comparing pimples. Jonathan’s were by far the biggest.
He tried everything. Creams, ointments, dermatologists did nothing for him. The pimples just kept getting bigger. Soon his entire face was red. Then it spread to his neck. The pimples popped up on his forearms and the backs of his hands, they slid down his chest through the strands of hair poking their way into the world for the first time. The red bumps continued down his legs and covered his knees, they invaded the tops of his feet and crept between his toes. Soon he was left to his pepperoni pizza by himself in the corner of the lunch room.
His skin began to feel greasy. It was like rubber. Coating the crimson tint the pimples sent over his skin, his pigment changed to a pale yellow. Teachers didn't call on him in class anymore; he sat alone in the back of the room. His friends wouldn’t talk to him; his differences made him an outcast. Girls ignored him; they didn't know what was wrong with him. They were all repulsed by the protruding lumps that covered his body. They were frightened and confused about the heady scent that came from his burning, bubbling skin. And the pimples, what he thought were pimples, just kept growing. All he had was his plate of greasy, red, pepperoni pizza with the yellow cheese melting off the side of the plate like rubber.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Story #3: Dramatic Monologue
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
What Happened
The room was white. And when I say white I don’t mean just blank like white, I mean blinding, shield your eyes white. I was in a paper gown in a doctor’s office sitting on one of those padded chairs. A woman in a white (I mean white) coat came over and shined a light in my eyes; as if that room wasn’t bright enough already. I turned my head away and flinched back from her. She came toward me again, but I pushed away from the chair and sidestepped away from her. She looked surprised and then comforting. She told me we were almost done. She eased me back down into the chair and I asked her where I was. The hospital. What happened? You were raped. No I wasn’t. Yes you were. I don't remember.
She put her hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me back in the reclining chair. I looked up and the overhead light burned my eyes and flashed my consciousness back. I had been at a party. The room I was in upstairs was white like the hospital room. I woke up flat on my back staring at the ceiling. I was on a bed and it felt like the mattress was sucking me in, pulling me down farther and farther with the plush comforter. I looked down at myself. My blouse was torn, my skirt was around my ankles and the sheet was the only thing covering me. I sat up slowly, my arms straining with the effort. I looked down to see fingerprint bruises covering my upper arms. My head pounded and I pressed the heel of my hand above my right eye. The door opened slowly and I looked up to see a man buttoning his jeans. Good time, babe, he said, flashing his rows of absolutely perfect and, of course, brilliantly white teeth. Great time, he said. But I gotta get to work.
I had never seen him before in my life.
The doctor smoothed the hair back from my head and brought me back to the hospital room. I felt a throbbing pain. He hit me pretty hard, she said. I had a black eye, too. I stared at her. You remember, don’t you? She said there were some police officers outside who wanted to talk to me. I swallowed against the lump in my throat as she pressed gauze to my forehead. I felt the blood as it oozed through the cloth. There was a knock on the door and a man and woman came in saying that they dealt specifically with rape victims. The woman came up and held my hand. The man looked at me and smiled a strangely familiar smile.
They had some questions for me.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
What Happened
The room was white. And when I say white I don’t mean just blank like white, I mean blinding, shield your eyes white. I was in a paper gown in a doctor’s office sitting on one of those padded chairs. A woman in a white (I mean white) coat came over and shined a light in my eyes; as if that room wasn’t bright enough already. I turned my head away and flinched back from her. She came toward me again, but I pushed away from the chair and sidestepped away from her. She looked surprised and then comforting. She told me we were almost done. She eased me back down into the chair and I asked her where I was. The hospital. What happened? You were raped. No I wasn’t. Yes you were. I don't remember.
She put her hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me back in the reclining chair. I looked up and the overhead light burned my eyes and flashed my consciousness back. I had been at a party. The room I was in upstairs was white like the hospital room. I woke up flat on my back staring at the ceiling. I was on a bed and it felt like the mattress was sucking me in, pulling me down farther and farther with the plush comforter. I looked down at myself. My blouse was torn, my skirt was around my ankles and the sheet was the only thing covering me. I sat up slowly, my arms straining with the effort. I looked down to see fingerprint bruises covering my upper arms. My head pounded and I pressed the heel of my hand above my right eye. The door opened slowly and I looked up to see a man buttoning his jeans. Good time, babe, he said, flashing his rows of absolutely perfect and, of course, brilliantly white teeth. Great time, he said. But I gotta get to work.
I had never seen him before in my life.
The doctor smoothed the hair back from my head and brought me back to the hospital room. I felt a throbbing pain. He hit me pretty hard, she said. I had a black eye, too. I stared at her. You remember, don’t you? She said there were some police officers outside who wanted to talk to me. I swallowed against the lump in my throat as she pressed gauze to my forehead. I felt the blood as it oozed through the cloth. There was a knock on the door and a man and woman came in saying that they dealt specifically with rape victims. The woman came up and held my hand. The man looked at me and smiled a strangely familiar smile.
They had some questions for me.
Critical Response #1
Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
Critical Response
David Foster Wallace’s “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” was really interestingly written to me. The title implies that, as an interview, the reader may be presented with two voices: one as the interviewer asking questions and one as the interviewee answering them. This story, however, was all in one voice of the interviewee and there are only blank lines where the questions should be. In doing this, Wallace leaves it up to the reader to develop their own ideas of what the question may have been to produce the kind of answers we hear.
The character in the story, Johnny One Arm, is extremely strange. Wallace writes his answers to truly resemble an interview, with longer sentences, running on as if in honest conversation. Also, the way Johnny One Arm speaks is something to look at. He uses his arm as a way to attract women to him and gain their sympathy, only to turn around and use it against them to make them sleep with him. He calls his disfigured arm and “asset” because of this. I think that is disgustingly realistic of what some people would do in that situation.
Something else that struck me was that Wallace capitalized every word that was used in an interaction between Johnny One Arm and the girls he tries to convince to go to bed with him. I am not sure why Wallace does this, but it does do something. Capitalization draws the reader’s attention more to those words, implying some kind of extra importance to them. I think this may be the case for Wallace, or it may be a simple distinction between everything else that is written.
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
February 24, 2009
Critical Response
David Foster Wallace’s “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” was really interestingly written to me. The title implies that, as an interview, the reader may be presented with two voices: one as the interviewer asking questions and one as the interviewee answering them. This story, however, was all in one voice of the interviewee and there are only blank lines where the questions should be. In doing this, Wallace leaves it up to the reader to develop their own ideas of what the question may have been to produce the kind of answers we hear.
The character in the story, Johnny One Arm, is extremely strange. Wallace writes his answers to truly resemble an interview, with longer sentences, running on as if in honest conversation. Also, the way Johnny One Arm speaks is something to look at. He uses his arm as a way to attract women to him and gain their sympathy, only to turn around and use it against them to make them sleep with him. He calls his disfigured arm and “asset” because of this. I think that is disgustingly realistic of what some people would do in that situation.
Something else that struck me was that Wallace capitalized every word that was used in an interaction between Johnny One Arm and the girls he tries to convince to go to bed with him. I am not sure why Wallace does this, but it does do something. Capitalization draws the reader’s attention more to those words, implying some kind of extra importance to them. I think this may be the case for Wallace, or it may be a simple distinction between everything else that is written.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)