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Thread: Auntie's Anti-fiction

  1. #46
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    Thank you so much for reading this, Hawkman, hillwalker and DickZ. I especially appreciate your spending the time to plow through this, since I was obsessed with it for the past month-- just ask my long-suffering fam. Every spare moment of available computer time was spent writing this thing. Yet I was was afraid that I wouldn't get any readers at all, because of the unwieldy length.

    So though I'm a bit disappointed in your collective disappointment with it, I am pretty sure that I'm satisfied with the way it came out, though the process was painful to the core.

    Well, this is admittedly a "rule breaking thread" and right now I'm going to break the cardinal rule that mandates that a work should stand on its own. Still, my dear readers, all three of you, brought up some points that I will address.

    It wasn't my intention to make this an acutely humorous piece, even though humor (such as it is) is the usual metier for yours fooly. On the other hand, I didn't set out to write an overly serious tract, either. Adopting a ponderous tone is the kiss of death in fiction, if you ask me.

    Yes, there are time lapses among the three parts. There is textual evidence of the approximate age of the speaker/protagonist in the first part in which she deems her aunt's question to be inappropriate -- "she isn't even in high school yet." One of the last paragraphs of the third part says how old she was in part one.

    There is evidence (both in parts II and III) which hints at the purpose for which she wrote that personal essay, which constitutes part one. The second part takes place at least 4 years after the first part, in which the protagonist is a freshman experiencing her first couple of days at college. In the time frame of this particular story, the fall semester started in early September, not in late August as it seems to do these days. And yes, the concluding part takes place during the last days of the protagonist's life, at some kind of hospice. (I sound like a lawyer: "the party of the first part!")

    To the question whether the story is "autobiographical," it is--but only in the sense of an author's personal experiences, general knowledge, and observations having become --to use a cliché --"grist for the mill." The family structure, both the one of the protagonist's childhood and that of her adulthood, are vastly different than that of the author, although some of the older relatives are composites of people I actually knew or had heard described by people I know. (There's a little bit of a weird coincidence that happened immediately after I finished this story on Weds., though, that I can't go into publicly right now.)

    The second part of the novella--or whatever you want to call it -- was intentionally written in the third person, although from the protagonist's perspective. This part is "framed" by the beginning and concluding parts, the first
    with the "personal essay" and the third the stream-of-consciousness/"interior monologue" reminiscences.

    The two earlier memories are neither random nor arbitrary,
    and there are textual allusions back and forth throughout the three parts, both in imagery, symbols, and dialogue.
    The links are therefore in the structure as well as in the subject matter.

    Your comment, Hawkman, as to this story's lack of relevance to a British gentleman such as yourself certainly is valid, but may I add that the works of Joseph Conrad, for instance, or Herman Melville, or Tolstoy have little correlation with the life led by an aging working class North American woman, yet I read them. (This is NOT to suggest that my writing skills, such as they are, are even on the same planet as the aforementioned writers, but if we only read books that directly conformed to our own lives, how could we grow, how could that add to our understanding of not only literature, but the world?)

    I didn't intend for the thing to be interpreted particularly as a woman's or "Women's" story, but a genderless, human one, one of many responses to the human condition, i.e., how do we make sense of this life of ours, where can we find meaning? If there is a theme to this thing, it appears -- like a sledgehammer!--in the second part, where the axiom of "So-CRA-tes" appears.

    Thanks again for reading this. I greatly appreciate it.

    (EDITED with added material on 9/8/10 and fixed the embarrassing spelling error.)
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 09-08-2010 at 05:54 PM. Reason: line breaks

  2. #47
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    Hi Auntie,

    With regard to your response to my response, I feel bound to point out that the story as a whole did hold my interest. I believe I did specify that it was the detailed description of the shopping trip, which, although excellently penned, was a subject for which I had little enthusiasm. Though I fully accept that the works of great writers are often outside the experience of the reader, in fact it is because they are that we read them, (even though I never liked War and Peace ) I feel bound to point out that a trip to the shops in the company of unruly children and a harrased fussey mother, may well be so familiar as to need a particular treatment to make it a more gripping narrative.

    My priciple objection is that the first two individual sections don't really lead anywhere, and as I previously observed, only appear to serve as background for oblique references in the stream of consciousness of the dying woman. The subject of the the third section is the one with the most drama, how could it not be? Death is a universal experience and speculation about it a very human trait.

    Regards, Hawk.

  3. #48
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    On Three Septembers :

    The most striking part to this reader was part two. How very accurate a description of that introduction to philosophy class.

    One feels a ferocious intellect at play in the writing. There is no denying the soundness to the skill here or the ability to compose. But one is left feeling that such intellect cannibalizes itself. Whereas being detail oriented and analytical and thorough to such a high degree is desirable in most other forms of writing, this reader feels that fiction must before all else deliver user friendliness (or friendliness in artistic challenge) and illicit emotional response from the reader (this is an aside: right now the reader is thinking of a LitNet poster who's English is not quite fluent but who's fiction is still curiously striking). Though it was pleasing at times and offered warmth in tone (as does much of your writing), the piece is fairly bogged down in a certain way. Yes, your writing is good enough to be cohesive. Certainly everything written contributes but often that added depth comes at the expense of elegant flow. It's a game of economy, one supposes- are the trade offs worth it? You said yes, whereas this reader says no.

    The piece is not valueless. Your eye for human nature is amazing and it was easy to relate to Laura's subtle experiences that are often minute and yet seem incredibly true in their smallness (for example, when the professor joked about writing an essay about summer vacation and she felt embarrassed for being strung on so easily). The reader suspects you felt these things first and the all of us are benefiting from a direct translation of your own sensitive, articulate experience.

    If the question is whether or not this reader would spend time with more of Aunty's fiction, then yes, absolutely. It seems so scarce around here.


    J
    Last edited by Jack of Hearts; 01-17-2011 at 05:10 AM.

  4. #49
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    Chopped Liver

    {Author's Note: Needless to say, there is nothing easy about writing a short story. For me the "story" part isn't nearly as difficult as the "short" part, but this next number tries to be as brief as possible.}

    Chopped Liver

    On the counter it looked like one of the props accompanying a sappy old song in praise of beloved items like “brown paper packages tied up with strings.” No blood-stained plastic stretched around a mound of ground-up scraps of dull red, brown, and gray on a cracked Styrofoam tray, this. Instead, it was a special order personally cut and hand-wrapped by the head butcher over at Valverde’s Fine Foods. One could only imagine the treasure this classic yet unpretentious wrapping concealed. Undoubtedly this selection of steaks would be top shelf stock: brightly and uniformly colored except for the intermittent marbling of thin white streaks. Beautiful -- but not as beautiful as the look on Trish’s face when she'd see the surprise so painstakingly prepared for her.

    A pair of perfectly shaped Russets had already been scrubbed, dried, and popped into the ‘waver. The freshly-rinsed head of Romaine for the salad lay dripping in a colander in the sink, with the enormous wooden salad bowl, like a scale model of a sports arena, on deck. In a little while the steaks would be under the broiler, just a few minutes for each side, so that they'd be tender, but not too-- and juicy, ditto. But first the chef required the services of a pair of scissors, the location of which, given the typically chaotic state of the kitchen, called for a one-man search party.

    The shears were still AWOL upon the arrival of the Lady of the House, signaled by the familiar sound she'd made at the end of each workday commute, the sigh that was worth a hundred words. That particular evening, however, halfway between “God, I'm so tired” and “Nobody appreciates me,” the woeful decibels escalated to a shriek. “What the hell are you doing? Put that back right now!”

    The thwarted food artist fell backward theatrically, clutching his chest as if it had caught a bullet. Madame was not amused. “Knock it off, Bobby. I'm in no mood,” she snarled.

    Cue the cartoon character. “Oooh, excuse-zay moi, mon cap-ee-tawn, er, ma cherie. How’s about a leettle kees, hmmm?”

    A variation on the sigh, this time in the theme of exasperation. With her heels pounding on the tiles, she stomped across the kitchen, and in a single motion swept the meat package off the counter and tossed it back into the freezer as if it were a bag of garbage headed for the Dumpster.

    Segue to a little kid’s voice: “But why, Mommy, why? I wanted to make sup-per for us!”

    A clicking sound came from the roof of her mouth. Then: “Those steaks aren't for us. Ang and Edie are coming over for dinner tomorrow.”

    “That’s news to me.”

    “I told you. You just don't listen,” she said, delivering the penultimate syllable in a sing-songy fashion.

    “Oh, yeah. I forgot. So you're gonna be hostess with the mostest for the Enrons. And why, if one may ask, will we be honored with their illustrious presence? Speaking of presents, I hope they bring us some pricey ones. ”

    By this time the Missus had flopped in the good chair, worked her feet out of her shoes and kicked them across the “existing room.” She had enough energy left, however, to give him a look which movie villains would be interested in patenting. “Not ‘Enron.’ Enright.” Then, as if speaking to some invisible person in the room, she said, “Can you believe this? I work my butt off, and he doesn't even know my boss’s name. Angus Rhys Enright. What’s so difficult about that?”

    “Right. The moniker just rolls off the tongue. Who has three names? Serial killers. Lady poetesses.”

    Trish’s eyes looked like the coils of the broiler turned up to “11.” “God! How passive- aggressive can one guy be? I'm up for Associate V.P., and I'm not going to let you or anyone else on the planet screw it up for me!”

    “Well, I'll do my best– wait, that didn't come out right.” He sympathized with her, he really did. “Oh, Honey, I'm sorry. I'll help ya in anyway I can.” As if erasing the subject, he rubbed his hands together. “So. Steak’s canceled. What'll we have instead?”

    “ Open a can of chili or something. I don't care.”

    With a snap of the fingers he said, “Got it! I know something that will calm your nerves--”

    She looked at him as if he had a steel plate in his head.

    “No, not that. I mean, what say you and I mosey on over to Al’s Chuckle Barn? It’s Open Mike Night, and I'm pretty sure I can convince ol’ Al to let me do a set and show those young upstarts how comedy is done. AND– if you play your cards right, there might just be an order of chicken fingers in it for ya. Come on, what d’ya say?”

    Later –though he really didn't believe it was all that late–he returned to find her lounging in front of the tube with a bowl of ice cream the size of Pittsburgh on her lap. She was roaring her rear end off at the monologue of some pea-brained talk show host. The comic himself was having more fun than the audience. There was a long-standing rule against laughing at one’s own jokes, but evidently this guy never got the memo.

    “Mr. Lame-o again?”

    “Shh!” This was followed by raucous guffawing from Trish, her standard response to each and every stand-up comedian who ever darkened the pixels of a screen. No matter who it was –veteran, upcoming, or rank amateur – she always seemed to laugh harder and louder than she ever did for him. “God, what a funny line!”

    “It was funnier when I sent it to him –twelve years ago!”

    “Oh, here we go with the ’I'm funnier than he is’ bit. Frankly, Bobby, it’s getting a little old. You're just resentful – and bitter.”

    Things had been sweeter back in the day when they'd first started going out. If television were involved, they would have been watching it together. Bobby never forgot the silly little entertainment show, pompously billed as a “documentary” in the “On TV this Week” booklet that used to come with the Sunday paper. The quasi-doc was tribute to “Famous Movie Couples,” starting with those from way back, such as Lombard and Gable, and finishing with a famous married couple who'd peaked when both Bobby and his sweetie were but little whippersnappers. This particular man and wife had achieved great critical as well as financial success in their respective film roles and had starred “opposite” each other in several hit movies. But the quality the documentary’s narrator most admired was the longevity of their union, the apparent fidelity to each other, despite the fact that the husband had long been considered an international sex symbol in a milieu known for what has been called “serial monogamy.” “It’s very simple,” the matinee idol explained to the interviewer. “Why should I go out looking for hamburger when I have filet mignon at home?”

    Upon hearing that, Trish looked ready to swoon. “Aww! How sweet is that?”

    “What ‘sweet?’ That’s exactly my philosophy: why pay for steak when I got free Hamburger Helper at home?”

    She swatted him with the rolled-up TV book, but she was laughing, just as she was laughing now, at this overpaid, unfunny knucklehead.

    “Oh, why do you waste electricity on this crap? You would've had more fun at the Chuckle Barn.”

    “Well, he’s funny –“

    “So? You should have seen me tonight. I killed.”

    She shot him a look as if she were a high school principal catching some dudes smoking in the boys’ room. “You've been drinking again.”

    “Nope. Not me.”

    The last time she asked him that question she followed it up with “Let me smell your breath.”

    “What're ya, a masochist or something?”

    “Come on, let me smell your breath.” At which point she chased him around the room, as in a game. It had started out playfully and ended in a place just slightly south of paradise. It really hadn't been that long ago.

    He was on his best behavior the following night. Answering the door he was like a butler who'd graduated at the top of his class in butler school. “Let me take your coat, Mr. Enright.”

    “Why, thank you –Benny, is it?”

    “Bobby.” Trish shot him a look he took to be a pre-emptive strike, though he had been graciously deferential to Mrs. Enright, who was nothing at all the gal Bobby had pictured. He had assumed that she'd be the typical “trophy wife,” arm-candy for the ultra-successful businessman. The dame had a healthy quantity of meat on her bones, covered with expensive glad rags and glittering with jewels that were the real thing, no question about it. No stick-thin model type nor voluptuous twenty-something, this broad –if anything, she was older than the old man himself. They must've been married a long time.

    Throughout the meal, Trish was as tightly wound as a birthday watch given to an eight-year old. Bobby wasn't nervous at all, though he had as much stake in the outcome of the evening as she did. The struggle, as ever, lay in coming up with appropriate small talk. No politics, no religion –that much he knew.

    Mrs. Enright had no trouble remembering her finishing school lessons from so long ago. “Bobby, Trish tell us that you're in the entertainment business.”

    “If you can call it that, I guess so.”

    “Well, how very interesting. Tell me, have you appeared in anything we might have seen–?”

    Hell no! Not unless they lived a double life. “Well, season before last I made it into the third round of Final Joker on Deck.”

    “How nice for you!”

    Her husband put down his wine glass –reluctantly. “So, Bobby, did you have any formal training? In college one majors in acting, I suppose?”

    “Well, I took a couple of courses right here at East Hogwash U.”

    Mrs. Enright brightened. Bobby could almost hear her thoughts–“Finally, I've hit some common ground with this loser,” which came out as: “Isn't that a coincidence! My cleaning lady’s son graduated from there last June. He’s going to go to law school.”

    “Really! Another lawyer. Well, the world can sure use another one of those.”

    “Oh, absolutely,” she said. “I couldn't agree with you more.” Had Mrs. Enright punctuated this with a wink? He couldn't swear to it.

    By this time Trish and the boss were passionately engaged in a discussion of whether to hold back on the Ratzafrattz account or pounce on them right away. Bobby turned to Mrs. Enright sympathetically. “Shop talk.”

    She smiled and nodded, without further complaint.

    Glaciers and movie award shows move faster, but finally, finally! the Enrights were ready to call it a night. Once more the dutiful host, Bobby escorted his guests to the door, with the boss clutching to Trish’s arm. He looked like the Father of the Bride walking his Princess down the aisle.

    “Thank you so much for a very nice evening, Bobby,” Mrs. Enright said.

    “No, no, thank you for coming.”

    “Yes, thanks Ben. Take care of our little Trish here. I've got a feeling that lots of good things are going to come her way.” Enright winked at her in a way that was apparently meant to be humorous. “And Bobby, best of luck to you on your show business career. They say behind every successful man is a good woman.” He patted Trish’s hand. “You don't know what you have with her, Bob.”

    At the end of the night Bobby knew two things. One, maybe for the for the first time in his life, he really did know what he had, and second, the steaks had been out of this world.

  5. #50
    MANICHAEAN MANICHAEAN's Avatar
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    Aunty

    Having by fate stumbled upon this thread "Chopped Liver," I was drawn in initially, purely by the title.

    "Ah," I surmised, the Aunt Shecky original recipe for one of my favourite foods! It evoked images of Peter Bernstein & I swapping sandwiches on a train, as we proceeded to the construction site we were both working on all those years ago. He seemed to find my "goy" cheese & pickle sandwiches exotic & I wolfed back his chopped liver on rye like the food of the gods. His dear old Jewish mother then started my taste bud journey into the realms of; gefilte fish, lutkas, salt beef, picked herrings & cucumber. My equally dear old Mum fought back bravely with: bread and butter pudding & Irish stew.

    Alas they have both passed on now & we are left with overated celebrity chefs that indulge in profanities and outbursts of temper to maintain their ratings.

    But back to the story, of which only the title I have touched on so far, and that with reminiscences far remote from the substance of the tale.

    I liked it Aunty. It was punchy, perceptive and conveyed to me a scene in what I assume is America among a married couple with disjointed aspirations, where the wife is very career orientated & the husband feels a bit left behind, but still loves her. God, I've been lucky! I've met some strong women in my time and even married one, but have never been in that situation before. The structure of the story was such that I appreciated, (at last!), the balance it is possible to attain between what is said, and what is inferred.

    Look forward to reading more of your work.

    Any chance of the chopped liver recipe?

    Best regards
    M.
    Last edited by MANICHAEAN; 03-06-2011 at 03:22 AM.

  6. #51
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    I enjoyed your story. I know that sounds abrupt, but I'm terrible at feedback. I really got a feel for the characters, which is sometimes difficult in a short story.

    Forgot to add which story I was referring to: Chopped Liver
    Last edited by Disagree; 03-09-2011 at 12:09 PM.

  7. #52
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    Thanks for the two responses to #51, "Chopped Liver," a story that I had intended to write for a long time.

    The present posting is the completed (for now) version of what had begun as an off-the-cuff example in another posting on the short story sharing forum, here. I didn't intend to write the full story, but ended up doing so in order to prove a point, I suppose. Whether I succeeded will, of course, be subject to public opinion, but nevertheless, here it is. The title has been stolen from a hit song by Sheryl Crow.




    A Change Will Do You Good

    As was his habit, Donny arrived at 317-B three long minutes after the Fifth Period bell had rung. This time, though, his entrance was more explosive than usual. He wouldn't have kicked open the door so violently if his father hadn't stood him up the night before. “What the –“ Instead of English class, Donny thought he had walked into a satellite of hell. Railsback had copped Kylie Walker’s cell phone and was teasing her by pretending to fling it across the room. The classroom floor was covered by a sea of paper, junk food wrappers, even pistachio shells. The din inside the room ceased for a nanosecond when the door opened, but just as suddenly revved up again with joyous shouts. “Sub! Sub!” came the cry. “We got a sub!”

    The substitute’s command was even louder. “Quiet!” Then on a decreased decibel level: “Everybody settled down? All right. Mr. Gresham is ill, and I am filling in for him.”

    A couple of kids started a reprise of “Sub! Sub!” but one threatening look from the imposing man in the front of the room was all it took to stop it in mid-syllable.

    “My name is Mr. Bryant. Let’s see who is who.” He ignored the class roster for taking attendance. Instead he ran his finger down the seating chart. “Mr. Doyle?”

    Damned if he wasn't staring straight at Donny! He raised his hand as if it weighed two hundred pounds. “Donny,” he said. “The name is Donny.”

    “ I see. Tell me, Mr. Doyle, do you address Mr. Gresham by his first name?”

    Donny shot a glance over to Railsback, who was snickering as if to say: where'd they dig this one up?

    “I asked you a question, Mr. Doyle.”

    “Dude, I don't even know his first name. It’s prob’ly ‘Gaylord’ or somethin’ wussy like that.”

    “Well, Mr. Doyle, you should know this. While I am substituting for Mr. Gresham, I will be addressed as Mister Bryant. In return I will address each member of the class by surname with the appropriate title, Mister or Miss. Is that clear, Mr. Doyle?”

    “I can't believe this!”

    “I asked ‘Is that clear, Mr. Doyle?’ “

    Finally the soft answer came: “Yeah.”

    “Pardon me?”

    “Yes, Mr. Bryant.”

    “Thank you, Mr. Doyle. Now, we will proceed with Mr. Gresham’s lesson plan for ‘The Metamorphosis’ by Franz Kafka. Please open your books to page 79.”


    Letterman’s show had been over, and Ferguson, with his monologue already finished, was interviewing a semi-articulate actress by the time Donny’s mother came home. “You're still up?” To Donny his mother looked like she needed a good night’s sleep more than he did. Her palm checked Donny’s forehead, and with the same hand she picked up the remote and snapped off the TV. Instantly the starlet’s face shrunk down to a tiny quasar and disappeared. Donny’s mother flopped backwards to land at the end of the couch. With what appeared to be strenuous effort, she began to untie her shoelaces. “You'd better get your butt into bed.”


    “What bed? You mean that flea-bitten thing Lucas slobbers on? It don't fit me, Ma.” Donny wasn't lying. His feet had begun to dangle off the end of the bed which he shared with his brother. With the growth spurt of the previous summer, he was five feet ten already. “Did my father call?”

    His mother didn't look up from her waitress shoes, the ones with the soles as thick as drywall. “Oh, how do I know, Donny? Why don't you ask Carm when he wakes up?”

    If he wakes up, you mean.” If his father had called, would Carm have been sober enough to locate the phone, let alone answer it and take the message? That ol’ juicer – what did his mother ever see in him?

    “Don't get smart, Donny.”

    “But Mom, last night Dad was going to make up for missing my birthday, remember? I think he called to set up another time.”

    “I'm going to check on the boys and then hit the hay. I strongly suggest you do the same.”

    “But Mom, I haven't seen him since August.” Donny’s eyes closed, almost involuntarily, as he tried to picture his father’s face. “He’s gonna make good on his promise. I know he is.”

    “Oh, Donny.” Her sigh came from a place way down deep. “ Donny. Try to understand. Your father has a whole new family now, you know that. It’s not easy for a person to stretch himself so thin. Besides, you have your own family– me, your brother, the twins, Carm– we'll talk about it tomorrow before I go to work, okay? Now go to bed. It’s a school night.”


    The next day Gresham was still out and the weird substitute still there. Same with the day after that. “Yesterday, if you recall, we wrote down our thoughts about ‘The Metamorphosis.’ Since then, I've read them and frankly, I'm sorry to say that they were, well, a disappointment. One has to wonder why students aren't being taught the proper use of the apostrophe –“

    From the back of the class came a heckler. “The apostro–what?”

    “-Basic grammar and spelling as well. One person in the class, nevertheless, produced an exemplary paper –“

    Well, duh! This unspoken consensus was punctuated by eye-rolling and blatant pointing toward the perennial teacher’s pet, Kylie Walker, who sat slightly higher in her seat and raised her neck, as if to assume the proper position for a coronation.

    “The pupil who wrote about Gregor Samsa as –“ Mr. Bryant started to read –“ ‘a symbol of alienation and the dehumanizing effect of modern life’ was correct, I suppose. But similar assessments of Kafka’s work can be found in a matter of seconds on the Web.” The teacher had scarcely finished his sentence before Kylie slumped back down in her seat. “It’s good, don't get me wrong, but it’s not the best one. The paper which earned that distinction is the one I'm holding in my left hand. I expect your full attention, young ladies and gentlemen, as I read it aloud:

    The teacher asked the class to write about “What ‘The Metamorphosis’ Means to Me.” The author wrote the story 100 years ago, so I don't think he worried about some kid reading it way in ninth grade some day in the future. I enjoyed reading the story, but I don't know what it is supposed to mean to me.

    Whoa, that sounded familiar. Donny could feel his face getting hotter and his palms sweatier, as Mr. Bryant continued reading:

    I think it’s a science fiction or a horror story. It shows something that couldn't happen in real life. Nobody ever wakes up some morning and finds out that he has changed into a big bug. So I think it is supposed to stand for something else.

    I have no idea how it would be to be a bug, but I do know what it’s like when people bug me. I know how I feel when I turn on the light and I see the roaches run around the kitchen floor. Gregor tries to talk, but nobody can hear his bug voice. That is just like how it is in real life when people can't understand each other, even though everybody is speaking English. The best part of the story is how the bug guy’s sister tries to help him out at first, but then wants to get rid of him. That reminds me of how my parents treat me sometimes. Sometimes they act like they love me and other times they get on my case. I guess it is the same way with all families.


    This story was very weird. That shows me that writers can show us life in many different ways. That is what this story means to me.


    “This paper–and the rest of them–will be returned at end of the class,” Mr. Bryant said. “That will close the book on ‘The Metamorphosis’ for the time being. Now we'll turn to the last story in the Short Story Unit, ‘The Lucid Eye in Silver Town’ by John Updike. To start us off with the reading will be Mr. Doy–excuse me, Mr. Doyle, you seem have a little something on your–“ Mr. Bryant’s face took on a puzzled expression as he wagged his finger in front of the right side of his own neck.

    An unsolicited explanation came from a volunteer in the back of the room. “Duh! That’s his tat, Teach!”

    “I would have never taken one so young for a former member of the Merchant Marines, Mr. Doyle. I was under the impression that there is a minimum age for body art. Evidently, I was mistaken.”

    Donny’s face started getting red again. He wasn't sure if he wanted to answer the sarcasm or not. Why should he tell this teacher-wannabe his personal business? If he must know, the tattoo he had gotten last summer was perfectly legal, obtained across the state line with signed permission of his father.

    “I would suggest that should you ever find yourself being interviewed for a job-- or even for entrance into college-- that you wear a turtle neck that day. A word to the wise is sufficient, Mr. Doyle. ”

    What a minute, did he say ‘college’?

    “Please, Mr. Doyle, if you will start reading? Aloud.“

    “ ‘The first time I visited New York City, I was thirteen and went with my father. I went to meet my Uncle Quin and to buy a book . . .’

    One night about a week later he was, as usual, still up when his mother got home. The tv was off. “I don't believe what I'm seeing,” she said. “A kid in my house actually studying?” Like an actress in a sitcom, she grabbed Donny’s collar. “What have you done with my son?”

    That was the kind of remark to which Donny was accustomed, even from people outside his immediate family. Whenever the came up, a scene from his academic past replayed in his mind, like an irritating commercial running over and over late at night on a cable channel. It had happened relatively recently, in seventh grade.

    He'd been to the boys’ room and was returning to class when he dropped the hall pass, a piece of plastic roughly the size and shape of a ping pong paddle. It skidded across the overly-waxed floor of the corridor and finally rested against the wall, directly beside the open door of the teachers’ lounge. Not the least bit nosy by nature --
    he couldn't care less about conversations between two middle-aged women-- but nevertheless he overheard them.

    “Naturally he comes out with another slew of ‘f’-this and ‘f’-that. So I go, ‘One more peep of you and you're marching straight to Mr. Dangerfield’s office.’ Thank God, the bell rang.”

    “I hear ya, Liz. Everybody’s had it up to here with these punks. That Railsback– he’s bad news. Nobody wants to deal with him. All you can do is leave ‘im in the back of the room with all the rest of the troublemakers.”

    Donny instantly recognized the name of the person who sat next to him for every period on the schedule, both of them perennially assigned to the middle school’s version of Siberia. And all these years Donny thought it was because he was so tall. Sitting in front of shorter kids would obstruct their view of the blackboard. But it had nothing to do with height at all, nothing to do with whether your last name was Adams or Zimbulski. No. If you sat in the back of the room that meant you were no damn good.

    Donny wasn't into basketball, so his height was no blessing. As far as Donny was concerned, it was a curse. He was sure that teachers who didn't know him had him pegged as a big, dumb kid who had been kept back a couple of grades. The truth was that he had never received a failing grade in his life. Every year he passed, each time without trying. So why should he bust his butt?

    He hadn't told his mother about the “A” he gotten on his last paper.

    She picked up his textbook and looked at the page as if it were a insect under a microscope. “What’s this you're working on?”

    “It’s a poem we're studying in English.”

    “I thought you hated poetry!” His mother put on her reading glasses, which were hanging on a chain around her neck.

    “I do! I mean, I did -- I mean, I thought I did because it was so hard.”

    His mother continued reading Donny’s textbook for about a minute or two. “Delmore Schwartz, huh? Never heard of him.” She threw the book down on the couch where it made a soft bounce.

    Next morning Mr. Bryant stood in front of the classroom and announced, “I have something important to tell you about Mr. Gresham.”

    It had been so long since anyone had mentioned his name, let alone seen him, that it took a moment for some students to remember who he was.

    “Mr. Gresham’s illness, sadly, has gotten worse. I'm sorry to say that he will not be returning to teach you for the remainder of the school year. “ A couple of faces looked grim; most didn't know whether to applaud or what.

    “The school district has hired a permanent teacher to take Mr. Gresham’s place, so that means I will be leaving as well. I hasten to add that I have enjoyed every moment I've spent with this class. There is a greeting card for Mr. Gresham here on my–the desk, and I would consider it a personal favor if each of you would kindly sign it before leaving class today. Now, um, let’s see what we can do about finishing our work on ‘True-Blue American.”


    Everyone had left except Donny. The card intended for Mr. Gresham was completely covered with signatures. A tiny corner was the only space available for a miniature version of his name. Donny threw the ballpoint pen back on the desk and glared at Mr. Bryant. “Why?”

    “I beg your pardon, Mr. Doyle.”

    “Why do we have to have a different teacher? Why can't you stay?”

    “Mr. Doyle, I thought I had explained –“ He was packing up a couple of books into his briefcase. The black leather had about a million tiny cracks.

    “Every time I catch a break, something comes along to ruin it for me. Just when I started to get–“

    By now Mr. Bryant had his coat on and was adjusting a flat-brimmed cap on his head. “Well, simply keep at it, Mr. Doyle. Continue to develop good study habits. It shouldn't make much difference who is standing in front of the classroom. Straight ahead.” With his two fingers he made a “V” to make a motion that began from his eyes and ended up like a salute. Then he shook Donny’s hand. “Well. Best of luck to you, Danny.”

    Mr. Bryant was out the door and halfway down the hall before it dawned on Donny to yell after him: “It’s Donny. Donny!

    He went looked at his own personal belongings still on his desk and thought about leaving it them there and never coming back. What was the use? Donny raised his leg and kicked the desk which stubbornly refused to fall over. Stupid desk! The school was stupid, the whole world was stupid, and he was the stupidest of them all.

    If he didn't return, what were the odds that the new teacher would be a pushover who gave out free snacks, hall passes, and good grades just to prove how nice she was? Maybe she'd be a hottie just out of college. He'd bet if he did come back, he'd probably draw some old turtle, a thousand times nerdier than Gresham and Bryant combined. What did his father used to say? “Ye pays your money, and ya takes yer chances.”

    Donny picked up his backpack. He closed the door behind him gently, so he could hear the click.
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 03-24-2011 at 01:34 PM.

  8. #53
    Hi Auntie,

    Just read through this one and wanted to give you my thoughts, for what they're worth.

    I liked Danny - er, Donny - and I felt for him, felt the hopelessness mixed with the possibility of potential that manages to get stepped on right at the end. I'm curious to know where he goes next.

    I do have a few suggestions, though, about the text itself.

    Take the first paragraph, for example - "a three long minutes" seems like an awkward construction to me. "Three long minutes" or "a long three minutes" might work better.

    Next, the line "The din was ear-splitting - –until the door opened and for a split-second ceased–-" makes it seem as though the door is ceasing, not the din. Something like "the din was ear-splitting - until the door opened, and for a split-second the noise ceased" would be my suggestion here.

    As well, I wonder why Mr. Bryant, if he is as commanding as the text makes him out to be, hasn't quieted the class before Donny arrives. Presumably he was on time, and he appears to have the ability to handle even a room of unruly hooligans.

    Overall, I enjoyed the story and look forward to more.
    - Rem

    Fan of the written word.
    Writer by trade and by fate.
    Author - One Day, One Thousand blog project.

  9. #54
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    Thank you, Rem, for springing this story from permanent obscurity. For a while there I thought it would choke to death on the cobwebs burgeoning in the corner through neglect.

    One of the errors you pointed out is a typo, and has been fixed. The second one was a cliché, and therefore anathema to me, thus revised.(Thank you for pointing this out, and I mean it sincerely!)

    and re: Mr. Bryant. Take it from someone whose future sentence in Purgatory will be undoubtedly shortened because of the time already "done" as a substitute teacher--it always, always takes a number of minutes to quiet down a class, even for the regular instructor who is there every day!
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 03-24-2011 at 01:37 PM.

  10. #55
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    Re-posted because of its seasonal nature:

    Ultraman and the Pagan Babies

  11. #56
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    This next one could be, I suppose, the "B-side" of an earlier story, Chopped Liver, (Incidentally, on Saturday, 4/2/11, the title term was the premise of "Pearls Before Swine" syndicated comic strip by Stephan Pastis.) The following posting might somehow remind the reader of the signature work by a three-named authoress Charlotte Perkins Gilman, but it's always risky to invite comparisons, especially since yours fooly inevitably ends up on the short end, and rightfully so. In any event here's a little ditty we like to call

    The Worm

    The forlorn Cherries Jubilee sat at the table like a neglected guest. It patiently waited for the spark
    of its famous flame preceded by a liberal dousing of kirsch, with the serpentine-shaped bottle yet to be opened. The wife had gone into the kitchen several minutes previously and hadn't yet returned with the corkscrew. Her absence had reached the point of being awkward. “I wonder what’s keeping her,” the host said. “Excuse me for a moment.”

    His wife was standing perfectly still, as if she were in a trance. She was gazing down at the open drawer. “What’s the holdup? Can't you find it?”

    After an interval of about 30 seconds she finally shook her head.

    “Oh, don't tell me you're having another one of your spells.” He grabbed her elbow and yanked her backwards with a bit more force than was necessary. Peering down at the contents of the drawer, he saw sets of measuring spoons, a small whisk, a metal nutcracker, and an assortment of odd plastic kitchen tools. Nothing extraordinary.

    She nudged her husband gently to the side and pointed her index finger to the far left corner of the drawer, the apparent location of the object of her distress. There, among a tiny pile of crumbs, dust, coffee grounds, rice grains, fragments of spices and seeds, it was. Although it would have been easier to see with the aid of a magnifying glass, it looked approximately half the length of a fingernail clipping, brown with white markings (or vice versa), hollow and dried up, curled up and motionless.

    “Oh, that’s nothing,” he said. “Just a mealy bug, a larva from some stray insect or something. Not unusual, especially since that drawer hasn't been opened since Christmas.” The husband looked at it again, this time more closely, almost with a kind of scientific curiosity. “It’s not even wriggling around. It’s dead.”

    “Dead! Oh my God, I've poisoned everybody!” Sidestepping to the sink, she bent down to root through the bottom cabinet and came back up with a pair of lemon-colored, heavy plastic gloves and a bottle of disinfectant.

    “Hey, you can't do that now! “

    The wife stretched one of the gloves on her hand with a defiant snap. “I have to !” adding, as if quoting a tv commercial–“ ‘If you see one, there are thousands hiding!’ Those filthy things are crawling all over my kitchen.” She made a motion like a claw and wiggled five yellow, rubbery fingers in front of his face.

    “Drop that stuff! Don't you remember? We have guests!”

    “I can't go out there while this place is so, so –infested. Tell them to go home.”

    The husband grabbed his wife by her shoulders. “No way! Not when I'm this close to a promotion. I've worked too hard and too long to have you blow it with your craziness! Get your butt back in there right now!”

    Without a word, the wife pulled out the entire drawer, and began to dump its contents into the trash. When the drawer was practically empty, she tipped it at an angle to shake the offensive material into the can. She shut her eyes tightly and grimaced. A shudder slithered through the entire length of her body. The empty drawer thudded hard on the linoleum floor. Dropping to her knees, she held the drawer up with one hand; with the she wielded the bottle, her finger on the trigger.

    “All right, suit yourself,” he said.

    The first squirt was so forceful it blew back a chemical mist. “And if you're gonna spray that stuff, put an apron on. That cocktail dress cost good money.”

    On his way back to the dining room, his brain was busy; on the conscious level, it composed a pro tem apology, over a level of regret at not making her do the dirty work herself. “I'm so sorry, folks,” he said. “I'm afraid we'll have to take a rain check on the dessert. It seems the missus has suddenly come down with something.”

    The boss's wife scaled down the expression on her face from "cheerfulness" to "concern." “Nothing serious, we hope,” she said.

    “Nah,” the husband said. “Just a little bug that’s going around.”

    By one a.m. she was still cleaning. It never crossed her mind that she'd have to be up a mere five hours later to get herself showered and dressed for work. Every time the thought of her job invaded her mind, she swiftly banished it, and no wonder, with the large wedge of her life spent in an airless, windowless insurance office toiling at excruciatingly soulless work for paltry pay and scant chance of advancement. In the dark hours of that particular morning she focused her energy on just one thing.

    The air was redolent of wet wood, as all the kitchen drawers were lined up against the wall, like suspects in a criminal lineup. Up next were the dishes, not only the ones that had been soiled that evening but every dish the couple owned. In her hand she had a stack of plates, part of a pricey set of fine china from her in-laws that had been stored, unused, since their wedding day. For a delirious moment, she flirted with the thought of dumping them along with all the other victims of her purge. It would serve him right, she thought. Back in the early days when the struggles were so bad that they had to come up with funds in a big hurry, the heirloom dinnerware had been on the short list for liquidation. Instead, he hocked her Leica. When they finally could afford to get a replacement, photography had already made the transition to digital. In order to catch up, she'd have to acquire computing skills, essentially adding another obstacle to the wasted years she would probably never regain.

    By the time the dishwater had swooshed through its first cycle, she had rifled all the cabinets of their food reserves. That the earliest expiration date on the packages was over a year away did not necessarily pardon the item. Unopened packages got a reprieve; for everything else, bye-bye. Religiously she followed the rule: “If in doubt, throw it out.” The loaded trash can was approaching its tipping point. She shook her head and said aloud, “What a waste, what a waste.”

    Next day, in order to retrieve an item requested by his employer, the husband made an impromptu stop at the apartment at lunchtime. He found his wife atop a stepladder and extending her arms up to the ceiling, which she attempted to scrub with a flat, wooden-backed brush. “Good God!” he yelled, so loudly that she almost lost her balance. “Get down from there, you idiot!”

    In her slippers, nearly soaked with soap and water, she took reluctant, tentative steps backward until she descended back to floor-level. “You could've broken your neck! Sheesh, the last thing I need is a huge medical bill. Hey, why aren't you at work?”

    “I called in.” She shrugged, adding, “No biggie.”

    “Yeah? I suppose they're gonna start paying you sick time now? Good lord, this place reeks of ammonia! I'm gonna crack the windows–“

    “Please don't! You want every fly in creation to get in here?”

    “What flies? It’s forty degrees out there–“

    “All the more reason to keep them closed,” she said.

    “By the way, –“ he said, his voice lowering by just a slight decibel, “I didn't get the promotion. They wanted a guy who's good at entertaining clients. I'm positive I lost it because of last night. So thanks a lot, Baby –thanks for nothing!”

    “Oh, I'm sorry to hear that--”

    “You should be!”

    “–but I hope none of this was any of my fault –“

    “You know who got it? Fish-face, that’s who! As long as I've been at the company he’s had it in for me, big time. So when the next round of downsizing comes up, guess whose name will skyrocket to the top of list? “ The husband surveyed the ceiling, the walls, the floor and then released a disgusted sigh. “You can quit this stupid cleaning. We won't be able to afford this place much longer, anyway."

    “Well, maybe if it's spotless, we can get our full security deposit back,” she answered.

    “I'm going to make you pay for this, you–“ the husband muttered, the last word in his remark effectively vanquished in the blast of the vacuum cleaner.

    That evening there was nothing left in the house for supper, so the husband had a restaurant deliver a meal. The wife declined to eat anything without one hundred per cent certainty that the food preparers had remembered to wash their hands.

    Later that night the husband settled down into his leather recliner in its usual spot in front of the tv, as was his custom, with one slight change. The need for keeping current with public affairs programs or cribbing dinner conversation topics from high-class arty fare was now essentially moot. His face was flushed and his heart throbbed with the prospect of a good old, down-and-dirty, red-blooded male sports competition. Finally, a chance to watch a game! When a beer commercial came on, he sensed a subtle movement in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he happened to spot something small scamper along the baseboard. Across the room, he saw his wife on her hands and knees on the hardwood floor as she waged warfare against scuff marks visible to no other pair of human eyes except hers.

    Once again the little brown furry creature made an appearance. The gentlemanly course would entail the hope that the wife would not notice the invader. The more chivalrous, if not loving, deed would be to divert her attention away from its presence. For the life of him, though, he couldn't think of a single reason not to point it out and allow himself the pleasure of watching her squirm.
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 04-04-2011 at 01:30 PM. Reason: purging typos and cleaning up the rough spots

  12. #57
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    Oh I really enjoyed this and wish I'd seen it earlier. Actually Auntie, it reminds me of a tale I read long ago. I can't remember the author or the title, but the gist of it was, that after committing a murder, the perp became so obsessed with cleaning up after himself, rather as your housewife did, that he was caught, still at the scene of his crime and still obsessively cleaning! OCD is definately bad news for a murderer - lol.

    Live and be well - H

  13. #58
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    She almost makes me feel guilty when I see a bug and do nothing.....Good piece of writing and witty in just the right places. I like how the husband enjoys watching her squirm!
    Before sunlight can shine through a window, the blinds must be raised - American Proverb

  14. #59
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    Response to Chopped Liver

    I thought your piece Chopped Liver a fine piece of work, however I felt that the colloqialisms distracted me. I didn't understand the reference to the old song was. The use of a military acronym in this work was a little displaced I thought.

    I liked the way that both the characters interacted in such a way that I can appreciate. That drawn out relationship, the journey of marriage and it's weathered response to our response to each other. It has a satirical edge to lit which is uplifting, a step away from the usual throw of marital hell and boredom.

    It's nice to see a switch in stereotypes here, with the female taking a leading role.

    I'm not so much a critique, but I look forward to reading your other two short stories.

    Craig
    The beatings will continue until morale improves

    http://www.craigrobertdouglas.com/

  15. #60
    Registered User Steven Hunley's Avatar
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    response to story

    I agree with the Prince. This WAS enchanting. From the descriptions to the dialogue that was Werry Werry good. Dialogue can be lacking, descriptions non-descript, but nothing beats a good story well told. Great stuff.

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