Story: Sera Black

[water lily]

Hello all,
Yes, I have chosen to reveal my identity as the author of this story. Anyways, I'd appreciate any critism you feel like offering. Even reading it again now that the competition is over, I already see some problems with it: I don't think it flows very well in the whole introduction section, and judging by the fact that it got less views than any other story, a more interesting title probably would have been a good idea. But I want YOUR input! Please give it to me! Thank you kindly! :)
-lily
Here's the story for those of you who haven't read it yet, but are just such nice ppl that you will now

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sera Black

You were never meant to see into my life like this. What derelict was it who coined the term "omniscient"? It's unnatural. But, then again, as a species, humans are known for preferring the synthetic. The secret of drugs is the molestation of natural processes: the molecular structure of opiates is similar that of endorphins (neurotransmitters that cause pain relief and euphoria)–the opiates bind to the endorphins' receptor sites in your brain. That's what they give to hospital patients. I'd take it, if I was going through that sort of apical suffering. Society is wonderful, isn't it? We allow morphine use in hospitals and yet condemn heroin users–perhaps they too are enduring apical suffering. Maybe it's their way to escape. The issue for them is that the solution becomes the problem.
But you have your way to escape too. Maybe this is it. Maybe it's immersing yourself in my life, and no matter how black or ugly it is, it’s better than facing the reality of yours, because it's different from yours. Another pretentious individual imposed the term "Escapism" on us, but I have a different word for it. Fiction. No matter how a book may be labeled–as Realism, or Fantasy, or Romance Novel–people will read it primarily to escape. Novels can try to solve problems, but they won't, because people will read them to escape from reality, not to learn how to improve reality.
So let's get it on with it, then.
My name is Sera Black. My cat is Penny Black–Penetra Black actually–I must specify lest you make the abhorrent and erroneous assumption that her full name is Penelope. I'm not so cynical as I may have sounded thus far. It's just a sort of pastime really. You see, I'm the one writing this, which can only indicate that I'm a little bored with my life (just like you) and am trying to derive more meaning from it, using the logic that if others will read about it, then it must be important. Being passively cynical relieves boredom, without sticking me with the obligation to actually do something to change the world. An individual person can't change the world, anyway. Maybe it could be done as a group, but then the credit becomes diluted and it seems less worth while.
So, let's say you know me (the visual system in humans is able to fill in the blanks, an ability called closure. That's why you don't assume that a person has had their legs amputated, if their lower limbs are blocked from view by an object in front of them. The ability to fill in the blanks is prevalent in other systems as well. For example, from the preceding four paragraphs, you've made assumptions about my character, building a complete picture of who I am from your pre-existing schemas about how the world works. Normally I'd resent it–it's what people refer to as stereotyping–but for now, let's just assume it saves time. You know me. More or less. I'm going to move on to my story now without any further preliminary garbage).


***

"Sera?" my mom calls, making her way into my room. "You shouldn't be on the computer so much. You'll get some sort of cancer, or Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, or ruin your eyes."
"I already ruined my eyes, most people get cancer anyway, and my wrists are in as high of spirits as they ever were."
My mom blinks at me several times–that's her way of saying it makes no difference: an annoying habit of hers, but luckily one that is easy to ignore.
“Your mother called while you were out."
"Great," I say. Sarcasm is something I never engage in.
The phone rings.
“That’s probably her,” my mom calls.
I seize the cordless phone. The number on the call display certainly doesn’t make my day.
“Sera! Answer the phone!”
I resignedly click the ‘Talk’ button. "Hello Andrea," I say with limited effervescence.
"Seraphim! How are you, Lovey?" This is my birth mother. She named me Seraphim. My adoptive parents strictly call me Sera.
"Same as I was last time you asked."
"Oh Good!" The last time she asked, I said I felt like I'd been flattened by a freight train (that’s about the norm: I don't get enough sleep or eat properly).
"So what do you want?"
"Well, I'm all moved in. I'm just exhausted from going through everything. You know whenever there's a move, there's always tons of stuff to get rid of, that you don't want and you don't need."
"Like babies?" I say it harder than I should. You see I want to hurt her, but I want to do so without making myself vulnerable by revealing too much feeling.

[water lily]

There is silence on the line. I half think she'll hang up and will refrain from calling for another month. Somewhere inside me, I dare her to.
She clears her throat. "Well I thought we could have a little celebration. Your sisters would like it if you were here."
"My half-sisters," I correct her.
Two weeks after my birth, my father died. Andrea wanted to start over. She gave me up for adoption and moved to Ontario. But almost as soon as she got there, she was pregnant again. This time she had an abortion–she had decided she was through with babies. That was it. Period. Then, three months later, she was carrying another burden. At which point, she "submitted to fate" and decided that she was pre-destined for motherhood. Seven months after the birth of Cherubim, she was once again expecting more than she had bargained for. This one she named Esprit.
Another eleven years passed, after which Andrea went through a short period of unemployment and had too much time to think. She went through a sort of crisis of guilt.
She named the fetus she had aborted Shadow, and began burning incense incessantly (apparently those two events are related). She also wrote to my mom asking if she could meet me. Being twelve years old and still seeing the world through my Disney Stereoscope Viewmaster, I was ecstatic and quickly convinced my hesitant parents to fly me to Sudbury, Ontario, where I consequently met Andrea and Cherubim and Esprit, and discovered that my own name was not in fact Sera, but Seraphim, according to the federal government. Oh. Right. I almost forgot. My plethora of flowery expectations was also shattered. Andrea was flighty and tried too hard to connect with me without knowing how to.
Andrea just moved back here to this cold little city. Something about facing her past. I'm not sure if I am synonymous with "her past" or not. I really hope not. That means she'll want to spend a copious amount of time with me. But here I am nonetheless.
I hang up the phone. “I’m going to Andrea’s.”
“Are you?” My mom is interested and doubtful. She looks at me for an explanation.
I look out the window, then back at my mom. “Now is the winter of our discontent,” I say simply.
She raises her eyebrows at me. “Sera, that actually means that the time of unhappiness is past or almost over. Brush up on your Shakespeare dear.”
I glare at her and tramp out the door into the fierce cold.

I knock on the door of the white little house that is now Andrea's. The For Sale sign, adorned with a giant red SOLD sticker, has yet to be taken down. Heaps of snow press against the walls of the home. The world seems bigger all covered in white and I seem smaller. I stomp my feet annoyedly, and ring the doorbell.
Andrea opens the door.
"Seraphim." She says it with a simple sort of satisfaction at seeing me.
"Hello." I avert my eyes and kick off my boots onto the rug. They will shortly be mother to a small ocean of melted snow. I don’t care. I glance up at Andrea. I look so much like her. I can't stand it.
I'm ushered into the little family room. It's cozy, I think upon seeing it. I can't believe I just used the word "cozy". At least I didn't say it out loud. There's a bright warm fire glowing in the corner, and a wonderfully lumpy couch that sinks almost to the ground when you sit in it. I must admit it makes one feel more consequential in such a nice little room. I don't know why kings made momentous palaces to make themselves feel illustrious. Those big empty halls seem lonely to me.
Esprit and Cherubim come in. We all look startlingly alike, considering the fact we all have different fathers. My sisters bring in hot chocolate in Mickey Mouse mugs and plop down on the couches, one beside, one across from me. There's a real Christmas tree in the corner and the natural scent of pine is strong. We always have the same old decrepit artificial one at my house. Andrea, my real mother, comes in and smiles.
"So this is it," she says. "What do you think?"
"It's... nice," I say honestly, surprising myself. My piquant exterior, usually so pointed in the presence of my mother, seems to have faded away for the moment. It almost seems like it could work, like we're a real family: Andrea, the struggling but fulfilled single mother of three daughters aged sixteen, seventeen and eighteen, living in a small, but snug little white house and merrily getting by. I can even image Penny Black stretching in all her feline arrogance in front of the little fire. It is a wholly idyllic image, right down to the Christmas tree—the sort of thing people sing about in Country songs.
I just sit contemplating it all. I always fidget with my hands when I think. Suddenly I feel an uncomfortable twinge in my wrist that brings me back to the present. I look about me, again aware of my surroundings, but still deaf to the conversation. My gaze falls upon the large Ikea mirror that hangs behind Cherub, and I see myself. I look hopeless and miserable. And I notice two little wet streaks slicking down my face. Damn. I hate crying in front of others. I excuse myself to the washroom and will my eyes to extinguish their stubborn redness. I return. No one mentions it.
Cherubim and I walk into the kitchen. It's pink! Frying pan, electric mixer, toaster, table cloth! Pink, Pink, Pink! Maybe I couldn't pull off the full time daughter/sister role in this house. They'd probably trick me into wearing a dress.
"It'll be nice to get to know you. I mean I was always the big sister, you know. And you're probably the only person who can know what it's like to have a name like Cherubim."
"We can be martyrs together," I say grimly. Cherubim laughs. I have to check myself before I smile.
I'm at the door, guiltily pulling on my blue boots that have left a sopping mess on the brand new carpet.
"Seraphim," Mom begins a little nervously. "You're the reason I came back here. It took me a long enough time to realize what was the right thing to do. I know that, and I'm sorry. Please make this your second home. Let us be your family."
As I leave, Esprit smiles shyly at me, and Mom gives me some incense to take home to Lydia and George.

The End

[rabid reader]

Loved this one, I voted for it personnal. It screams J.D. Salinger, minus his misogynism. I really cannot think of too many faults with it, I just loved the story

[Petrarch's Love]

First of all Lily, I remembered thinking your actual writing was good. What threw me most about this story was the intro, which didn't really feel to me like it went with the rest of the story. I thought the introduction was interesting, and the story part itself was good, but the two didn't really make sense together. It made it feel like I was reading two polished drafts for pieces of a longer story. In fact, the intro as you have it would probably be great on a longer story where you could slowly work back around to the idea of escapism in the opening, but in a piece this short I think you need to really stick with one style and idea without any akward breaks. Any introduction or setting of the mood should be able to take place succinctly in the first few lines. That said, I also found a lot to like here too. I liked the way you described your characters and brought them out. They felt like very real people who I've known. Keep writing. :)

[Kelly_Sprout]

Lily, I'm going to have to disagree with Petrarch a little bit. As I was actually reading the intro, not having gotten into the story, I remember thinking to myself, "Kind of philosophical for a story...". Then, as I read the story, perhaps about the place where Sera is deliberately putting her boots on the carpet to puddle, it began to dawn on me that is precisely what you are trying to show us about your heroine, namely, that she is trying to escape a life she is afraid to live by being philosophical about everything. She is trying so hard to escape. And she can't. And she's glad, in a way that she can't quite allow herself to express.

Understanding the story now, and looking back at the intro, I think it was necessary in order to help me get into Sera's mind and understand her escapism and her reality.

As for the title, I can't suggest something catchy that makes you want to grab this story and rush through it, but perhaps there is a way to bring some mystery to "Sera Black" and make potential readers want to understand the mystery. What comes to mind for me would be to use her full name -- let the story explain exactly as it does, exactly where it does, for that draws one through the introduction which some might not perservere through otherwise -- with another word for black. "Dubh" (Gaelic), "Ebon" (African), "Sable" (French), etc.

Seraphim Dubh
Seraphim Ebon
Seraphim Sable (My preference)

or some other kind of similar variation. The word "dubh", "ebon", "sable", etc. would never be explained outright in the story. Leave it a mystery for the reader to determine. Those that get it, get it. Those that don't, well, they still read the story!

[Virgil]

I voted for your story, Water Lily, and for the most part I liked it. The characters felt real to me, and the voice, especially the voice, was completely convincing. It felt like a teenage girl, who is smarter than most adults and in a mixed up family, trying to find her way through the turmoil.

The intro was the problem, and I almost gave up on it. But I did return to it. The first paragraph can be thrown out except for the first sentence. I like that as a start, and I would have it as the only sentence of a paragraph. The second paragraph is also superfluous, but I do like the thing about the cat's name. Here's how I would have edited this story:

You were never meant to see into my life like this.

"Sera?" my mom calls, making her way into my room. "You shouldn't be on the computer so much. You'll get some sort of cancer, or Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, or ruin your eyes."
"I already ruined my eyes, most people get cancer anyway, and my wrists are in as high of spirits as they ever were."
My mom blinks at me several times–that's her way of saying it makes no difference: an annoying habit of hers, but luckily one that is easy to ignore.
“Your mother called while you were out."
"Great," I say. Sarcasm is something I never engage in.
The phone rings.
“That’s probably her,” my mom calls.
I seize the cordless phone. The number on the call display certainly doesn’t make my day.
“Sera! Answer the phone!”
I resignedly click the ‘Talk’ button. "Hello Andrea," I say with limited effervescence.
"Seraphim! How are you, Lovey?" This is my birth mother. She named me Seraphim. My adoptive parents strictly call me Sera.

My cat is Penny Black–Penetra Black actually–I must specify lest you make the abhorrent and erroneous assumption that her full name is Penelope. I'm not so cynical as I may have sounded thus far. It's just a sort of pastime really. You see, I'm the one writing this, which can only indicate that I'm a little bored with my life (just like you) and am trying to derive more meaning from it, using the logic that if others will read about it, then it must be important.

"Oh Good!" The last time she asked, I said I felt like I'd been flattened by a freight train (that’s about the norm: I don't get enough sleep or eat properly).
"So what do you want?"
"Well, I'm all moved in. I'm just exhausted from going through everything. You know whenever there's a move, there's always tons of stuff to get rid of, that you don't want and you don't need."
"Like babies?" I say it harder than I should. You see I want to hurt her, but I want to do so without making myself vulnerable by revealing too much feeling...

Or something like this. It would need to be a little smoother and somehow you need to bring the cat back into the story if you're going to mention it all.

[ShoutGrace]

The intro was the problem, and I almost gave up on it.

I did give up on it; the first time around, anyway. I came back to it later and ended up having to decide between this story and the one I voted for.

I really liked this piece but was mightily put off by the intro.



I think it was necessary in order to help me get into Sera's mind and understand her escapism and her reality.

It did contribute a certain amount to the character's "voice", but what do you mean exactly by her "escapsim"?



I'm going to move on to my story now without any further preliminary garbage).

I think you said it yourself, dear.

[water lily]

Lol, thank you for your comments. I see that the intro isi probably the main problem with the story, that would turn ppl off it before they got further into it. Thank you for yuur suggestion Virigil. I think I really need to figure out what's necessary in it and cut it down.

I think the reason is that when I write, I just sort of jump in without knowing exactly what will come out, and kind of feel my way around before I find the story, so probably a lot of the beginning stuff is completely superfluous. unforetunatly I hate cutting it out, because I do think some of it is intriguing, though unforetunately irrevlant to the story.

Thank you Kelly Sprout for liking it though! I think I just need to cut it and leave in enough so that the reader can catch on the cynicism of Sera.
Lol, glad to hear you actually liked it Rabid, I was kinda thinking that you might have just voted for it out of patiotism :p.
And ShoutGrace, lol, it's not too harsh, at least you put the "dear" in there to soften the blow :p.

Thank you so much everyone for responding!

[Virgil]

I think the reason is that when I write, I just sort of jump in without knowing exactly what will come out, and kind of feel my way around before I find the story, so probably a lot of the beginning stuff is completely superfluous. unforetunatly I hate cutting it out, because I do think some of it is intriguing, though unforetunately irrevlant to the story.


That's not a bad approach, but ultimately you need to sit back and think critically.

[water lily]

Well I've made some revisions which mostly involve mass amputations of entire paragraphs. Let me know what you guys think!



You were never meant to see into my life like this. But the fact that it’s unnatural doesn’t seem to be deterring you; so let's get it on with it.

"Sera?" my mom calls, making her way into my room. "You shouldn't be on the computer so much. You'll get some sort of cancer, or Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, or ruin your eyes."
"I already ruined them, most people get cancer anyway, and my wrists are in as high of spirits as they ever were."
My mom blinks at me several times–that's her way of saying it makes no difference: an annoying habit of hers, but luckily one that is easily ignored. In fact I’m ignoring her right now: lavishing all my attention instead on my cat: Penny Black (Penetra Black actually–I must specify lest you make the abhorrent and erroneous assumption that her full name is Penelope).
Unfortunately Mom will not be ignored. She stands hovering above me like some ill-omened specter, waiting for me to look up. When I fail to do so, she moves onto a new strategy: the oh-so-casual clearing of the throat. I know that the tapping of the foot will be next. Considering my prospects, I decide give in and look up.
She smiles pleasantly at me. “Your mother called while you were out."

And the rest is the same.

[Virgil]

I think it is greatly improved.