Labor Day Massacre

[Martini]

Please Scroll down and read the revised version, which was drafted after a few comments had been made. I just don't want to delete this version ( i am heavily attached to my crap).


The night my husband and I decided we had no longer any idea how to stay together, I jumped into my car and drove to Williamsburg in my silver Honda Accord. It was the fight of all fights. The one that could not be fought and also the one that had the potential to lure you back into our restraining and suffocating marriage. We both didn’t want it anymore. The whole thing had become a farce and too much work. The labor had worn us away and we could not conceal the hurt and mistrust we both had been feeling for some time.

We lasted ten years. It was by no means an easy task but it was worth all the effort even by the end. We were soul mates and my love for him was obvious. He should have never doubted it, and I’m sure he hadn’t until his suspicions had gotten the best of him. I had never cheated, I had never really lied. In truth I was a model girlfriend and wife. He, he was narcissistic and self devoted but he was smart. His intellect configured his personality in just the right way. He had enough arrogance to make you believe every word he said and he had enough compassion and thoughtfulness to make you forget how self involved he was.

I always appreciated the both of those traits. They were simultaneously repulsive and charming. Mostly, I found it repulsive when he was targeting me and my perspectives and charming when he feasted on others. My husband should have been a lawyer. Actually, he should have been everything. He is the kind of man who knows it all and could skillfully master each and everything he did. I often thought that I loved him because he was everything I could not be. Then I realized I was selling myself too short and to captivate such a man would mean that I, myself, was an extraordinary kind of lady.

We knew each other since childhood. Loyal friends we were, until we explored the romantic avenue. We were invincible together; there was no need for anyone else; we were content being with each other. We spent days together, weeks, months… It was apparent we should be married. Our agreement derived from more practical reasons that could only be granted by the institution. We trusted only ourselves with each other and we wanted to have the same things and share everything else. Really, we lived for each other.

Towards the end though, it started to feel poisonous between us. A natural chemistry turning on us. We had always been fighters; always arguing; always with the defenses, but in the last year it became unbearable to speak to each other. We tried many times to talk, to find that companionship we knew we once had with each other, but it always resulted in an enormous fight that would lead to weeks of silence. When the quiet would break, it would be to attend to daily living and we would sweep it under the rug; my shaggy carpet that is. Each fight unleashed new, more painful insults, judgments and outings that just pushed us further a part. Fights became clustered into subjects to avoid, and sooner rather than the preferred later, we had nothing to say to each other except for topics related to payments, traveling or health issues.

His insults always felt more injuring than the ones I’d shoot at him. Maybe, that was because I never really wanted to hurt him; although, he had no limits. On that night, the one in which we didn’t know what to do I told him I was leaving.

I said “I’m going to take my things and stay with my father. I’m not trying to be a *****, this isn’t any sort of retaliation, I just think it would be better this way.”

His response was neutral, “You don’t have to leave. But you don’t have to ask my permission to go. If you want, you can, I won't be angry.”

At 1 am the final specs of panic had dissolved and I went for a drive. I felt a peaceful and relieving sense of self. I felt free from the shackles and insecurities. I was not worried and I wasn’t scared. It was time to go. When I woke the next day I was full of sadness and remorse. The freedom was no longer a reward. I knew what completion was and what life was like with laughter and play. I knew what happiness was and now I would face loneliness once again. It isn’t as though I have never been lonely, but I didn’t understand why I had to abandon that part too.

I wonder what he’s doing, who he is chatting with, if I am on his mind and if he misses me. I miss him fiercely and EVERYTHING, from the songs I hear to the movies I know he’s never seen, reminds me of him.

[Delta40]

I love the very first line of this tale. You no longer had an idea of how to stay together! Thats good, real good! In fact, the first paragraph is really tasty; the second complementary. You grab the reader's attention immediately with a full frontal attack. However, I started to feel it's weightiness midway and its force therefore loses its impact as a result. Can it be interspersed with something else? I like your style of writing but I think the consistent content is too much and you have an opportunity to explore how you can adjust the flow.

[JacobF]

Yes, the first paragraph in the story was the strongest. It provided a perfect amount of plot information to compel us. However, as the story progressed some problems arose.

First of all, you need to develop the story a bit more. As it stands it reads more like a simple anecdote rather than a short story. You kind of bombard us with the husband's character traits in the second and third paragraphs, and I wound up confused losing any sort of empathy for both the wife and the husband. You need to show us the story, not tell it. Instead of simply telling us "he was arrogant," show us an example of how he's arrogant. Show us his two-faced compassion and thoughtfulness.

You also mention "he should have been a lawyer." It would be nice to know what his profession at the moment is, because otherwise I have no clue what I'm supposed to think prior to the wife's character assassination of him. Also, "he should have been everything" comes off as contrived and over-the-top. I think this was the part in the story where I stopped suspending my disbelief.

If you bulk up on it and fix the few glitches that detract from its believability you can have a good, solid story.

[Martini]

notes taken... thank you thank you

[NickAdams]

I agree with Delta and Jacob, except for what they thought about the first paragraph. After you write, "It was the fight of all fights," you seem to paraphrase the first two sentences with slightly more information for the rest of the paragraph. The mid-section is nothing but exposition which reads like a rant or anecdote. I like the intimacy of your prose and the narrator seems earnest. There is a story, but you left it out. Where is the fight of all fights? You should dramatize the fight and use the exposition to enrich it. I'm interested in reading about the husband in an argument based on you description of him.

[Martini]

This is revised. Have I begun to tell a story. It seems my biggest problem is focusing in on one story and instead I want to cover 10 years of ebb n flow. Thank you for your feedback! I appreciate every bit of it.

Labor Day Massacre (revised)
The night my husband and I decided we had no longer any idea how to stay together, I jumped into my car and drove to Williamsburg in my silver Honda Accord. It was the fight of all fights. The one that could not be fought and also the one that had the potential to lure you back into our restraining and suffocating marriage. We both didn’t want it anymore. The whole thing had become a farce and too much work. The labor had worn us away and we
could not conceal the hurt and mistrust we both had been feeling for some time.

We lasted ten years. It was by no means an easy task but it was worth all the effort even by the end. We were soul mates and my love for him was obvious.

When we were 16, beneath a warm comforter, I woke to a screaming boyfriend on my answering machine.

I jumped up in fear and interrupted the incoherency, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Do you know that my father has a bank account with thousands of dollars?” he proposed.

“What do you mean?”

“While we’re breaking our heads trying to afford dinner, he’s got money stashed. That ****! Hold on.”

My 16 year old boyfriend, future husband, paused for a moment. Behind his breaths I heard pots crashing and his father’s loud voice approaching closer to the receiver.

“How can you tell your kids you have no money to buy them a new winter coat and then watch your wife collect change to buy meat, when you’re hiding money from us?” I heard him yell this to his father.

“I don’t care what happens to any of you anymore! Freeze, over heat, **** if-,” I heard his father respond violently and then found myself holding a dial tone.

Instantly, I called car service and rushed to his house to find his Karl Marx books on the floor of his bedroom and everyone’s toothbrushes scattered across the bathtub, along with what looked like the glass of the cups they stood in.

We knew each other since childhood. Loyal friends we were, until we explored the romantic avenue. We were invincible together; there was no need for anyone else; we were content being with each other. We spent days together, weeks, months… From early mornings he would be strumming his guitar and I would take to the role of a redneck sitting in a rocking chair on his front porch or an Englishman searching for toppins.
It was apparent we should be married. Although, our agreement derived from more practical reasons that could only be granted by the institution. We trusted only ourselves with each other and we wanted to have the same things and share everything else. Really, we lived for each other.
He should have never doubted it, and I’m sure he hadn’t until his suspicions had gotten the best of him. I mean, he had no reason to suspect me of anything but every question and conversation seemed to be his way of collecting data to use against me or catch me in some sort of lie.

When we were first married my husband fell ill. His insurance would not cover the appropriate treatments. Desperate to assure my husbands recovery, I approached my father for financial aid. I didn’t want my husband to know. He had come from a poor family, and he hadn’t yet established himself to be able to afford certain necessities. I didn’t want him to feel like a charity. Although, my father had invested well in the past, the medical bills were too high, even for him.

“Would it help if I went to your store and worked there for free?” I asked.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” he responded.

This was not too long after the excruciating fights begun. In truth this helped me escape the situation temporarily, which I didn’t mind too much.

“Going to your dad’s store again?” he asked every time I left.

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

“Have a good day,” he would say with a smile and a suspicious tone; as if he knew I was choosing to do this so as to get a way from him.

I had never cheated, I had never really lied. In truth I was a model girlfriend and wife; always trying to prove myself to a man I knew had trust issues. He, he was narcissistic and self devoted but he was smart. His intellect configured his personality in just the right way. He had enough arrogance to make you believe every word he said and he had enough compassion and thoughtfulness to make you forget how self involved he was.

I always appreciated the both of those traits. They were simultaneously repulsive and charming. Mostly, I found it repulsive when he was targeting me and my perspectives and charming when he feasted on others. He is the kind of man who knows it all and could skillfully master each and everything he attempted to do.

He had the impact of a social servant and had once convinced a strict republican that Marxism and Unionism were necessary and well intentioned theories and practices. His beliefs, his views, were the only truths he would accept.

I often thought that I loved him because he was everything I could not be. Then I realized I was selling myself too short and to captivate such a man would mean that I, myself, was an extraordinary kind of lady.
Towards the end though, we were poison for one another. Our natural chemistry turned on us. We had always been fighters; always arguing; always with the defenses, but in the last year it became unbearable to speak to each other. We tried many times to talk, to find that companionship we knew we once had with each other, but it always resulted in an enormous fight that would lead to weeks of silence.

When the quiet would break, it would be to attend to daily living and we would sweep it under the rug; my shaggy carpet, that is. Each fight unleashed new, more painful insults, judgments and outings that just pushed us further a part. Fights became clustered into subjects to avoid, and sooner rather than the preferred later, we had nothing to say to each other except for topics related to payments, traveling or health issues.

His insults always felt more injuring than the ones I’d shoot at him. Maybe, that was because I never really wanted to hurt him; although, he had no limits.

“You’re just fake. Everyone can see it. Why do they all talk about you?” is what he often said, looking nauseous.

“Who talks about me? You talk about me!” I would defend.
On that night, the one in which we didn’t know what to do, I told him I was leaving.

I said “I’m going to take my things and stay with my father. I’m not trying to be a *****, this isn’t any sort of retaliation, I just think it would be better this way.”

His response was neutral, “You don’t have to leave. But you don’t have to ask my permission to go. If you want to leave, you can.”

At 1 am the final specs of panic had released and I went for a drive. I had a peaceful and relieved sense of self. I felt free from the shackles and insecurities. I was not worried and I wasn’t scared. It was time to go. Maybe it hadn’t hit me yet, because when I woke the next day I was full of sadness and remorse. I knew what completion was and what life was like with laughter and play. I knew what happiness was and now I would face loneliness once again. I didn’t understand why I had to abandon that part too. I did not want to have nothing to wake up for or no one to talk to while passing through the kitchen.

I wonder what he’s doing, who he’s chatting with, if I am on his mind and if he misses me. I miss him fiercely and EVERYTHING, from the songs I hear to the movies I know he’s never seen, make me think of him.

[NickAdams]

It seems as if you added more exposition. There is too much material for such a short story. Show don't tell; I've always hated hearing this, but it's true. Is the detail of the Mark books suppose to make a statement of the father and son relationship? It seems unnatural, because you made only one other detail of that sort and it was silver Honda Accord. You've introduced a new character without rounding out any of the others. Why would the father do that? It is so extreme that you would have to establish it with smaller incidents. Who is you protagonist, the wife or husband?

All your virtues remain. You can cover the ten years, but you may want to be more subtle. If this is a women upset about the tens years she dedicated to a relationship then how did it effect her goals?

[Martini]

I'm not sure what u mean when you say that there is no evidence of the marx books other than the silver honda accord? explain please...

I agree with everything else. I cant break away from the essay form i've put it in. There is just so much to tell, I want to tell it all! but i cant =( and I feel like id be neglecting something.

[NickAdams]

I'm not sure what u mean when you say that there is no evidence of the marx books other than the silver honda accord? explain please...

I agree with everything else. I cant break away from the essay form i've put it in. There is just so much to tell, I want to tell it all! but i cant =( and I feel like id be neglecting something.

There are only two, correct me if I'm wrong, specific details, in terms of setting, given in the story: the silver Honda Accord and the Karl Marx book so they stand out because of their rarity. Lets say your watching a film comprised of medium shots, like a sitcom, and only two close-ups; that wouldn't have been unheard of in the past, but directors would use those two shots to emphasize something significant, usually a emotional response. I don't see the significance in the type of car; I can see why the books would be important, but there is nothing in the husband character that makes it significant.

I know how it is to be stuck to a form, but there are many great stories where the author goes over decades, Faulkner's A Rose for Emily for one, I would suggest starting from scratch and using what you have written as reference material. Don't give up though, because you have a story to tell and I would like to read it.;)

[Delta40]

I have to say that my skills in critque are limited but I do agree with Nickadams in the show don't tell concept and I believe that is what is happening here. There is a feeling of paraphasing over things that I as the reader would have like to have stepped into and experienced, rather than have been told about it.


Towards the end though, we were poison for one another. Our natural chemistry turned on us. We had always been fighters; always arguing; always with the defenses, but in the last year it became unbearable to speak to each other. We tried many times to talk, to find that companionship we knew we once had with each other, but it always resulted in an enormous fight that would lead to weeks of silence.

When the quiet would break, it would be to attend to daily living and we would sweep it under the rug; my shaggy carpet, that is. Each fight unleashed new, more painful insults, judgments and outings that just pushed us further a part. Fights became clustered into subjects to avoid, and sooner rather than the preferred later, we had nothing to say to each other except for topics related to payments, traveling or health issues.

This is a good example of a whole tumult of stuff happening which you tell the reader about. You could enlarge on this by taking me on this journey so that I get an understanding of how you were poison for each other. In your dialogue, I will sense how everything gets swept under the rug. Through the framing of the text, I will feel each sharp, painful insult and tacit judgment that is pushing your further apart. Does that resonate with you?

There is excellent material to be had and there is no doubt in my mind that you can write this so that the reader can experience a drop of what is in your heart.

I hope this will be helpful