Hell's Kitchen (first draft)

[Delta40]

I think when I was first standing here in my kitchen; the shopping bags on the floor caught my attention. Woolworths grey. Six tins of chick peas and lentils peeping out of the metallic plastic. I eat healthy now. If you open my pantry, the shelves are filled with tins of legumes. Red lentils, brown lentils, kidney beans, four bean mix. I stir these through every vegetable combination I can think of and convince myself I am a liberal thinking new age person.

The bags haven’t been put away and the light in the kitchen is still dim. This is because of the energy saving light globe of course. I look up, almost expectantly, palms turned outwards. I remember an old school teacher of mine used to do that when the students got too noisy. Lord enlighten us all, she would say. I utter the line out loud as the kitchen brightens, only to reveal its darker side.

A shaking mass is huddled in the corner of the cupboards. It gently rocks in self-inflicted bloody pools of horror. It resembles my child/woman daughter.

The cupboards which surround the mass are a creamy laminate. Cheap, nasty instalments, courtesy of State Housing. Already they show their lack of quality through uneven alignment. The jarrah wood floorboards are genuine enough. When we first came here to live, a teenage lifetime ago, they were polished. Now, they are scratched, grimy and ingrained with all manner of filth. A congealed record of our life.

I have never liked the word congealed. It makes me think of cold, lumpy jelly fat, which reminds me of the afterbirth I spat out. I stand in the kitchen of energy saving enlightenment gazing upon a shaking mass and realise I am the Mother of Pain. I birthed this. It wasn’t pink and it didn’t give a hearty cry at delivery. I suppose really, it was puckered, yellow and rubbery. A weak, half hearted whimper was the best it could do. I turned my head and looked at the wall as it entered the world.

What do you know about me? Let me tell you about my kitchen. Smeared on the cupboards near the shaking mass of pain is her lifeblood. They look like multiple Rorschach inkblot tests. Some are obvious. Dragons of course. I spy my Father in them too. But the point is, they move and breathe as I stand in the kitchen studying them intently. The blood blots form into dirty old man hands. They protrude in 3D fashion as if they are groping and grasping at my underwear.

Along the base of the laundry door, I can hear snuffle, snuffle. Sniff, sniff. I can’t move while I study the patterns on the cupboard. Movement means there is hope. Hope that the universe will right itself. Balance is an important factor here. The kitchen scales sitting on the bench top will fortunately, guarantee that I produce the best angel food cake each time. Blessed scales. Like justice.


The fridge starts to hum like a droning bee. It’s as old as the shaking mass of pain I think. She once had golden curls and I bought a fridge with money from my government pension... Later, its light went out and everything inside looked continuously dark. She turned morose, dyed her hair jet black so the world would know just how dark inside she really felt. Light isn’t what I get when I open things these days.

I wonder if her Dad is somewhere in an armchair, ready to call out a judgment. Once, she bought him a stubby holder and he said it wasn’t what he wanted. She cried her eyes out because she thought he didn’t want to see her anymore. She didn’t call him for a year. When she did, he said ‘about time, I’ve been counting the days till you rang, you selfish *****.’ She bought him a giant box of chocolates because she felt so bad. He smiled and gave her a portion of love then.

The corner of the table pokes into my hip. My eyes read the fridge magnet ‘I am woman, I am invincible, I am tired’. Haven’t I read it three times already? So I feel a little heavy but that’s ok. The dishes have not been done again. We had an agreement, the shaking mass and I that whoever came home first, would do the dishes and the other would dry. That hasn’t happened tonight. It has not happened other nights. We will have to talk about this. Regroup. Family meeting. There are only two of us living here for God sake! Is it her or me sighing?

The more I think about the kitchen, the more I realise it is not my setting. I mean, it is familiar enough but it has been altered. The weetbix is still on the bench from this morning but really, everything else has been orchestrated by her. I guess I am tired. The scenery is strangely beautiful in this low wattage light, I have to admit. She keeps her dark head down and her piercing sapphire blue eyes have yet to lock with mine. That means for now, I’m safe. The blood spatter has a tragic poetry. Yes, I think as I let the heaviness set into my limbs, this really is her centre stage. It isn’t mine. The shaking mass of pain has the starring role. I am the audience or at least, I am standing here, in the wings watching her chaotic theatre. There is a chair behind me and it is ok for me to sit. I don’t want to lose a moment of this dramatic performance. I hope, so hope it has a happy ending. I really, honestly truly do. As I take my rightful place, do you know what I decide to do? I am going to applaud and cheer so loud. Why? Because I am her Mother and I love her more than anyone in this world.

[Delta40]

I can take criticism folks.....honest.

[selkies]

I like this. I had to read it twice to even understand its not so clear.
I also found problems with the way you phrased things, didn't make sense to me.
I like this enough to go through it and point out the parts I didn't like. (apart from point 9)


1. The piece of writing made me feel less good
I don't mind reading things about a depressing subject but you must have levity somewhere in your work to balance it out. Otherwise I feel like I need to put the image I have of you out of it's misery and stop reading. Thank god what you wrote was very short, especially given i had to read it more than once.

2. I think when I was first standing here in my kitchen; the shopping bags on the floor caught my attention.

I don't like that sentence. I expect that the shopping bag is a bomb or a magic item, or you simply landed in the kitchen. If that's what you are going for then you need to tell us that before this sentence. As is you'd need to change it to something like "the shopping bags on the floor brought it to my attention" and then go on to explain what it is.

3. and convince myself I am a liberal thinking new age person.
This sounds like you don't like new age thinking or liberals but you don't go on to explain why. If not then you don't explain why this is an achievement. Basically it doesn't seem to have a reason. It just seems to add to point one.
Maybe you should reference some famous home maker, say something to effect of, I'm the very model of a modern major mother, like martha stuart only not a pscyho.

4. I utter the line out loud as the kitchen brightens, only to reveal its darker side.
I love the bit before this. However this just sucks. Its so emo. I'd much prefer if your light was flickering and you thought it made your kitchen less like a horror movie, and as you reach up to touch it, it stops flickering, and you make a sarcastic remark like, "great now it looks less like a movie".
I'm not saying use that, but something like that, it conveys the same meaning but doesn't sound like bad emo poetry.

5. shaking mass
I really don't like that, it's all kinds of ew which you don't need to add to this story and I'm completely confused by it. What is it? Is it a metaphor?
either take it out completely, use it once or explain it better.

6. A shaking mass is huddled in the corner of the cupboards. It gently rocks in self-inflicted bloody pools of horror. It resembles my child/woman daughter.
I'm not sure where to start with this.

7.What do you know about me? Let me tell you about my kitchen.
Wait? I thought you just did?

8.The fridge starts to hum like a droning bee.
Bees don't drone, they buzz. Nothing about a fridge makes it like a bee.
The fridge is more like a loyal dog that has been neglected due to the arrival of a child. It's whining or crying at you.
I guess you could say the hum from the fridge scares you like would a bee. Or it should but you've learned to become accustomed to it, it and the other pests.

...

My eyes read the fridge magnet ‘I am woman, I am invincible, I am tired’. Haven’t I read it three times already?
I love this line

I actually like the end more than the start.

Now I'm done writing so please tell me what you think of my criticism.
I'd love to see any changes you make to it.
It could be a really great story.

[Delta40]

I always appreciate good criticism especially when it is accompanied by comments about my strengths! You have given me something to think about. This is a draft for a unit I'm doing at uni which is supposed to focus on imagery and conflict. I wrote it up in 30 minutes and I have a few weeks yet to refine it. I think it has potential. I want to bring to life that microcosm of time between switching on the light and the realisation that one's own child has self-harmed, before the parent actually does anything to help, if that makes sense. Its that small shock wave that passes through us, which knocks us back, causing us to sit down, rise, then act. I don't want to reach the acting part in this piece though.

I will print your comments though and see how I can use them in my next draft. Thank you so much for your time.

[selkies]

I always appreciate good criticism especially when it is accompanied by comments about my strengths! You have given me something to think about. This is a draft for a unit I'm doing at uni which is supposed to focus on imagery and conflict. I wrote it up in 30 minutes and I have a few weeks yet to refine it. I think it has potential. I want to bring to life that microcosm of time between switching on the light and the realisation that one's own child has self-harmed, before the parent actually does anything to help, if that makes sense. Its that small shock wave that passes through us, which knocks us back, causing us to sit down, rise, then act. I don't want to reach the acting part in this piece though.

I will print your comments though and see how I can use them in my next draft. Thank you so much for your time.

I had no idea that it was about self harm.
Where do you make that clear?

[Delta40]

A shaking mass is huddled in the corner of the cupboards. It gently rocks in self-inflicted bloody pools of horror. It resembles my child/woman daughter

Perhaps I should clarify that as well?

[Delta40]

When I first switched on the light in my kitchen; the shopping bags on the floor caught my attention. Woolworths grey. Tins of chick peas and lentils peeping out of the metallic plastic. I eat healthy now. If you open my pantry, the shelves are filled with tins of legumes. Red lentils, brown lentils, kidney beans, four bean mix. I stir these through every vegetable combination I can think of and convince myself I am a liberal thinking new age person.

The bags haven’t been put away and the light in the kitchen is still dim. Damn those new energy saving light globes. I look up, almost expectantly, palms turned outwards. I remember an old school teacher of mine used to do that when the students got too noisy. Lord enlighten us all, she would say. I utter the line out loud as the kitchen brightens, only to reveal its darker side.

A shaking mass which resembles my teenage daughter is huddled in the corner of the cupboards. She gently rocks in self-harmed bloody pools of horror. A boxcutter lies beside her seeped in her own lifeforce.

The cupboards which surround her are a creamy laminate. Cheap, nasty instalments, courtesy of State Housing. Already they show their lack of quality through uneven alignment. The jarrah wood floorboards are genuine enough. When we first came here to live, a teenage lifetime ago, they were polished. Now, they are scratched, grimy and ingrained with all manner of filth. A congealed record of our life.

I have never liked the word congealed. It makes me think of cold, lumpy jelly fat, which reminds me of the afterbirth I spat out. I stand in the kitchen of energy saving enlightenment gazing upon her shaking form and realise I am the Mother of Pain. I birthed this. She wasn’t pink and bouncy. There was no hearty cry at delivery. Instead, I was presented with a puckered, yellow, rubbery bundle. A weak, half-hearted whimper echoed into the sterile room. I turned my head and looked at the wall.

Do you know anything about me? Let me tell you more about my kitchen. Smeared on the cupboards near my shaking child of pain is her lifeblood. The smears look like multiple Rorschach inkblot tests. Some are obvious. Dragons of course. I spy my Father in them too. But the point is, they move and breathe as I sway in the kitchen studying them intently. The blood blots form into dirty old man hands. They protrude in 3D fashion as if they are groping and grasping at my underwear.

Along the base of the laundry door, I can hear snuffle, snuffle. Sniff, sniff. I can’t move while I study the patterns on the cupboard. Movement means there is hope. Hope that the universe will right itself. Balance is an important factor here. The kitchen scales glowing on the bench top will fortunately, guarantee that I produce the best angel food cake each time. Blessed scales of culinary justice.


The fridge which hummed so loudly in the background, suddenly stops. It’s as old as the child huddled in the kitchen. I remember when she had golden curls. It was then that we bought the fridge with bonus money from the government. Later, its light went out so everything inside looked dark and unappetizing. She gradually turned morose, dyed her hair jet black so the world would know just how dark and tasteless inside she really felt. Light isn’t what I see when I try to open things up these days.

I can hear her Dad call out a judgment from the safety of his armchair. Once, she bought him a stubby holder and he said it wasn’t what he wanted. She cried her eyes out because she thought he didn’t want to see her anymore. She didn’t call him for a year. When she did, he said ‘about time, I’ve been counting the days till you rang, you selfish *****.’ She bought him a giant box of chocolates because she felt so bad. He smiled and gave her a portion of love then.

The corner of the table pokes into my hip. My eyes read the fridge magnet ‘I am woman, I am invincible, I am tired’. Haven’t I read it three times already? So I feel a little heavy in this dank atmosphere, but that’s ok. The dishes have not been done again. We had an agreement, the shaking mass and I that whoever came home first, would do the dishes and the other would dry. That hasn’t happened tonight. It has not happened other nights. We will have to talk about this. Regroup. Family meeting. There are only two of us living here for God sake! Is it her or me sighing?

The more I think about the kitchen, the more I realise it is not my setting. I mean, it is familiar enough but it has been altered. The weetbix is still on the bench from this morning but really, everything else has been orchestrated by her. I guess I am tired. I have to admit, the scenery is strangely beautiful in this low wattage light. She keeps her dark head down so her piercing sapphire blue eyes don't lock with mine. That means for now, I’m safe. The blood spatter has a tragic poetry. Yes, I think as I let the heaviness set into my limbs, this really is her centre stage. It isn’t mine. My daughter, so full of pain has the starring role. I am the audience or at least, I am standing here, in the wings watching her chaotic theatre. There is a chair behind me and I deem it best for me to quietly observe. I don’t want to miss a moment of this dramatic performance. I hope, so hope it has a happy ending. I really, honestly do. As I take my rightful place, do you know what I decide to do? I am going to applaud and cheer so loud. Why? Because I am her Mother and I love her more than anyone in this world.