Short Story, Nicholas Brown

[NickBrown]

Brick by Nicholas Brown

I had never given much thought over that boy I killed. It was around ten years ago, back when I was seventeen and still sold pot on Jefferson Street. But for some reason, I still remember that day with almost perfect clarity.
It was cool for a spring day, around the lower sixties. The sky was speckled with fluffy grey clouds. I remember the sun seemed awfully bright that day, at least when it could struggle through the white barrier that confined it to the sky. There were also a lot of birds chirping. Almost an unusual amount. I like birds, don’t get me wrong, but not when there are a lot of them.
My walk to Jefferson was a nice one. I stopped by my nonna’s house on the way, because it had been a few days since I had seen here. She invited me in for tea, but I declined, said I had to get going. She told me to come over for dinner, said she heard I got my acceptance letter in the mail yesterday and wanted to make me something special. I told her I would, gave her a kiss, and left.
The air was crisp that afternoon, which was a nice relief from the humidity of the past week. It blanketed the town, and draped over you like a wool poncho. But that day you could breath.
I got to my usual spot, a back alley between a three-story office building and a Shell gas station. I liked how no one in that part of town knew me; I didn’t have any allies, but I also didn’t have any enemies. Not that I made many enemies. I was, and still am, a pretty easy going, well-mannered guy. You just always have to be careful when you do the things I did. Actually, you just have to be careful. One day, when I was a year younger, some dude was walking through the street. It was midday Tuesday, just around lunch time. The man came out of the office building, minding his own business. Out of nowhere, a new car barreled down the street and hit the guy. I mean, sent him flying. He hit the ground thirty yards away, and skidded to a stop. The guy’s mangled body was pronounced dead at the spot. The driver stopped, then peeled out. Don’t think they ever caught him. Not sure it would've done any good, anyway.
So I got to my usual spot around noon. I didn’t always get there at noon; it’s not safe to have a routine. But that day I did. I saw one of my usual costumers walking past the alley. When he was twelve, his family was evicted from their home, and he had to move out here to live with an older cousin. I heard his dad ended up killing himself. He didn’t know anyone in town, so he started smoking pot. That’s how I met him. He’s a really smart guy, too.
I nodded to him inconspicuously, but he pretended not to see me and kept walking. I knew he saw me. That should’ve irked me, I’m told, but it didn’t. Instead, I was curious. I peeked out from the alley, and looked at where he came from. Just an empty street with some decrepit brick shops. Jefferson runs through the old part of town, too. I walked down the street, and in one of the alleys, I saw a kid in a black sweatshirt and faded jeans, hands interlocked at the middle of his waist.
I started walking towards him, and he stiffened up a little. When I got within a few feet, I noticed his eyes darting back and forth. They were hazel, too. I always like the name Hazel. Thought to myself that if I ever had a daughter, then that’s what I would call her.
He asked me if I was looking for Mary. That made me giggle a little, which kind of upset him. He looked a frustrated, and I knew he was a beginner. He asked me what the hell I was doing there, and I told him I was just looking around. Then he told me to beat it. I asked him if he was selling pot. A tiny bead of sweat formed right above his nose, and he feverishly wiped it off, then shifted his weight onto his other foot. He told me he didn’t know what I was talking about. His lower lip quivered. Then I showed him a bit of the dope I was carrying. He eased a little, slumped his shoulders some, then stood right back up, looking determined. I asked him to please move his operations elsewhere. He forced a laugh, then told me to **** off through his teeth. I shrugged, and continued walking through the alley. I could feel his hazel eyes following me.
The alley ended where it bisected another, and I turned right. I saw that someone left the fire escape ladder down on the two story building that the kid was standing near. I climbed up, and walked to the other side of the roof. I peered down over the ledge, and saw the kid pull out a cigarette and light it. His hand was shaking as he put it to his lips.
The bricks that created the ledge were weather-worn, and the mortar was crumbling in some of the spots. Just to my luck, one of the bricks right above the kid was starting to come lose. I took off my shirt. I really like taking off my shirt. I used to be chubby as a kid, but in high school I started to work out a lot and built myself a physique. I wouldn’t say I’m vain, just proud.
I put the shirt over my right hand and poked gently at the brick. It started to rock a little. I looked down and saw the kid still smoking. I waited for him to finish. I picked up the brick with my shirt still over my hand and climbed back down into the alley. Then I walked to the corner, where his alley bisected the one I was in. He was midway between my position and the street. I took off my shoes and carried them in my left hand. I started walking over to him. When I was about fifteen paces away, I gathered my speed. He heard me and turned around. As I jumped in the air, I noticed a look of horror begin to seep into the surprise on his face. I cracked the brick on his forehead, and landed in a roll to the left of his corpse.
As I sat up and began to put my shoes on, I noticed I had stepped on a piece of glass as I was walking down the alley. It was just a little piece, but when I pulled it out, the bottom of my foot started to bleed through my sock. I put my shoes on, and made a mental note to clean it up at the gas station when I got back to my spot.
The rest of the day was pretty slow, so I decided to pack up early. I texted my mom, told her I was leaving my friend’s house, and that I was going to nonna’s.
I knocked on my nonna’s door a few times before she answered. She gets very focused when she cooks. It’s the Italian in her. She was born in Venezia, and moved here when she was five. She taught me Italian when I was young, as I was still learning English even. Said it was important for me to know my heritage. I have to say, there’s something magical about Dante in Italian, something you just don’t get in English. Richard Howard once said that all translations are paraphrases. Maybe that’s it.
As nonna opened the door, I could already smell the chicken parmesan baking in the oven. She knew it was my favorite.
After dinner, we sat around the table and chatted. Nonna brought out a bottle of her favorite marsala and poured me a glass. After a couple drinks, I got a little light-headed.
I stayed and talked with nonna until around eleven. She offered to drive me home, but I insisted on walking. We kissed our goodbyes, and I left the warm comfort of her home for the cool tranquility of the street.
I always had an affinity for night. Some of my favorite memories were centered around night. Catching fireflies with my sister as kids, watching fireworks with my friends during the summer festival. When we had family parties at my Uncle Glen’s house, we would always have a two-on-two tournament. He had a large property outside of town with a long driveway. We’d park cars around his basketball hoop, making a half court, and turn the headlights on. I would always play with my dad. When you weren’t playing, you’d sit on a car hood and watch. We’d scream and yell and cheer. My mom always cheered the loudest for me.
That night, I slipped into my house through the back door that my mom leaves open when I’m out. I locked it and hovered upstairs to my room. I took off my shirt and pants, slipped underneath the covers, and closed my eyes. That night, I dreamt about Venezia.

It’s funny how years later I still remember that day. I was just watching TV, and saw some guy on a cop show beat a woman to death with a brick. After the show, there was a really funny commercial with a talking peanut butter jar. It made me giggle.

[NickBrown]

Please let me know what you thought, and I'm always open to criticism.

[hillwalker]

Some will be put off by the formatting - for future reference a solid block of text is more difficult to read on screen than one with white spaces between each paragraph.

Like this.

As for the story itself - decent opening line. But the danger with such an intriguing hook is that you have to keep the reader interested or cut to the chase. So the rest of the paragraph needs to be trimmed in my opinion. The final sentence does absolutely nothing.

Then paragraph 2 is obviously where you begin feeding us the back-story. And it's where the plot starts to go off the rails. Weather conditions and chirping birds? I'm not interested - I want to know about the boy you killed, how and why it happened, and in particular why you hadn't given it much thought until now. That's what your opening line promises the reader - now you have to deliver.

My walk to Jefferson was a nice one.
What a weak and ineffectual sentence - managing to tell us nothing in 8 words. Does the rest of this paragraph add anything to the story? or does it hand us an excuse to stop reading?
Well, given that you then give us a weather update I'd be tempted to give up and find something else to occupy my time. The story has disappeared a long time ago.

You arrive at your 'usual spot' then tell us about having no allies or enemies and what an easy-going guy you are. . . but there's still no story in sight. Instead you digress even further - remembering someone getting knocked down by a car. All this ballast is hardly driving the plot forwards.

So I got to my usual spot around noon. I didn’t always get there at noon; it’s not safe to have a routine. But that day I did.
You seriously expect us to read this and not groan out loud? Where's THE STORY?

I skimmed the rest, I'll be honest. Climbing onto a roof to get hold of a brick? It seems the least likely place to go in search of a weapon. And how is it you suddenly morph into a ninja?
As I jumped in the air, I noticed a look of horror begin to seep into the surprise on his face. I cracked the brick on his forehead, and landed in a roll to the left of his corpse.

Then. . . nothing else happens. A rather feeble plot I'm afraid. One day I killed a kid. Amen.

I accept that maybe you're trying to show us how the murder meant no more to you than stopping by for lunch at nonna's - but in that case why devote an entire story to something so inconsequential?

H

[cafolini]

It's like that, Mr. Brown.If you come to LitNet to learn, there are probably few forums that offer that opportunity. Take heed. I read the whole thing waiting for pertinence, but it never came. The theme is very good, but the way it's told is inconsequential, as H said.

[NickBrown]

This was my first attempt at of exploration in the postmodernist school of thought. I agree that the first few paragraphs are pretty wordy, however, I felt like I wanted to do most of my character development through implicit means. Rather than just stating the character's stoicism and absurdism, I wanted to try and develop it through his actions; kind of like Hemingway's Big Two-Hearted River (though I am in now way comparing myself to Hemingway).

[NickBrown]

“So what do we do now?”
Well, someone had to ask. It was a painful silence, one that stings your senses. You feel your head going numb, lose focus. You still have perfect vision, but you can’t see anything.
“Phil?”
I must’ve forgotten to respond. “I—I don’t know.”
Another interminable silence; this one lasted for only a few seconds.
“Well, we have to figure something out, right? I mean…”
“Yeah, we will.”
I suppose I wasn’t being too supportive. But honestly, I didn’t feel like being supportive. Why should I? It was just as much my problem as it was hers.
“Couldn’t we…?”
“Couldn’t we what?” I felt my words becoming sharper. When I’m stressed out—no, aggravated; only weak people get stressed. Anyway, I’m like a blacksmith. If my thoughts were a blade, then aggravation was my grindstone. The more I tempered my thoughts, the more they cut through flesh.
“Could we buy that emergency contraceptive?”
No, you idiot, “it’s too late for that stuff.”
“Oh.”
Yeah, oh.
“So then what can we do?”
It felt like I had waited for that question. “What the **** do you want to do?” It was her fault, anyway.
“Phil, please—”
“No, **** that.” I was tired. No. I was exhausted. Just that week, too, I started questioning myself. Did I really love her? If not, why did I stay with her? We had broken up once before. Two days later, we had gotten back together. I just couldn’t stand to see her so shook up. She even asked me if I was reconciling because I pitied her. I told her yes. She went on a tirade, blasting me for not actually caring. I asked her if she just wanted to end it, then. She said no. I hate her for that.
“Well, we have to do something”
“You’re right. Everyone has to do something.”
Silence.
“I don’t want to have it.”
“Well why would you? You’re in ****ing high school.”
“No, I mean, I’m not going to have it.”
Oh.
“Phil?”
I had dreaded this. All my life I had been on the fence regarding this subject. My mom was a bleeding-heart liberal hippy, and my dad a stone-cold hawk. Go figure. While I always tended to align myself with progressive thought, especially concerning social issues, this one stumped me. I mean, I’m not religious or anything, but still. You know that Neil Young song, Rockin’ in the Free World, right? Whenever I hear that line “Here’s one more kid that will never go to school never get to fall in love, never get to be cool,” it always hits me. Who the hell is anybody to take that away from a person? I mean, sure, you can talk all about women’s rights, but what about the PERSON that lives inside of you. There’s a heartbeat, there’re vital organs; it’s a person. Who’s anyone to say that that life is less important than the one it lives off of? What if a crack whore gives birth to a freakin’ astronaught?
“Phil!”
“Huh, what?”
“I said, what do you think?”
“About what?
“Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, wait, no, never mind.” I started to sweat just a little, on my chest and in my armpits. “I guess… I don’t know.”
“Well I don’t want it.”
“Don’t say it.”
“Then what do you want me to say, Phil?”
“I don’t know, just not it.”
“You know what? I think you need to grow up. You have no idea how hard this is for me, and there’s no way my dad would ever take me back.”
What about me you *****?
“And personally, I just don’t think you’re responsible enough to take care of me.”
“What the **** is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means. You don’t even love me.”
Interminable silence.
“This isn’t about that.”
“This most certainly is about that.”
My brain felt like a block of ice, numbing my skull, cold water running-off into the rest of my body, filling me with chills.
“Look, Phil, I know it makes you uncomfortable, but you know we have to.”
Uncomfortable? Did she really just ****ing say that? Taking a life isn’t like seeing a deformed person on the street. You can’t just shudder, look the other way, and forget about it; it’s like taking a ****ing life. And who was she to have such power, such divine authority, to make a decision like that? She was just a cute *** in general classes. I only started dating her because I heard she put out. All my life, I’ve been the “best friend” because I could never find it in me to make a move. I thought that this would be good for me before going off to college. I mean, sure I cared for her, but… but not like this. She wasn’t worth my future.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Look, I know it’s hard now, but we can get through this. You and me. I promise I’ll be there for you. This just proves that we’re a real couple, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“It’s ok, baby,” as she hugged me. “I’m here for you, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Our embrace confined me, not just too her, but to my future. This was my last chance.
“I know.”
She smiled and kissed my cheek. “Look, we’ve had a rough day. Why don’t we go to dinner? My treat, ok?”
“Ok.” I smiled back. But I didn’t feel like eating. Not with her. I hated her.

[hillwalker]

Opening with a line of dialogue is a sure way of introducing immediacy to the story and forcing the reader to 'listen' as they read.
Follow-up sentences - I'm still reading so not too shabby. But 'It was a painful silence' reads a bit off - I'm asking what's the 'it'? Maybe 'There followed a painful silence' might work better.

As we continue to read you seem to be falling into the habit of prevaricating again - delaying getting to the point by being postmodern?

You still have perfect vision, but you can’t see anything.
Another interminable silence; this one lasted for only a few seconds.
I suppose I wasn’t being too supportive. But honestly, I didn’t feel like being supportive.

Can you see a pattern here? In isolation this kind of thing works - contradicting the previous statement in an ironic way maybe - but when you know it's a style that's going to feature throughout the story in order to give the narrator a specific 'voice' it becomes monotone.

So you keep us waiting and we discover this is a two-way conversation between guy and gal (gal being a twosome all of a sudden). Room for some intriguing interaction when the guy isn't feeling paternal. . .

. . . so this was disappointing:
I was tired. No. I was exhausted. Just that week, too, I started questioning myself. Did I really love her? If not, why did I stay with her? We had broken up once before. Two days later, we had gotten back together. I just couldn’t stand to see her so shook up. She even asked me if I was reconciling because I pitied her. I told her yes. She went on a tirade, blasting me for not actually caring. I asked her if she just wanted to end it, then. She said no. I hate her for that.
It's as if you pulled us right out of the story in order to share with us this rather muddled analysis of your moods during the last week.
I'm more interested in eavesdropping on the conversation - as long as it's not going to end up like a verbal game of ping-pong where each person takes turns to say very little of relevance.

So we get a brief rally, then the narrator decides to dump his life story on the reader complete with pop philosophising. So what's the purpose of the baby-talk? To give the author an excuse to describe this boy who grew up with liberal parents? Because the conversation is stuck inside a loop. . . until they decide to live happily ever after or not. We'll never know.

There's no doubt you can write - it's just that the stuff you write is lacking a spark. Either the 'plot' doesn't work or nothing much happens. You could have done a lot more with this piece if the characters had been allowed some freedom to express themselves. But it seems you wanted to use the entire scenario as an exercise in recording normal speech patterns.

Real people do indeed spend a good deal of time saying next to nothing, talking in circles and breaking across each other. But fiction isn't the same as journalism - we don't just need direct quotes, we need action tags and some emotion so that the characters spring to life from the page.

This pair did not, so ultimately the reader won't care what happens to them next.

H

[Cioran]

The first story isn't bad. It held my interest. The opening line is good. The story needs to be edited down by a third, I think.

I think the last lines should read:


It’s funny how years later I still remember that day. I was just watching TV, and saw some guy on a cop show beat a woman to death with a brick. After the show, there was a funny commercial with a talking peanut butter jar.

Lose "It made me giggle."

[Cioran]

I'd like to take a crack at editing the story in the OP, if NickBrown wouldn't mind.

[NickBrown]

Shoot, man. I'd be totally open to that.

[Cioran]

The sensibility of the story in the OP reminded me somewhat of Raymond Carver, and in particular made me think of his story "Fat" which is one of my favorites. Here's a good blog post on Carver and the story "Fat." (http://mindfulpleasures.blogspot.com/2010/08/fat-by-raymond-carver.html)

Hillwalker writes:


One day I killed a kid. Amen.

I accept that maybe you're trying to show us how the murder meant no more to you than stopping by for lunch at nonna's - but in that case why devote an entire story to something so inconsequential?

But, of course, this is not inconsequential at all. Any more that the content of Carver's "Fat" is inconsequential, even though nothing much happens in the story except that a waitress serves a fat man dinner.

[Cioran]

Here is an edit.



Brick
by Nicholas Brown

I have never thought much about the boy I killed. It happened around ten years ago, when I was seventeen and sold pot on Jefferson Street.

It was cool for a spring day, around the lower sixties. Crisp. The previous week had been hot and humid, the humidity blanketing you like a wool poncho. So this day was a relief. The sky was speckled with fluffy gray clouds. I remember the sun seemed awfully bright that day, at least when it could struggle through the clouds. A lot of birds were chirping. Almost an unusual amount. I like birds, don’t get me wrong, but not when there are a lot of them.

On my way to Jefferson Street I stopped by my nonna’s house, because it had been a few days since I had seen her. She asked me to stay for tea, but I declined, said I had to get going. She told me to come over for dinner, said she heard I got my acceptance letter in the mail yesterday and wanted to make me something special. I told her I would, gave her a kiss, and left.

Around noon I got to my usual spot, a back alley between a three-story office building and a Shell gas station. I liked how no one in that part of town knew me; I didn’t have any friends there, but I didn’t have any enemies, either. Not that I made many enemies. I was, and still am, a pretty easy going, well-mannered guy. You just had to be careful when you did the things I did. Actually, you just have to be careful.

One day I saw a man come out of the office building next to the alley. He crossed the street with the light. Out of nowhere, a car barreled down the street and hit him. I mean, sent him flying. He hit the ground thirty yards away. The driver stopped, then peeled off. Don’t think they ever caught him. The man he hit died.

I saw one of my usual costumers walking past the alley. When he was twelve, he and his family was evicted from their home, and he had to move out here to live with an older cousin. I heard his dad ended up killing himself. He didn’t know anyone in town, so he started smoking pot. That’s how I met him. He was a really smart guy, too.

I nodded at him, but he pretended not to see me and kept walking. That should’ve irked me, but it didn’t. Instead, I was curious. I peeked out from the alley, and looked at where he had come from. Just an empty street with some decrepit brick buildings. Jefferson runs through the old part of town, too. I walked down the street, and in one of the alleys, I saw a kid in a black sweatshirt and faded jeans.

I walked toward him, and he stiffened. When I got within a few feet, I noticed his eyes darting back and forth. They were hazel, too. I always like the name Hazel. Thought to myself that if I ever had a daughter, I'd name her Hazel.

He asked me if I was looking for Mary. That made me laugh, which upset him. He looked frustrated, and I knew he was a beginner. He asked me what the hell I was doing there, and I told him I was just looking around. Then he told me to beat it.

I asked him if he was selling pot. A tiny bead of sweat formed above his nose, and he wiped it off, then shifted his weight from foot to foot. He told me he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. His lower lip quivered.

Then I showed him a bit of the dope I was carrying. He eased a little, slumped his shoulders some, then stood right back up, looking determined. I asked him to please move his operations elsewhere. He told me to **** off. I shrugged, and continued walking through the alley. I could feel his hazel eyes following me.

The alley ended where it bisected another, and I turned right. I saw that someone had left the fire escape ladder down on the two-story building that the kid was standing near. I climbed up, and walked to the other side of the roof. I peered down over the ledge, and saw the kid pull out a cigarette and light it. His hand was shaking as he put it to his lips.

The bricks that created the ledge were weather-worn, and the mortar was crumbling in some of the spots. One of the bricks right above the kid was starting to come loose. I took off my shirt. I really like taking off my shirt. I used to be chubby as a kid, but in high school I started to work out a lot and built myself a physique. I wouldn’t say I’m vain, just proud.

I put the shirt over my right hand and poked gently at the brick. It started to rock a little. I looked down and saw the kid still smoking. I waited for him to finish. I picked up the brick with my shirt still over my hand and climbed back down into the alley. Then I walked to the corner, where his alley bisected the one I was in. He was midway between me and the street.

I took off my shoes and carried them in my left hand. I started walking toward him. When I was about fifteen paces away, I broke into a trot. He heard me and turned around. He looked surprised. I hit him on the head with the brick. He collapsed onto the ground.

As I put my shoes back on, I noticed I that had stepped on a piece of glass as I was walking down the alley. It was just a little piece, but when I pulled it out, the bottom of my foot started to bleed through my sock. I put my shoes on, and made a mental note to clean it up at the gas station when I got back to my spot.

The rest of the day was pretty slow, so I decided to pack up early. I texted my mom, told her I was leaving my friend’s house, and that I was going to nonna’s.

I knocked on my nonna’s door a few times before she answered. She gets very focused when she cooks. It’s the Italian in her. She was born in Venezia, and moved here when she was five. She taught me Italian when I was young, as I was still learning English even. Said it was important for me to know my heritage. There’s something magical about Dante in Italian, something you just don’t get in English. Richard Howard once said that all translations are paraphrases. Maybe that’s it.

As nonna opened the door, I could already smell the chicken parmesan baking in the oven. She knew it was my favorite.
After dinner, we sat around the table and chatted. Nonna brought out a bottle of her favorite marsala and poured me a glass. After a couple drinks, I got a light-headed.

I stayed and talked with nonna until around eleven. She offered to drive me home, but I insisted on walking. We kissed our goodbyes, and I left the warm comfort of her home for the cool tranquility of the street.

I have always had an affinity for night. Some of my favorite memories were centered around night. Catching fireflies with my sister as kids, watching fireworks with my friends during the summer festival. When we had family parties at my Uncle Glen’s house, we would always have a two-on-two tournament. He had a large property outside of town with a long driveway. We’d park cars around his basketball hoop, making a half court, and turn the headlights on. I would always play with my dad. When you weren’t playing, you’d sit on a car hood and watch. We’d scream and yell and cheer. My mom always cheered the loudest for me.

That night, I slipped into my house through the back door that my mom leaves open when I’m out. I locked it and went upstairs to my room. I took off my shirt and pants, slipped underneath the covers, and closed my eyes. That night, I dreamt about Venezia.

It’s funny how years later I still remember that day. I was just watching TV, and saw some guy on a cop show beat a woman to death with a brick. After the show, there was a funny commercial with a talking peanut butter jar.

[Cioran]

One small detail: The narrator is looking back at an event ten years in the past. If we assume that his reminiscences are set in the here and now, then it would not have been possible for the narrator to text his mom, since texting did not exist ten years ago.

I like this story a lot, with the edit. I hope you like the edit, Nicholas. I especially like the stuff that happens after the kid is killed, and also the paragraph in which he talks about his affinity for the night. The story strikes me as very spare and moody and extremely unsettling, which is good.

Listen to criticism, but don't listen to the brand of destructive criticism that holds sway here all too often, unfortunately. I am a published fiction writer and a newspaper editor, and I constructively engage with other writers.

[Cioran]

It's like that, Mr. Brown.

It's like what? Do you even know?


If you come to LitNet to learn, there are probably few forums that offer that opportunity.

What are you trying to say?


Take heed.

What does that even mean? Take heed of what or whom? Do you even know?


I read the whole thing waiting for pertinence, but it never came.

Too bad for you. There is plenty of pertinence here, and I shall point it out in a later post. Maybe you could shut up and learn something.


The theme is very good, but the way it's told is inconsequential, as H said.

"H" has some good things to say, sometimes, but his commentary is willfully destructive and therefore useless. He is like a teacher who know some things, but constantly browbeats his students and calls them stupid. Hence his commentary, even when it is worthwhile, is worthless.

Nicholas has written a good story, and I hope that I have improved it with an edit.

[hillwalker]

"H" has some good things to say, sometimes, but his commentary is willfully destructive and therefore useless. He is like a teacher who know some things, but constantly browbeats his students and calls them stupid. Hence his commentary, even when it is worthwhile, is worthless.
Nicholas has written a good story, and I hope that I have improved it with an edit.

It's not good etiquette to critique other members' feedback unless it's in response to your own posting. Even then it can seem overly defensive.

We all have an opinion, and you should have the good grace to respect that and acknowledge that others' observations might not match your own.

Your rude, over-bearing reaction - hi-jacking the OP's thread and firing insults at two members who at least took the time to read and comment - isn't the best way to get yourself or your writing taken seriously on here.

H

[Cioran]

Let's now speak of all the things that are good about Nicholas's story, rather than succumb to the usual destructive negativity of Hillwalker and his obsequious little chatterbox tag-along Cafolini.

Hillwalker got it exactly wrong when he derided the story as "One day I killed a kid, amen." His analysis lays bare the poverty of his reckonings, even though sometimes he makes good points. But even when he does, they are so destructively stated that they are worthless.

This story is not at all about "one day I killed a kid, amen." That's why it's a good story.

The key line -- a fulcrum line -- is:


I liked how no one in that part of town knew me; I didn’t have any friends there, but I didn’t have any enemies, either.

To me, this story is about an ordinary kid about whom we learn quite a bit, in a minimalist, Carver-like way. He has a Mom who cares for him: he texts her, she leaves the door open for him at night. He has his "nonna" who cares for him and feeds him. They kiss, talk, care for each other. She congratulates him for his "acceptance letter," though the reader is never told what he was accepted to. Possibly college, but who knows? It's a nice touch, keeping this acceptance a mystery. The acceptance letter, and his obviously close family ties, establish him as someone with firm social bonds and a sense of morality and conscience.

But he has a second life. He sells pot on the other side of town -- where he has no friends or enemies. Here, the norms of civilization, of kin and conscience, are cast aside. Here, the narrator can be feral. And he is. He kills a kid, a competitor. Here, in the alleys on the old side of town, it's dog eat dog.

But that's OK, because he quickly comes back to his ordinary life. He compartmentalizes. It's a little slice of life, but don't we all do the same thing? It's a Carver-like slice that portends something bigger. We go about our daily lives, while the government in our name, with our tax dollars, slaughters innocent people in Afghanistan and Pakistan with drone attacks. Why then shouldn't a good kid from a nice family with firm social ties kill a competitor, especially when he is in the bad part of town, a kind of metropolitan Afghanistan or Pakistan, where he has neither friends nor enemies, no ties at all, but just dog-eat-dog competition?

The whole point of this story, what makes it work, is NOT that he kills a kid -- that's incidental. It's all the rest of it. His relation with "nonna," the fine and nostalgic paragraph about his affinity for the night, his mysterious acceptance letter. And the ending in which he looks back on the past and laughs at the talking peanut butter jar. Ten years on, he has abstracted the kid he killed; he has dismissed it like a dream that did not sit too well, and got on with his life. And we can infer, perhaps, that he has had a blameless life since then. Which itself is disturbing. I find this a deeply unsettling story, which makes it a good story.

[hillwalker]

Over to you Nick - I'm done with communicating through your editor.

H

[Cioran]

Oh, and I also wanted to note Nicholas's excellent stuff on Dante, and how translations are paraphrases of the original. That was a brilliant touch, in the context of the rest of the story and the casual killing. For me, it was that the narrator had compartmentalized the killing as just a paraphrase. Very well done, Nicholas.

[cafolini]

Let's now speak of all the things that are good about Nicholas's story, rather than succumb to the usual destructive negativity of Hillwalker and his obsequious little chatterbox tag-along Cafolini.

Hillwalker got it exactly wrong when he derided the story as "One day I killed a kid, amen." His analysis lays bare the poverty of his reckonings, even though sometimes he makes good points. But even when he does, they are so destructively stated that they are worthless.

This story is not at all about "one day I killed a kid, amen." That's why it's a good story.

The key line -- a fulcrum line -- is:



To me, this story is about an ordinary kid about whom we learn quite a bit, in a minimalist, Carver-like way. He has a Mom who cares for him: he texts her, she leaves the door open for him at night. He has his "nonna" who cares for him and feeds him. They kiss, talk, care for each other. She congratulates him for his "acceptance letter," though the reader is never told what he was accepted to. Possibly college, but who knows? It's a nice touch, keeping this acceptance a mystery. The acceptance letter, and his obviously close family ties, establish him as someone with firm social bonds and a sense of morality and conscience.

But he has a second life. He sells pot on the other side of town -- where he has no friends or enemies. Here, the norms of civilization, of kin and conscience, are cast aside. Here, the narrator can be feral. And he is. He kills a kid, a competitor. Here, in the alleys on the old side of town, it's dog eat dog.

But that's OK, because he quickly comes back to his ordinary life. He compartmentalizes. It's a little slice of life, but don't we all do the same thing? It's a Carver-like slice that portends something bigger. We go about our daily lives, while the government in our name, with our tax dollars, slaughters innocent people in Afghanistan and Pakistan with drone attacks. Why then shouldn't a good kid from a nice family with firm social ties kill a competitor, especially when he is in the bad part of town, a kind of metropolitan Afghanistan or Pakistan, where he has neither friends nor enemies, no ties at all, but just dog-eat-dog competition?

The whole point of this story, what makes it work, is NOT that he kills a kid -- that's incidental. It's all the rest of it. His relation with "nonna," the fine and nostalgic paragraph about his affinity for the night, his mysterious acceptance letter. And the ending in which he looks back on the past and laughs at the talking peanut butter jar. Ten years on, he has abstracted the kid he killed; he has dismissed it like a dream that did not sit too well, and got on with his life. And we can infer, perhaps, that he has had a blameless life since then. Which itself is disturbing. I find this a deeply unsettling story, which makes it a good story.

What a twisted view. As usual.

[NickBrown]

I really appreciate the edit. I feel the way you broke up the story was much more effective than my block paragraph. Thanks for the help. I really appreciate this online community.

[Cioran]

What a twisted view. As usual.

LOL. That is all you can come up with? Are you even able to write a complete sentence?

Nick has written an excellent and meaningful short story, but you can't abide that, can you? And the reason is that you are unable to do what he has done.

[Cioran]

One should note Cafolini's empty one-liners in response to my analysis of Nick's fine story. Even if one disagrees that Nick's story is good, one ought to take note of how empty comments like those of Cafolini are. I gave a thoughtful analysis of the story, and all he could do is call my response "twisted." Is this anyone who merits an audience? As to Hillwalker, I didn't even bother reading his further crap in this thread. He attacked a fine story, which I made finer by editing, because attacking the works of others is all that he knows. They should both be ignored, because what turns them on is destroying what others do, since they can do nothing themselves except destroy.

[hillwalker]

Excellent analysis of the hours I have spent on here over the last 3 years. Your work here is now complete - I'll leave you to show everyone how it should be done.

H

[NickBrown]

Come on now, todos. Let's not start with the insults.

[Grit]

As to Hillwalker, I didn't even bother reading his further crap in this thread. He attacked a fine story, which I made finer by editing, because attacking the works of others is all that he knows. They should both be ignored, because what turns them on is destroying what others do, since they can do nothing themselves except destroy.

I wholeheartedly agree with you in regards to Cafolini, but you really need to lay off Hill.

You seem to have lost your temper when he found objections in your story "Ant Farm." Hill is a damn good reader, tends to give good advice, and takes time out of his day to review others stories. His style may boarder on cruel at times, but that's his honest opinion. It's damn near impossible to get that kind of honesty in person as a writer.

Where were you the last three years? You may be editing and reviewing stories fast and furious right now but Hill has done it consistently for years. He's added far more to this site than I think you comprehend, and I for one appreciate and respect his opinion.

You need to develop thicker skin. All Hill did was try to help you, but he found that your story was not his cup of tea, and recommended how he thought you could make it better.

That does not justify this childish rampage.

[cafolini]

I wholeheartedly agree with you in regards to Cafolini, but you really need to lay off Hill.

You seem to have lost your temper when he found objections in your story "Ant Farm." Hill is a damn good reader, tends to give good advice, and takes time out of his day to review others stories. His style may boarder on cruel at times, but that's his honest opinion. It's damn near impossible to get that kind of honesty in person as a writer.

Where were you the last three years? You may be editing and reviewing stories fast and furious right now but Hill has done it consistently for years. He's added far more to this site than I think you comprehend, and I for one appreciate and respect his opinion.

You need to develop thicker skin. All Hill did was try to help you, but he found that your story was not his cup of tea, and recommended how he thought you could make it better.

That does not justify this childish rampage.

You can agree with whatever you want. That's not going to take away a bit of who you are. In fact, I feel better that you, especially you, disagree with me. I'd immediately search for something wrong with myself if you were to agree. It's very natural.

[Jack of Hearts]

So this is where the walker went...






J

[Jack of Hearts]

This makes 3 years!






J

[tailor STATELY]

This thread and others. The poison pen was merciless.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY