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I enjoy writing and I have ideas for short stories in my head, so I wrote one out. It comes from an amalgamation of actual experiences and a vague horror short outline I've been thinking on. I haven't done something like this in a long time, and I'd like to do more short prose (though not necessarily in this vein). I'm tossing around a few versions of the ending. I'd appreciate your thoughts! Thanks for taking the time to read this. It was fun to write. The A-Pillar of your car is the best way to avoid making eye contact with the homeless when you’re driving. For those who don’t know, the A-Pillar is the part of your car’s frame that splits your front windshield and the doors of your car. When you pull up to a light, slow down as you approach the light and place the A-Pillar right over their body. You won’t see them and your staring intently at the light won’t be met with the sad/intense/deranged stare of someone with nothing left. My technique has been formed over years of avoiding the worlds of panhandlers, con-artists, war vets, mentally disabled, addicts of all kinds. When I started driving I hadn’t noticed my car’s skeleton and my eyes wandered, often to meet their gaze. I’d give them what random change I had in my ashtray, a few times I gave them bills. Mostly, I avoided any interaction whatsoever. I always told myself I should do what my grandfather did and take a bag of food and supplies bought from the grocery for the homeless along with me, but the priority was low enough that it never happened. When I went to college, I dated a girl who had a passion for helping the homeless, and because of her, I helped more. I bought the homeless newspaper, The Contributor, and gave kind words to those who sold it on street corners. Situations still occurred, though. The college campus was close to downtown, and about 2 to 3 times every year, when walking a few blocks away from the university late at night, I’d be followed by a middle-aged homeless man. He’d stay about 30 feet behind me, his walking pace at or faster than my slightly nervous, hunched walk. His “pursuit” would be about 3 to 4 blocks. The city in which I went to college was somewhat infamous for an active homeless population, rather than say New York, which I have heard has a population of destitute people who merely sit and hope for the best. This man was different. He’d slowly mumble his request for money (not help as others did, he was always specific on money), and as we would walk his pace would speed up and his requests would get slightly louder. By the 4th block I was walking as quickly as I could without jogging (despite my unease, I didn’t want to be directly rude and run off). He jogged a few paces and say very clearly: “Sir.” I’d stop. He had swung in front of me, keeping just far enough away to keep the peace. “Can I get a dime, I need something to eat.” I was a classically poor college student, despite the normal population at my school, and all of my money was on my student accounts. “I’m really sorry, sir, I don’t have any cash on me.” My hands went into my pockets, and then back out with my hands open, palms facing him. He paused, and looked through me. He walked off, without saying a word. He had to have known that most of the students in this area didn’t keep cash, but still he’d come around during late October and September. I never understood why he asked for a dime: it seemed like such a strange amount to ask for. I was used to “money for bus fare” or “a dollar to get a sandwich”, but the request for a dime stuck out. Was he going to get money from 30 to 50 people? Those late night moments with that man always tainted my friendly interactions with the other homeless people I’d get The Contributor from, a slight blight on otherwise short, cordial conversations. After college, I went back to my hometown for work. There wasn’t a strong presence for helping the homeless where I grew up, so my approach when I’d come to traffic stops transitioned from my open nature back to the closed, thousand-yard stare. The weeks brought back con-artists, addicts and questionable pleas for assistance. That’s when I figured out the A-Pillar trick. I viewed it as a 50/50 solution. Those poor people don’t have to look for hope to me, and I don’t have to provide it. It might seem callous, but the sheer amount of rejection those people face on a day to day basis didn’t have to have my staring and consequent ignoring on top of it. I was driving home from work. I exited the interstate and drove onto the feeder road, pulling up to the first of three stoplights I’d have to go through to turn off into my neighborhood. There was a man on the corner, off to the left. Like I had been doing recently, I gauged where I’d need to stop to block the homeless person’s view. He was positioned where I’d have to leave a bit of room in front me. It was probably a bit strange to the person in the car behind me, but it wouldn’t be anything too bizarre. I stopped, and couldn’t see him. I blinked, and he was suddenly out from the A-Pillar and in my view. I hadn’t focused on him before, but I did now. Slightly gaunt, neck pushed forward. Black T-shirt, faded from constant use. Black pants, covered in stains. Bald spot covering the top of his head. The last time I saw this person was 3 years ago, four states away. He was staring straight at me. The light turned green. I paused for a second, met his gaze, looked away, and drove off. It was unnerving, seeing him again. I’d been asked for help many times by the homeless, but he genuinely seemed off. There was something wrong with him. Mental illness, addiction, I didn’t know what, but he needed help. I felt badly for him. Next light. I slowed down, saw a figure on the corner of the intersection, placed my A-Pillar over it. Blink. The figure seemed to move in the instant my eye closed. I questioned if I even closed my eyes at all. Again, there in the view of my front windshield. Faded black shirt. Stained Black Pants. Bald spot. Light turned green. Pulled away as fast as traffic would allow. How did he move that far that quickly? City blocks in this part of town were a good quarter mile away, thanks to the interstate. His eyes boring straight into me. My concern for him selfishly turned to my own safety. Was he looking for me? He had to have asked hundreds, if not thousands of people every year for money, for help. Why my face? What did I do to bring him here, thirteen, fourteen hours by car from where I went to school? 3rd light. I’d be turning off here and into my neighborhood. I slowed down my now frantic self-talk and took a deep breath through my nose, pulling to a stop in the center lane. I looked over to the corner. A figure stood. I could taste copper in the back of my throat. She sat on a old paint bucket, her slight paunch pushed up against her thigh. I remembered this woman, married a soldier who became a vet with PTSD. Her husband died, sadly, so with nothing to go to she asks for help from people around town. Nice lady. I looked over and nodded. She smiled. As much as I purport my A-Pillar technique, I try to help this poor lady get on when she was in the area. Call it what you will. Light had been red when I pulled up. I rolled the window down, and she got up to walk over. Light turned green. My focus went to my ashtray to get some quarters. A hoarse squawk from the Vet’s Widow. When I looked up, he was in the middle of left turn lane. Five feet away from my car. My foot slammed onto the gas. My left turn into the interstate underpass was wild. I almost rear ended the SUV in front of me. I took an out of control swerve into the lane next to the car and sped through the yellow at the end of the underpass. I was away from him. If I was restless before, I was nearly a wreck on the side streets coming home. Why would he be here, what does he want, how did he know I lived here, who told him, if anyone, where would he show up next, all flowing, circling, clouding my head. My mouth was dry and I resisted the urge to blink. Drove through the neighborhood. Don’t really know many people here personally. Seems to be the way neighborhoods work, now, so I didn’t feel comfortable ringing anyone’s doorbell and talking to anyone. What would I ask, anyway? Pulled up to the driveway. House was the way I left it when I left this morning. I had largely calmed down, astonishingly, by the time my car was idling in front of my garage. My hand slightly shook as an after effect of my adrenaline as I pressed the button on garage door remote. The door slowly grinder open, and guided the car inside. I reminded myself to get that thing replaced, it has to be at least twenty years old by now. I pushed out of the driver seat, closed the door and looked up to brown, almost black eyes. I hadn't seen him when I was in the car, as he was blocked by my A-Pillar when I parked. I blinked. My body seized and my vision blurred and darkened as the utility knife I left on my workbench cut through my jugular artery.
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Sep 3, 2014 03:49
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Well, I noticed a few stutters, such as "your staring intently" in the second paragraph which would be better as "your intent staring". Not an error as such, but I think it would improve readability. In the description of the first encounter with the man, if it's supposed to be a regular occurence, I'd emphasize that with tenses. Halfway through it feels like it's a one-time occurrence because of past simple. "It was unnerving, seeing him again. I’d been asked for help many times by the homeless, but he genuinely seemed off. There was something wrong with him. Mental illness, addiction, I didn’t know what, but he needed help. I felt bad "The door slowly The ending felt a bit pointless, to be frank. There wasn't enough suspense for me for a Stephen King ending. Particularly because the final escape is quite confusing. What was the vet's widow squawking about? (Actually, what does squawking mean to convey there? I guess this ties into the whole point.) The fear of the protagonist isn't infectious, and neither is the rush of his frantic escape, because it isn't established that the "man" is a physical threat, I think. Although if I were in that situation I'd be freaked out myself, but from the safety of my computer he's more of a scientific curiosity. Hope that gives you some ideas.
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Sep 5, 2014 17:31
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Thanks for taking the time to read and then post some critique, SuperMikhail!supermikhail posted:Well, I noticed a few stutters, such as "your staring intently" in the second paragraph which would be better as "your intent staring". Not an error as such, but I think it would improve readability. I agree with this, and i'll edit it thusly. Good grab, I did a few passes and didn't catch this. supermikhail posted:In the description of the first encounter with the man, if it's supposed to be a regular occurence, I'd emphasize that with tenses. Halfway through it feels like it's a one-time occurrence because of past simple. I'll give that one another look and tweak it around. As I was writing it and going over it in passes, I found it hard to hold the tense, but I appreciate you giving me some examples to start with. supermikhail posted:The ending felt a bit pointless, to be frank. There wasn't enough suspense for me for a Stephen King ending. Particularly because the final escape is quite confusing. What was the vet's widow squawking about? (Actually, what does squawking mean to convey there? I guess this ties into the whole point.) The fear of the protagonist isn't infectious, and neither is the rush of his frantic escape, because it isn't established that the "man" is a physical threat, I think. Although if I were in that situation I'd be freaked out myself, but from the safety of my computer he's more of a scientific curiosity. Hope that gives you some ideas. This is great! The ending felt off, and I was hesitant to put the cap on it that i ended up with. Was it the actual last few lines, or the 3rd encounter in general? As a visual sequence I tried as hard as I could to convey the off-putting, instantaneous-ness of the man's movement. I tried to show, not tell through her shout (is squawk a bad word to use? I was trying to grab a word to express the hoarse middle age female shout) that the man had appeared. What do you think would bring up more tension?
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Sep 5, 2014 19:29
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This could be argued to be a matter of opinion, but I'd prefer some kind of explanation or hint as to who and what the homeless man is. This feeling of mine could be due to the fact that the ending is not intence enough, which would allow for the lack of explanation, that you would think "That was a hell of an ending. I wonder who or what the man was.  "I think you would benefit from telling about what happens to the woman, as a kind of freeze frame. Then maybe have a more extended chase. After all, the protagonist has a rear-view mirror, where something freaky could be happening. Or to analyze more deeply, I don't know about your own idea about the significance of the events in the story, but I feel it lacks anticipation. As I have said, the homeless man isn't established as a physical threat. What's more, there's no reason to think violence is going to involved. That's a bit of a particular approach, but the protagonist doesn't "deserve" to get killed - it's not uncommon to dislike dealing with homeless people, and have the impulse to avoid them. I don't know what your idea was, but to "raise the stakes" you could paint the homeless man as a more sinister figure - not just shabby, but kind of gross, with a missing eye, bad smell, etc. Maybe he could grab the protagonist by the hand at the first encounter - that's repulsive, and I think something everyone can relate to - no one likes unwarranted touch of gross people.  Hope that helps. Oh, I guess "squawk" is alright, except it doesn't really express emotion. "Scream" does, with some adjective for hoarseness, but "squawk" could, too, accompanied by some explanation (or description).
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Sep 6, 2014 14:57
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