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Hi everyone, I have not written anything, at all, in over five years. This is a very short story that I'd like you to critique; any and all forms of criticism are appreciated and welcome. - - - Obelisk The first time I met my cousin I was maybe eight years old and he was dead. I had my dealings with death prior to this, but those deaths were both distant and more familiar, of older family members; grandparents, great uncles. Mark was a stranger. A stranger and a teenager. Not an old person with strange military medals on their breast and a face obscured with an embalmer’s makeup. I could not examine Mark’s face up close, because the first time we met, he was in a closed black box made of wood. I remember the day I found out he died. The other third grade students had looked differently at me throughout the early part of the school day. Their eyes were full of sorrow, pity. One little girl actually had tears in her eyes. I was not too young so as to be oblivious of this. My mind failed to comprehend what could possibly be wrong. Was I in trouble? Did someone make up a lie about me? Finally, one of them, perhaps braver and more mature than the others, hugged me the moment she saw me. “I’m so sorry,” she admitted to me. Confused, I accepted her soft embrace, but then asked her: “What … why?” She stammered a bit, now perplexed herself. “Your brother,” she started. “What?” I asked, my voice growing alarmed. “Wait, what is going on?” Another girl piped up, even more grave than the first. “You don’t know?” “Know what?” I demanded. A distinct feeling of dread crept up from my gut. My brother was away at college. He and I were many years apart. He could drive and he was learning to fly planes and both cars and planes could kill. “Your brother,” the first girl with wet eyes started to say, and before she could finish the last syllable I cut her off. “What about him?” “He, he was in an accident.” I, somehow, had the wisdom, or the disbelief of this current impossible reality (hadn’t I just spoke to him last night?) to ask: “Where did you--” “It was in the paper. My mom said.” My eyes narrowed, skeptical but terrified. “What was his name?” “Mark? Mark Pliska.” There weren’t many other Poles in my small farming town, let alone other Pliskas. But my brother’s name was Will. Thank God, his name was Will. I let out a huge sigh of relief and my face brightened up. “My brother’s name is Will! He’s fine!” The second girl then asked me: “Then who was Mark?” I did not know anyone named Mark. … Mark was the eighteen year old son of my father’s cousin. He and his younger sister had been traveling in a car when some type of electrical malfunction, and his subsequent fiddling with it, caused him to lose control and roll repeatedly down a soggy ravine to a creekbed. He was badly disfigured and not fit for an open casket. His sister, whom I also did not know, escaped unscathed. Merciful God, my mother had said, their parents would be childless. I had been to this funeral home a few times before. I recalled the old red carpet, the heavy drapes, the plastic potted plants in the slate-floored foyer. Smell of widow’s perfume, lilac from an unknown source. Stress-cigarette smoke lingering on calloused fingers that hung near my face. He died a stranger because his parents had divorced and he had lived with his mother since before I was born. His mother cut off all ties to our side of his extended family. She kept him and his sister in isolation. We went to the same schools, shopped at the same grocer, worked in the same mills, but were perfect strangers. I was accustomed to all the trappings of the funeral home. What I was not accustomed to was anguish. The anger. The quizzical, perplexed confusion. The occasional outburst of unadulterated grief, let loose with a loud cry. This was all new. Teenagers spilled out of the held-open doors in a line that wrapped around the city block into the damp spring night. They wore leather, denim, and varsity jackets. The line grew more somber, more serious, as it approached the door. Other high-schoolers at the very back spoke freely and laughed. His sister, I was told, was only a year older than me. Helen Pliska. That last name. So familiar, so very much my own and unique to my immediate family, with so little extended family to speak of. I felt an enormous sense of guilt at having not known her, as if it were my own fault. I felt I would have to explain, somehow, to her, that I was sorry. I was sorry I did not know her name until yesterday. I was sorry I did not know she existed. As the line approached his casket and I came closer to Helen, I began to scan the crowd for a young girl of nine or ten. Would she look like me, like the rest of my family? Would it be like looking at a strange feminine distortion of my own face? His family stood in a line near the black casket, accepting hugs and serious handshakes. I saw no one who looked anything like me. One girl was much too tall, too old. The only other girl had a mass of tight, curly red hair and a barrage of freckles over the bridge of her nose. It had to be her. But she was so alien, so foreign. This did not help calm my nerves. We would have nothing in common, we did not even look alike. I began to feel stupid. I had been rehearsing what I would say to her in my head, going through different possibilities. Should I hug her? Would she be bawling her eyes out? If she did, I would start crying myself. Or, worse, I wouldn’t. Then she would think I didn’t care about her brother. I was an imposter. A Pliska in name only. I should not be here. I do not deserve to be here. I was sorry I never met her brother. Was he like my brother? Was he her hero? Did he take her to the movies and buy her slushies from the grocery store when he popped in for a pack of smokes? Our eyes met and her eyes were red and her nostrils were red and her hair was alight with flame of Irish blood that I did not have. She only smiled at me. I don’t know you I’m sorry I never knew you I’m sorry I never knew him I’m sorry he is dead I’m sorry you have been crying I’m sorry your mom and dad aren’t together All these things and more raced through my head and I wished desperately that telepathy were real, that she could somehow pick up what I was feeling, but I don’t recall if I ever did say a word to her. If I did, it was simply “Sorry”. What else could I possibly say to a stranger?
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Jul 1, 2015 15:09
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| # ? Apr 20, 2024 00:23 |
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A few things: I liked the setup. The first scene is really compelling, and almost sets itself up like there's going to be a bit more mystery surrounding Mark. I mean, it's kind of there. But I sort of thought there was going to be more about the narrator's (your) connection to this dead, estranged family member. I really liked: quote:I had been to this funeral home a few times before. I recalled the old red carpet, the heavy drapes, the plastic potted plants in the slate-floored foyer. Smell of widow’s perfume, lilac from an unknown source. Stress-cigarette smoke lingering on calloused fingers that hung near my face. for how much it implies: this kid has lost family before. So how is this time different? He didn't know his cousin. That's a compelling place to start, so I was hoping we'd learn more about the cousin and the narrator's family. But then you turn around and say: quote:I was accustomed to all the trappings of the funeral home. What I was not accustomed to was anguish. The anger. The quizzical, perplexed confusion. The occasional outburst of unadulterated grief, let loose with a loud cry. This was all new. Teenagers spilled out of the held-open doors in a line that wrapped around the city block into the damp spring night. They wore leather, denim, and varsity jackets. The line grew more somber, more serious, as it approached the door. Other high-schoolers at the very back spoke freely and laughed. The first sentence basically repeats the idea that he's been to this funeral home before, but the paragraph feels very glossed over. It was a bit jarring to go from this cool, immediate detail to these very general details. People are crying and upset and there seems to be a huge crowd waiting to pay their respects, but since we don't see any of the previous funerals the narrator has been to, I have no idea why this level of grief is out of the ordinary. I would zoom in on one or two people the narrator DOES know, who've reacted stoically at previous funerals, and show them grieving. Or something like that. Something really specific to show how out of place the narrator feels, since he's only really sad because other people are sad. I liked this sentiment: quote:He died a stranger because his parents had divorced and he had lived with his mother since before I was born. His mother cut off all ties to our side of his extended family. She kept him and his sister in isolation. We went to the same schools, shopped at the same grocer, worked in the same mills, but were perfect strangers. The idea of living near a relative who's a perfect stranger is a bit more interesting to me than this: quote:I was an imposter. A Pliska in name only. I should not be here. I do not deserve to be here. tense shift? I didn't really understand why he suddenly questioned his own identity as a Pliska. Like, the idea of their heritage seems important, but the jump between "I don't feel anything toward this dead person, but it makes me wonder about these family members i never knew" to "oh no, i'm not crying, i'm an imposter" seemed a bit forced. I think there needs to be a bit more of an obvious bridge between those feelings. Also, if this family's Polish ancestry is so distinct, wouldn't a girl with red hair and obvious Irish blood be the "imposter"? The ending could be better if you expanded on it a bit. Right now it feels like the story comes to kind of a screeching halt, and the emotions throughout didn't flow very naturally for me. The first sentence made me think this story was going to be about the narrator getting to know his dead cousin, but it really becomes more about his desire to empathize with the family. But I don't feel like the narration made that transition very smooth. I feel like the writing was very good and deliberate at the beginning, then got more vague toward the end, and I wasn't really emotionally "with" the character for the second half of the story.
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Jul 2, 2015 20:38
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Sitting Here posted:The first sentence basically repeats the idea that he's been to this funeral home before, but the paragraph feels very glossed over. It was a bit jarring to go from this cool, immediate detail to these very general details. People are crying and upset and there seems to be a huge crowd waiting to pay their respects, but since we don't see any of the previous funerals the narrator has been to, I have no idea why this level of grief is out of the ordinary. I would zoom in on one or two people the narrator DOES know, who've reacted stoically at previous funerals, and show them grieving. Or something like that. Something really specific to show how out of place the narrator feels, since he's only really sad because other people are sad. Well, the previous funerals had been of the very old or the sick. So the difference was the shock and outrage of losing a high school senior. My mistake was not in making that more explicit. quote:I didn't really understand why he suddenly questioned his own identity as a Pliska. Like, the idea of their heritage seems important, but the jump between "I don't feel anything toward this dead person, but it makes me wonder about these family members i never knew" to "oh no, i'm not crying, i'm an imposter" seemed a bit forced. I think there needs to be a bit more of an obvious bridge between those feelings. Also, if this family's Polish ancestry is so distinct, wouldn't a girl with red hair and obvious Irish blood be the "imposter"? Ah, yeah. This was a big mistake. Another theme which I should have made more explicit: He (I) felt that he was the only Pliska in this community around this age. So finding out otherwise was almost an opportunity to -- what -- bond? Like there was almost this anticipation of her seeing me and her feeling like "Wow that's so cool, I'm so happy to have finally met you!" when obviously she was only there to grieve. The realization of this reality is what him (me) feel so much like "oh I shouldn't even be here, I'm not worthy", or something. quote:The ending could be better if you expanded on it a bit. Right now it feels like the story comes to kind of a screeching halt, and the emotions throughout didn't flow very naturally for me. The first sentence made me think this story was going to be about the narrator getting to know his dead cousin, but it really becomes more about his desire to empathize with the family. But I don't feel like the narration made that transition very smooth. I have a real problem with that and with brevity in general. It's something I'm going to work hard on improving. Thanks so much for your well-thought-out criticisms!
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Jul 2, 2015 21:47
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epoch. posted:Hi everyone, I have not written anything, at all, in over five years. This is a very short story that I'd like you to critique; any and all forms of criticism are appreciated and welcome.
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Jul 4, 2015 11:59
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