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This is a short I wrote between holiday plans this month. I was hoping to submit it to a website, but I wanted to make sure everything made sense and there weren't any glaring flaws. If anyone could look it over and give feedback, I'd super appreciate it. EDIT - I did some cutting, so word count's closer to 1,761 now. ------------- The Red File “Didn't know we had an inspection today, Mr. Durante,” Ms. Binsfeld says. She smiles and shakes my hand as she welcomes me into the Grandier warehouse floor. I don't immediately notice the workers moving around behind her. The new gray uniforms blend into the background, more than the old yellow ones at least. Those were declared an onsite hazard. According to the R&D Department, yellow is the color of illumination magick, useful in rituals calling upon arcane and hidden knowledges. AdroCorp prefers its lower tier employees remain dim. “I just go where they tell me.” Years spent working in the corporate world have given me a rock solid professional grin. I'm reasonably sure it sells the lie and covers my apprehension. I just hope no one notices the death grip I have on my briefcase. “Head office just wanted to make sure the last shipment got here okay, since it was a big one.” She nods, not breaking her grin either. “Well, everything should be labeled.” I follow Binsfeld down the adjacent hallway, past the large painted letters on the wall spelling out “Grandier Waste Management Co.” A small line of text just under it reads “An AdroCorp Company.” We pass the break room before entering the warehouse floor. I catch a glimpse of the soda machine. It's a new one, with the new mascots. Neptune Cola was just dedicated to Archdemon Naberius, Grand Marquis of Hell. That meant extensive rebranding. The Downstairs Offices craft their unholy sigils. The art department turns them into The Neptune Flavor Gang. Fine print just under the logo reminds us they're an AdroCorp company. Just before the warehouse door, there's a recycling bin. A few copies of the local Tribune sit at the top of the pile, the same paper Evan Lincoln delivered. I just learned this morning, from a spreadsheet emailed to my office. Evan was killed yesterday in a hit and run accident on 5th and King while making his rounds. I’m sure the necromancers on the company payroll are performing their rituals as accounts deletes the company car from the expense reports. AdroCorp usually avoids sacrificing local employees when they open The Red File. The company has 167 subsidiaries worldwide, spread out over eight divisions. A few scattered workplace deaths doesn’t draw too much attention which they’re spread out of five continents, even without the demonic aid. Whenever profits are low, or some nosy goverment agency starts poking around too closely, upper management offers whatever patron archdemon has domain over that particular corporate asset. This round, it was Prince Vassago. You sure you want to do this?” Binsfield asks quietly, scanning her keycard by the main floor enterance. “You aren’t?” “I know what happens if we screw up.” She hands me a hard hat as we enter into the main warehouse floor. No different than your average storage space really. Shouts of workers and forklift back-up alarms echo past the black steel barrels stored in their 25ft. high shelving units. Each one marked with an individual inventory number with a three letter processing code before it. Each one marked as hazardous despite containing only water for elemental spirit binding purposes, archoring a human soul in place until whatever the demon promised has use for it. Not that anyone outside the company’s really looking too closely. Half of it was demonic protections. The other half was legal loopholes. You deal with less red tape when you call it “Waste Management” instead of “Waste Disposal”. “The Red File barrels are VSGs,” I say, quoting the processing code. “Duyckinck’s Hobby and Games.” “Why Duyckinck?” “The Big Mikes downtown is having a sale on board games.” “You don’t want to do it in the VSGs. There’s a broken camera in the NBR stacks.” She turns to me, looking me dead in the eye to emphasize everything she’s about to say next. “I’m going to ask you again. Are you really sure?” “You’ve read the File. You exactly many people they killed. “I’ve been here a lot longer than you have. I know exactly how The Red File works.” “One of them was a kid. A twelve-year old boy, run down in the street because a company AdroCorp doesn’t own might sell more copies of Monopoly.” “Question, Durante. When you got the job, did they take you downstairs?” They did. It's what they do for everyone hired for a management position. You're taken into an old mailroom in the first level basement of the corporate headquarters and shown a ritual; one of many that are performed on site. I watched hooded figures in business casual burn W-9 forms in a flaming cauldron. Monstrous howls of unearthly entities echoes through the sanctum as vague outlines of inconceivable horrors form in the fires. That was when they said I'd get four weeks vacation time. “I can’t do it anymore,” I tell her. “If it doesn’t work, it’s on me. You just thought it was a routine inspection.” Binsfeld glances around the warehouse, making sure again no one’s eavesdropping. “Judith Daniels was an accountant at our New Canaan, CT branch. Diego Bernabe worked at the Neptune bottling plant in Mexico City.” “I saw their names in the file.” “Don’t forget them. Where’s your help?” “Right here.” I point towards the barrels. Binsfeld seems confused at first, but her eyes widen as realization takes hold. “Last chance to back out. You sure you want to miss the Christmas party?” “You don’t think it’s weird we have those?” “Hasn’t been a problem so far,” Her professional grin snaps back onto her face. She announces for anyone within ear shot to hear “If you need any assistance, don't hesitate to grab the foreman.” I casually stroll to the NBR section, smiling and nodding at each of the workers I make eye contact with. Occasionally I glance up at the ceiling, noting the black domed security cameras monitoring my movements. Most of they way there, I keep my eyes low, following the alphabetized processing codes on the barrels I pass. When I find the NBRs, I look up only to find a single camera monitoring the entire section. I pop open my briefcase to remove the Ouija board I bought this afternoon, catching the Big Mike’s receipt I forgot was still in there. I cross my legs and sit on the freezing concrete floor, unfolding the board, setting the planchette in a neutral spot. “Evan Lincoln,” I ask it. “Is there anyone here named Evan Lincoln?” My hands are shaking. It's hard to tell if I'm moving the planchette through some panicked ideomotor response or it truly is moving on its own. Whatever it is, it lands on the “Yes”. “Is there anyone else here who can hear me?” The planchette spins and rolls, leaping from my hands as I try to catch it. It's chaotic movements are more controlled than they seem. It never leaves the board. It only bounces between letters. I finally catch it when it lands on “Yes” and stays. Even then, it twitches a few times before I try to hold it. As it steadies in my hand, I lean down and whisper “Is there anyone keeping you here.” The piece in my hands immediately rushes to “No”. It barely reaches before an opposing force catches it. The planchette strains as it slowly pushes its way over the Yes. The temperature drops in the warehouse. A pungent odor makes itself known. A slight breeze carries it as it passes by me. One of the fluorescent lights flicker. Panicked, I start shouting at board. “I don't care how many demons there are here. There's more of you.” More lights flicker. Workers yell frightened profanities as harsh winds tear through the warehouse. It forces me against the stacks, carrying the rotten odor with it. With each flash of a light, a new shadow casts. With every moment of black I glimpse a silhouette of something inhuman. “If you can use the board,” I shout to the stacks surrounding me, “You can open your barrels!” One of the workers pulls the fire alarm. It barely drowns out the shouting of terrified and confused laborers rushing to safety. The shape moves closer as the flickering of dying lights intensifies. It's moving unevenly. The bottom half shifts wider than the top, expanding out like the entity is riding some sort of winged creature. Three bestial heads sit upon what I soon figure are shoulders. My glimpses are fleeting, but enough to see the being is approaching. Horrible roars, like a braking train killing a lion, are only silenced by a single barrel failing off its shelf. The lid pops off. Water flows from the steel canister, bubbling as it hits the concrete. Two more fall as others pop like wine corks, all spraying their fluids into the pool forming around me. The pool boils as every row pours its contents either by spray or spill. I climb onto the nearest empty shelf space to avoid scalding, but the gushing barrels make it impossible. The lights still flicker, but the entity backs away. Its mount bucks. Its heads wince in what I hope to be pain. A few fluorescent bulbs finally pop, and the flashing slows to a few buzzes every couple of seconds. The silhouette is gone. Steam lingers in the air, but the water below has stopped boiling. I know I'm burnt, but I don't realize how badly until I try to move. I stagger back to my feet and move towards the nearest exit. I barely make it ten feet before I encounter a boy of maybe 12 standing by an empty barrel, a newspaper pouch. The boy says nothing. The boy’s eye contact last only for a few seconds longer, before he turns and runs towards the shipping dock. “That's gotta be him!” a muffed voice yells from behind me. It almost sounds like Binsfeld. “I'm sure that's Bernabe!” I fumble around to see three hazmat suits scanning me with a Geiger counter, EPA logos prominently displayed on their person. I recognize one of them as Binsfeld. Her and one of the two men accompanying her rush towards me. The other rushes back for help. “You sure it's him, Ms. Daniels?” the EPA agent asks Binsfeld. “We brought him in to clean up our shipping records,” she tells him, before turning back to me. “Unfortunately, I don't know how many survived the accident.” CaligulaKangaroo fucked around with this message at 07:14 on Dec 31, 2016 |
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Dec 29, 2016 23:58
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| # ? Apr 26, 2024 19:43 |
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Well, I'll give a shot at critiquing. My formatting and content is based on critique advice from this post. Fair warning, I mostly read longer fiction, not short fiction, so I might be missing common practices of that genre. I'll start with the plot: - Precipitating Event: Guy pretends to be an inspector to get into a big bad corporation's warehouse. Apparently corporations are literally in contractual agreement with the devils and demons. - Main character's goal: Free some a trapped human soul from some barrels - Rising Action / Obstacles: It seems like any threats to the main character are implied. I can't really tell what they are. Are the spirits dangerous? The demons? There's some thing that appears, but it's specific threat isn't clear. The corporation doesn't seem to care what's happening. Ms. Binfield doesn't try to stop him, even when the lie is revealed, nor do the workers who are presumably threatened by the release of spirits. - Climax: Main character helping some trapped spirits free one of their own. - Falling Action: The trapped kid runs off. Another guy also may have come out of the barrels, possibly. I have no idea what happens to the main character. • What do we think this story is trying to become? What are its distinctive features? What seems to be the writer’s main interest while writing this? The story has merged hell and corporations, a fine match. It attempts to build the features of bureaucracy, profit-seeking, and disregard for the sanctity of life in the story as a critique of them. The writer seems to be exploring what would happen if hell was real and there was money to be made off of serving it. • Where has the story succeeded? What are its strengths? Where can the writer feel a good job has been done? The message I get is your story is about a corporate man tired of the ethical violations all around him and trying to do the right thing. The descriptions it has are fine, the prose is functional. It is consistent with voice, perspective, and the rest of the core things a story needs. The primary structural elements are all accounted for. • Where has the story so far missed the mark? What are its weaknesses? Where does the writer need to do more work? What more has to be done if it is to reach its potential? What advice would you give for improvements? The story was really confusing for me. I think it tries to do too much world-building in too short a time. At first, it wasn't really clear to me what the main character was trying to do at first. The conversation between Durante and Binfield has too much jargon and focuses too much on things like board games. They know a bunch of stuff the reader doesn't, which means their motivations and conversation only make sense on a second pass. I had to reread the story a few times to map out the plot and summary; I definitely didn't "get" it the first time around, and felt really checked out of the story because it was hard to follow. I didn't care about the main character. I didn't care about the kid. I don't know why they're important. That feels like the primary thing that needs to change. The other big thing is clarity. You might expand on the ending, as the resolution seems weak. One idea that popped into my head you could try is the kid who is trapped being the son of the character who is trying to free him. Or not. Also, nitpicky line edit: "You’ve read the File. You exactly many people they killed." needs to be changed probably to "You know exactly how many people they killed." Let me know if you have questions about the critique, or there's something specific you want to know that I didn't address. I hope this was helpful!
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Jan 7, 2017 23:30
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