- Adam Vegas
- Apr 14, 2013
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Hey guys. I wrote this about six months ago as the prologue to a novel. Check it out; criticism is more than welcome.
quote:
Something’s Coming
Charlie’s funeral was on a warm and sunny day, and I went and bought grilled chicken immediately afterwards. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about him, or that I was celebrating his death, or any of the other ghoulish scenarios you might imagine. I just hadn’t eaten all day, you see.
He had been a friend of mine. Not one of the stalwart pals you spill your secrets to and your drinks on. Charlie and I were just happy enough in each other’s company for us to be called friends. Such a cold treatment of friendship might sound vaguely sociopathic to you, but I’m happy to inform you that I have plenty of emotions. Actually, a police shrink ran the psychopathic checklist on me about a year after Charlie’s death. I told the truth. Truth seemed like a pretty good policy at that point.
Hit just enough markers to be deemed perfectly sane.
So there I was, standing in an ill-fitting suit and realising with faint embarrassment that I had been the first one to show up to the funeral. His family hadn’t even arrived yet, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that when they did I would be on the receiving end of some slightly odd looks. If it had been Lucas, or Mike, or Cassie standing there looking like the mourner without the memo, I’m sure his parents would have been vaguely grateful to see a grief-stricken earlybird. Well, not Cassie. But me? gently caress, I hadn’t even met his parents, I suddenly realised. An anxious chill went through me as I wondered what the hell they were going to think of me, an apparently random presence floating over to them and offering half baked condolences. I genuinely considered hiding elsewhere in the cemetery until other living guests populated it, then discarded the idea as ridiculous. Instead, the rational part of my brain took over. Charlie’s parents had just lost their only child at the age of twenty, a boy full of vigour who had promised to morph into a successful architect and all round Good Man. No drugs, moderate drink, excessive talent. Quite frankly, they weren’t going to give a poo poo about me today had I been the first one there or the last one out.
While I was mulling all of this over in my head, I completely missed Ross’s arrival.
‘Morning Alex.’
‘Mourning, Ross.’
Distasteful. More importantly, impossible to understand when spoken. My brain works in mysterious ways.
‘Shame about Charlie, eh?’
‘Yeah, I know. Whole thing still feels really surreal.’
At least, I think I said that. To be perfectly honest when people die you end up repeatedly exhuming tired clichés.
‘Awful at such a young age.’ Ross said.
See what I mean? The rest of the conversation continued in a similar vein, with us outwardly expressing our horror at the unfairness of it all and our sympathy at the plight of Charlie’s family, whilst inwardly cycling that guilty mantra of Thank gently caress It Wasn’t Me. As we spoke, I could hear more of our classmates coming up the path in a procession of heels and oxfords. This gave me something else to be thankful for, because Ross was a boring person at the best of times. Perfectly harmless, but unforgivably stale. I made my excuses and turned away, a little insulted by the fact that I saw a brief expression of gratitude flicker across his own face as I did. If he thought I was dull I had better watch out, I told myself. After all, he’d know. Eight of our year were coming up the path towards me. Of those eight, I wanted to speak to exactly one. Lucas, Charlie’s best friend. His death hit Lucas hard. That’s a common and pernicious phrase.
It’s another way of saying that death only really hurts when it happens to people you genuinely care about.
‘Hi Lucas. You okay?’
‘That’s a stupid question, Alex.’
His glare softened.
‘I’ll be alright. I spent all morning with Peter and Claire and trust me, it’s far worse for them.’
poo poo. Not only had I not met Charlie’s parents, I had never even known their names up until this point. Well, at least I’d know them when it came to shaking their hands and producing convincing sentiments later.
‘What about Cass? How’s she doing?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since…’
‘Yeah, ok. Fair enough. Do you think she’ll come today?’
Lucas snorted.
‘Should she come?’
‘Of course she should! No matter what happened, she should be here.’
As I said this, I reflected on it. Lucas had a point. Cassie had been somewhat responsible for her boyfriend’s death. She didn’t kill him herself, hence the “somewhat.” But she had been instrumental in the events leading to his body settling at the bottom of the sea. I personally found it difficult to blame her, but then again I found it difficult to have thoughts about her that didn’t involve stupid, blind adoration.
Unrequited and unspoken love. I know, I’m a loving hack.
She didn’t turn up, to the surprise of exactly no one. Probably for the best that Charlie’s parents - sorry, Claire and Peter - didn’t see her. Mike turned up, but he didn’t say much. Just stood around and smoked too many cigarettes. I say too many because he wasn’t a smoker, just a lovable poser who wanted to be seen as a tortured artist. Even at his own friend’s funeral. Either way, the three of us ended up being pallbearers along with Josh Drayton and Tom Rhys. The afternoon sun beat down on our woollen shoulders as we buried our friend, and my mind kept returning to the same thought: how strange it was to have so many of us carry such a conspicuously light and empty coffin.
Then again, I suppose that made it less surprising when the fucker turned out to be alive.
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- Adam Vegas
- Apr 14, 2013
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poo poo, just realised I'm supposed to crit the one above me. Ok.
quote:Zoe eyed her mom with the kind of disdain normally reserved for adultisms I like this word. about finishing her peas for the sake of straw Straw?children starving in Africa.
“Where’s Professor Pierre O. Dactyl,” Very good name for a precocious kid's toy. she asked. “He was right here on the couch waiting for me to finish my homework and now he’s gone.”Anger boiled up inside of her like magma in a volcano, I like that you used the correct terminology (magma rather than lava) but it's a very tired simile. “what did you do with him?”
“I thought he was one that you were donating,” the dismissive reply only stoked the flames anger, “I dropped him off at the thrift store with the rest of the toys you weren’t playing with.”
Zoe screamed for a solid thirty seconds at her mother’s nonchalant admission of betrayal, I like 'screamed for a solid thirty seconds.' that's realistic 6 year old right there. “he was my favorite,” she bellowed, “I was hunting cavemen with him two hours ago!”
“I’m sorry honey,” the apology fell on deaf ears, “but if you ask me you’re too old to be playing with stuffed animals anyway.”
“Get him back!” Zoe huffed, stomping her foot to show her mother how serious she was, “he wasn’t yours to give away so you have to bring him home.”
Her mother laughed in the condescending way all adults do when they know they’ve screwed up but are to stubborn to cede the moral high-ground.Something about this sentence feels clumsy, and I can't figure out why.
“The thrift store is only a mile away,” Zoe braced herself for one of her mother’s impossible compromises, “here’s five dollars. If you can get yourself there you can buy him back.” This is good plot-wise but the use of Zoe's name in between the dialogue confused me and made me think it was her line.
“I’m only six,” Zoe’s anger had morphed into incredulity, “how am I supposed to do that when you don’t let me go past the corner alone?”
Her mom knelt down looking her in the eye, “well if you hadn’t been such a brat about it and asked nicely I would have taken you myself. Now you’re on your own so figure it out.” My problem with this is that she is characterised here as a lovely mom, but seems pretty nice and reasonable by the end of the piece.
“Urrgh,” Zoe stomped up the stairs plotting her revenge the whole way.
She’d been pacing in her room well past her bed-time before coming to an epiphany. This is good, but phrased awkwardly.
I can’t go past the corner alone, the word rang in her head like a trumpet heralding her victory.
Alone, she mused, Shouldn’t be too hard to get around that one.
The next morning at school was a flurry of Byzantine deal making the likes of which Fritchie French Emersion had never before played host to. gently caress yeah. Byzantine deal-making is a brilliant phrase.
She’d traded her weekend caring for the class guinea-pig, to Lazy Lizzie Linski for use of her bicycle.
For the meager price of 5 chocolate milk vouchers Zoe convinced Terry Thompson to act as a chaperone. Surely a fourth grader could be trusted to usher Zoe a mile down the road.
The last bit of bartering was the most painful.
Zoe didn’t like Felicia Flores one bit but she was the only person in their grade with a smart-phone. So dire was her need for a GPS that forfeiting ownership of her coveted holographic Dancing Dogs binder to a lousy tattle-tale felt like a bargain. This is all very good, but I feel like the alliteration is for alliteration's sake, rather than because it serves each sentence.
Having secured everything she needed to achieve the impossible the rest of the day flew by. With borrowed phone in hand and rented bicycle in tow she boarded the bus home ready to return Pierre to his rightful place at her side. Neither of her parents were home before she arrived. Terry needed fifteen minutes before he would be ready to go so Zoe took the time to leave a note for her Mom; stopping to admire the professional tone and general lack of spelling errors.
Dear Mom,
Going on a high-risk mission to extract a V.I.P. (Very Important Pterodactyl) As others have pointed out - this is great. from hostile forces at Sack’s Thrift Avenue. I’ve conscripted the help of a local (Terry Thompson) as my guide. I’m sorry for being mean, you are nice to me when I make mistakes and I should be nice to you when you make them too.
Be back soon,
Zoe
Terry wasn’t chatty on a good day; apparently less so on company time. I also like 'company time' here. Good stuff. The GPS from that no-good snitch’s phone had more personality than he did. The only voice on their trip came in the form of a debonair British gentleman providing turn-by-turn directions. With not a word between them Zoe and her escort arrived at Sack’s.
Sack’s Thrift Avenue was the best. It wasn’t one of those stuffy outlets with boring clothes and sterile playthings lined up on shelves. Toys from the thrift store came complete with battle scars and tragic backstories; everything here was one-of-a-kind.
Zoe approached the extraction of Pierre at a liesurely pace that would be her undoing. Eventually spotting the pterodactyl perched atop a pile of inferior beasts with missing eyes and questionable upbringings. A tiny hand raced her own to the top of the heap. With a triumphant howl Zoe rescued Professor Dactyl from the clutches of a sad little boy with watery eyes and a quivering lip. The boy just sat quietly. His sad eyes followed her as she sauntered triumphantly to the registers. Good stuff, but you call him 'sad' twice in successive sentences. Find a different word, or let us figure it out on our own!
She swapped the old lady at the counter five dollars for her prize and the warm-fuzzies that came with beating her mother at her own game. The victory would have been much sweeter were it not for the snot-nosed kid eyeing her like she’d kicked his puppy. Zoe pushed the thought of him to the back of her mind as she made for the exit.
The walk to the door wasn’t as triumphant as Zoe had anticpated. Her feet seemed to get heavier with each step, her eyes unable to look at anything other than the toy she had worked so hard to save.
“He didn’t even cry when I snatched you…”
She looked Pierre for guidance, then to the boy, and again to Pierre.
“Fine… traitor…”
With huff and a groan she turned back to the checkouts.
“What’s your name?”
“Wawltur.”
“Well Walter this…” the child’s eyes flashed bright on seeing the stuffed pterosaur, “is Pierre O. Dactyl. Can you say that?”
“Pair o daddle.” [This is cute kid-speak. And far more realistic than Zoe.[/b]
“Close enough,” She held Pierre in her open palm like some priceless artifact; taking a moment to admire the stains and stitches incurred in the grizzly Unicorn Revolt of ‘02. Also great.
“He is a professor of scientology that loves hunting cavemen.”
Walter blinked in amazement.
“Not historically accurate, I know... but it makes for good drama.” This is funny, but you're pushing the precociousness to a silly level.
Unsure of what was unfolding Walter’s dumbfounded stare turned to Zoe.
“Anyway he’s yours now,” Zoe shoved Pierre into the welcoming arms of his new keeper, “take care of him because he’s taken care of me.”
Satisfied at the enthusiasm with which Walter hugged Pierre she turned to leave.
“Oh poo poo,” Zoe covered her mouth. Shocked by the sight of her mother standing over her and at having cursed within earshot of her.
“I’ll overlook that one,” her mother’s voice rang with pride, “but only because that was a very nice thing you did.”
“I know,” Zoe muttered to her shoelaces, “It still sucks.”
“Well I’m proud of you,” Zoe’s mother hefted her up onto her shoulders, “let’s go to the bookstore... You can pick out whatever you want.”
Zoe met her mother’s offer with cautious optimism.
“Really?”
“Yep,” her mother looked up, “you’re going to want something something to read while you’re grounded.”
My overall thoughts are that the story itself is grand, and I definitely immediately sympathise with and like Zoe as a protagonist. However, you're let down by inconsistent characterisation (is the mom lovely or not?), spelling & grammar slip-ups, and most of all the fact that Zoe just doesn't feel like a 6 year old. She feels like she's about 13 or something; not only is her speech far too precocious but her internal logic and thoughts sound like that of an adult.
There's still some great stuff in here though, and you're very good at writing short and pithy jokes.
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Mar 8, 2017 08:27
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Mar 8, 2017 08:08
