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 Posted: Fri Oct 13, 2006 2:01 pm
I generally write short stories, just for the record. Occasionally I break down and write a poem, but they are generally about nature.
It should also be noted that I often write in what you may perceive as being a very strange style. Fear not, it is my own unique style which I have spent years perfecting. It's weird, but I do it for very specific reasons. So no, it's not bad grammer, no, it's not how I talk, no, it's not a mistake.
With all that said, I came here for critiques and comments because I rarely get the chance to talk to people who read my stories. At least, not these days. So shall we begin?
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Posted: Fri Oct 13, 2006 2:04 pm
This one is called Rhapsody in Blue. It was my reaction to a photography exhibit at my local art museum. The exhibit was on the building of skyscrapers in the 20's and 30's, and I kept hearing Rhapsody in Blue in my head as I saw all these photographs. The name of the character is stolen from a tv show character, as a bit of an inside joke. An extra cookie for whoever recognizes it.
Rhapsody in Blue
“Kaywinnet Lee Fry, if you don’t turn off that radio there ain’t going to be a whole lotta breakfast waitin’ for ya! We need them eggs outta tha’ coop! You better get yo’ chores done girl and stop thinkin’ on that so-phis-ti-cated music playin’!”
It was three minutes into Rhapsody in Blue, Concerto in F, Gershwin’s testament to the validity of Jazz as a music form. Piano pounded out like the hammer on the spike of the metal beams of the rising skyscrapers of New York City. This…concerto business, F, rhapsody…skyscrapers? Kaylee didn’t understand or know these things but she listened to the song and as the orchestra rose and fell she pictured New York streets, skyscrapers, Central Park, and jazz clubs. She pictured a city where night was brighter than day and prohibition meant nothing; alcohol served in teacups and revolutionary ideas discussed in secret. She pictured mob men and dancing girls. Kaylee imagined all manner of things her momma didn’t know she knowed about except that she did because her brother brought pictures and magazines and newspapers from the city. She imagined the things she could never have and that’s why she wanted them.
In minutes her momma would be yelling again and she’d have to answer. She’d have to go about chores in the dusty Texas sun on her momma’s dusty Texas farm. The chickens would tell her stories of days when they could fly and she’d tell them stories of days when she could fly. The world turned and the sun turned and moon stayed away because the sun was hot here in the dusty Texas plains. When no one was looking Kaylee would think about the music but when people were looking Kaylee had to think about what her momma wanted her thinking about.
In her momma’s mind Kaylee’s life was only about doing chores and meeting a boy from a good family that would “have and to hold”. She was pretty enough, the boys came from all around to pull her braids and watch her follow cattle around the ranch. But Kaylee lived in the plains and so the boys lived in the plains and a plains boy was not what Kaylee wanted. If life were well she could love one of these boys and he’d be perfect: a talented writer coming up from humble beginnings to become a New York bohemian. Of course, they’d be married before he was forced to seek his fortunes on the streets of the city of jazz and gangs so Kaylee would be forced to join him. They’d get an apartment and he’d write and she’d paint or play music. They’d live on pennies and dimes and they’d eat things her momma would never dream of feeding her. They’d go to these…concerto things.
But this was not the way of Kaylee’s life. Boys from the plains don’t turn into New York writers. Boys from the plains turn into farmers like their fathers and their grandfathers who were farmers in the old country. It was the same with Kaylee. She would be a farmer, just like her momma was a farmer, and her grandmomma before her from the old country. The old country that momma wouldn’t talk about. The old country that momma wouldn’t talk like. The old country that was as much a part of New York as skyscrapers. The old country that Kaylee wanted to know, even if it was looked down on.
Kaylee knew these things were forbidden fruit. She was not a stupid girl…but she was silly. She was silly and so she’d let herself pine after these dreams of New York City and Gershwin and Rhapsody in Blue until the world turned and the sun turned and the moon came back and she found dreams she could see, full of skyscrapers and smokestacks and great dusty clouds that met the sky in circles.
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Posted: Fri Oct 13, 2006 2:10 pm
This one is called The Bus Stop. It is called The Bus Stop because it is told from the p.o.v. of a bus stop sign. Apparently, that is not always immidiatly recognizable. I wrote it after watching these sort of events every morning coming from the house across the street from where I catch the city bus every morning. Just a friendly warning, nearly every single word in this story has two meanings. You'll just have to think about what you're reading, and what I'm saying when I say something.
The Bus Stop
The sun rose this morning on an orange van, just sitting on the street by the empty house. Soon people fill the street and everyone forgets about me...but that's okay because life goes on. The people went away slowly until only two were left. Two men. They were young and looked at each other with faces like silk and roses. They held hands and kissed when they thought I wasn't looking. They filled the house like a cup and life went on.
The sun rose this morning on a ratty Volkswagen. The two men left in the morning wearing clothes from Bohemia, all in tones of umber and olive and crème. When they came back, the stars were in the sky: Perseus, Gemini, Libra. They laughed loudly, could not walk straight and smelled of smoke. The blonde one threw-up in the bushes...but it was okay because life goes on.
The sun rose this morning on a red Toyota. Through the kitchen window I could see the blonde man making breakfast. The brown man stood behind him tying his tie. He kissed the blonde man on the cheek, took a piece of toast and drove the red Toyota away. The blonde man looked sad, just stood for awhile and then went away. Life went on.
The sun rose this morning on a blue mini-van. Inside the house I can see the blonde man preparing the little girl. They brought her home one day from a place the blonde one calls China and the brown one calls hell. She was little then but now she is big. Big enough to wait next to me for the bus, at any rate. She wears a pink hat and yellow boots and sings songs about raindrops. She makes the two men smile and so I like her. The bus comes and takes her away and the two men drive away and I am left. I am alone but life goes on.
The sun rose this morning on two cars. The little girl is big enough now that she has her own. She came back today with a boy whose hand she holds and they wear clothes from Bohemia in tones of vermillion and titian and ocher. The boy and the girl look at each other with faces like red pillows and incense. The two men look upset and the brown one is mean to the boy. I think the boy makes them unhappy but he makes the girl feel good and so I like him. When he goes away the two men and the girl fight. The girl is hurt. The men are hurt. But life goes on.
The sun rose this morning on a white town car. Inside the house the two men are preparing the little girl. They dress her in a white dress and white shoes and white gloves. They cry and she cries and there is much kissing and hugging and laughing. They all run out to the town car and drive away. I know she is driving to see the boy. She liked him more with time and, because of this, so did the men. I know this means she will not be returning to the house tonight but that's okay because life goes on.
The sun rose this morning on an orange van, just sitting on the street by the house that is full. The two men are old now and the little girl who is big has been gone for a long time. The two men talked in the kitchen and they said the house that was full is not so full now so they are going away. The men have changed and the girl changed and I am the same, always. Soon the house is empty again and the two men drive away in the orange van. I am alone again but life goes on.
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Posted: Fri Oct 13, 2006 2:14 pm
This one is called A Girl From Mars. It is written from my perspective about my ex-girlfriend. I am currently in the process of turning this one into a novel.
A Girl From Mars
She is the girl from Mars.
She has always been the girl from Mars. She in the outsider on in; the circle-shaped puzzle piece. She doesn't fit and her picture doesn't match. She is a pair of red lips in a sea of blue birds and she likes it and is not sorry. At first she was strange in small ways: she was left handed and would only bathe at night. At our next school she was strange in strange ways: she wore clothes that were different and she found release behind the trash bins before school. She laughed a lot back then but I think she cried too.
Now we are older.
The boys like her, they crowd in around her. She's practically one of them. She tells the stories they like and the jokes, she's funny. She is crass and dirty and fun. They think she's pretty. They know they can't have her but they like to think about her kissing the girl whose hand she sometimes holds when she is upset or excited. They think about those two girls naked and kissing and making love-that-shouldn't-exist. That unnatural love is enticing, beautiful in its ugliness.
I asked her once why she chose Josephine instead of Joe. When she answered me small flowers and maple leaves and birds and twilight poured from her mouth.
"Men are fine. I can love men...but most men are boys and boys love me for the curve of my breasts and hips and inside places. My girlfriend loves me for the curve of my breasts and hips and brain and that unseen, intangible things they say I have. They call it a soul. Then again, some girls just like girls."
She always did love to ruin the moment.
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Posted: Fri Oct 13, 2006 2:27 pm
This is a really old one, called The White Room. Looking back, it's probably where my current writing style started to creep in. I was heavily medicated at the time I wrote this, which explains the inspiration. All in all, it's one of my favorites.
The White Room
I don't understand why I'm here.
Looking around...all I see is white. I see the white walls, smooth and cold, white floors of glass-like tile, a white bed with white sheets and a white chair nearby. The metal frame of the bed and the tile beneath my feet are as cold as the walls. On the wall in front of me light pours through a window. It too is white. I approach the window and peer through the panes. It seems as if there is nothing on the other side: nothing but an emotionless expanse of nothing; a barren plane of naught; a situation of...snow. I look to examine myself and find that I too am white, clothed in a large shirt and pants. Odd white slippers cover my feet. Standing out from all the white is a slash of red on my arm, skin sown closed. I did not realize it had been opened. Who did this to me? Why did they cut me? I run my fingers along the uneven seam.
Pain.
I wince and let the hurt subside. It is so quiet here...I don't think I've ever heard pure silence. I sit for what seems like hours on my white bed in the corner. Slowly from the silence comes noise, the sounds of many, many voices. Men, women, children... young and old...I can hear them all. I don't know any of them. I stand and turn in slow circles, thinking perhaps with each turn I will come closer to finding them: come closer to finding something I know isn't there.
She must be killed, an old man calls.
Dangerous, says the voice of a small girl.
Knows too much, says a woman.
"I'm not dangerous..." I mutter to the surrounding silence. Then shouting, "I know nothing! NOTHING!" I slowly fall to the floor. "Please...don't hurt me. Please..."
Such a weak girl, I can hear an old woman scoff.
Doesn't realize what she is, says a teenaged boy.
Innocent, says a man. Tainted. White. Black.
Stupid! Interjects the old woman. Does she notice it is gone? No! Foolish!
"What is gone?" I ask, whispering.
Your soul, says the young girl.
They took it, says a man.
"Who took it?"
Them, says the teen boy. The people who are keeping you here.
"No."
Yes, they all chorus.
"You...you aren't real," I say. "And no one has my soul!"
They took it, they all call in an echoing round.
"No."
Yes.
"You aren't real."
You don't believe us? A boy asks.
Just listen, says the old man.
They are coming for you now, chuckles the woman. What will you do?
You must fight them, the little girl warns.
You must kill them, the old woman speaks coldly.
"I…must kill them," I say, unsure.
Yes.
"I must kill them." I feel more confident.
I hear the sounds of footsteps and then a door appears in the white wall. It opens and four people walk in. Two men, two women…all are wearing white coats and carrying clipboards. The walls outside the white room are yellow and blue linoleum covers the floor. I find myself mesmerized by the sudden color. Soon they stand next to me.
"What is she in for?" Asks one of the men.
"Mental breakdown," says a woman. "She cut herself with a knife."
"Her file says she was diagnosed with schizophrenia five years ago," says the other man.
One of the women consults her chart. "It looks like she was doing fine until the break down."
"Come on, sweety," coos the other woman. "We're going to have the doctor check you out."
"We won't hurt you," says the first man softly.
I pull away. None of their words make sense. One of the women and both of the men reach forward to grab me. What do they want with me? I don't understand! I feel so lonely…so confused.
I don't understand why I'm here.
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Posted: Fri Oct 13, 2006 2:37 pm
Here's a set of three nature themed poems. They are all based on things I have encountered just walking around the area I live.
Olympic Land
This is the peaceful ocean, the rocky beach, the Western Coast
A place where the names cannot be pronounced, indian lands
Even the the air here is different, an ancient smell, and a holy feeling
Of something bigger that was left behind, lost in a war
Ancestors burried here, under the sand and rocks and earth
Be still and quiet and hear the echos of their ancient songs
A simple life spent in the worship of birds and whales and fish
In a time before the drone of wind through electrical wires
Those wires cover the beach now in a haunting hum that angers the dead
Here the waves crawl up the shore, take eachother up in desperation
To leave the ocean for something smaller, a feeling of the land
They will die in the fight to feel that land, the sense of earth
They will die in the pilgramage to the shore, journey to Mecca
They will break against the beach rocks until the ground shakes with them
And the wind catches them, wrapped up in the spirit of birds
Miles out, great monoliths rise out of the depths, higher than houses
The Stonehenge of the sea that can only seen from breaking rocks
Who put you out there, stood you up, before man could walk?
How long have you been waiting to return to the shore, soak the earth
Stretch out and shed the ocean water, your barnacled disease?
It is peaceful here like no other place I have ever been
Sit on the rocks and wait while the ocean takes you up
Surrounds you, but you are safer here than anywhere else
Here in the Olympic lands
Here on the rocky beach
Here on the Western Coast
It’s Raining on Proctor Street
I’m walking home, the bus was late
The signs of evening are showing
And it’s raining again on Proctor Street
The sidewalk sparkles under the neon lights
A billion stars emanate from a single point
And dance in motion as I walk
And I can’t keep from staring at them
Their beauty is enthralling, though false
And who knew there could be more
Stars on Earth than in Heaven?
Ash and Cinder
There's no snow on the mountain
Today its mass like a violet cut-out
Fades onto the hurizon, city scape
Beautiful, ugly, and the flowers bloom
Cherry trees ladden heavy with blossoms
Like feminine snow and come summer
There won't be enough water
Rivers run low in their muddy beds
And fires on the hillsides at noon
A blaze in the sky to rain ash and cinder
On the forgotten trees
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Posted: Mon Oct 16, 2006 9:43 pm
One thing I noticed was that your short stories seem to end in the middle- there is no real ending for them. That's frusterating to read, because you're left hanging. I suggest you go back and add more to them.
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Posted: Tue Oct 17, 2006 8:53 pm
Akiralta One thing I noticed was that your short stories seem to end in the middle- there is no real ending for them. That's frusterating to read, because you're left hanging. I suggest you go back and add more to them. I don't mean to sound...mean....but what more do you want? Happy endings? Sad endings? I don't believe in either and short stories aren't about telling somebody's whole life anyway. These are meant to be windows on a brief moment in time. That brief moment makes a point about human nature and leaves it at that. They are supposed to make you think, certainly not make you feel at ease with what you just read. Thank you for the feedback though. I appriciate your point of view, and will take another look at these to see how I can make the endings seem more solid.
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Posted: Wed Oct 18, 2006 7:11 pm
Unpolished Akiralta One thing I noticed was that your short stories seem to end in the middle- there is no real ending for them. That's frusterating to read, because you're left hanging. I suggest you go back and add more to them. I don't mean to sound...mean....but what more do you want? Happy endings? Sad endings? I don't believe in either and short stories aren't about telling somebody's whole life anyway. These are meant to be windows on a brief moment in time. That brief moment makes a point about human nature and leaves it at that. They are supposed to make you think, certainly not make you feel at ease with what you just read. Thank you for the feedback though. I appriciate your point of view, and will take another look at these to see how I can make the endings seem more solid. You misunderstand me. I don't care if the endings are happy, sad, or both, or neither. I just care that there is an ending of some sort, which not all of your stories seem to have. It isn't about feeling at ease about what I've read-- it's about reading a complete work with a beginning, middle, and end. I understand brief parts of your characters' lives, but they at least need to wrap up their thoughts. Most of your stories end. Rhapsody in Blue kind of trails off. Maybe I'm just someone who likes a complete story- I'm not sure.
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Posted: Fri Oct 20, 2006 1:54 pm
Akiralta Unpolished Akiralta One thing I noticed was that your short stories seem to end in the middle- there is no real ending for them. That's frusterating to read, because you're left hanging. I suggest you go back and add more to them. I don't mean to sound...mean....but what more do you want? Happy endings? Sad endings? I don't believe in either and short stories aren't about telling somebody's whole life anyway. These are meant to be windows on a brief moment in time. That brief moment makes a point about human nature and leaves it at that. They are supposed to make you think, certainly not make you feel at ease with what you just read. Thank you for the feedback though. I appriciate your point of view, and will take another look at these to see how I can make the endings seem more solid. You misunderstand me. I don't care if the endings are happy, sad, or both, or neither. I just care that there is an ending of some sort, which not all of your stories seem to have. It isn't about feeling at ease about what I've read-- it's about reading a complete work with a beginning, middle, and end. I understand brief parts of your characters' lives, but they at least need to wrap up their thoughts. Most of your stories end. Rhapsody in Blue kind of trails off. Maybe I'm just someone who likes a complete story- I'm not sure. Rhapsody in Blue is about wanting the inattainable. The story ends implying that she never gets the things she wants, so she can only dream about them. I try to make the point that some dreams are impossible and you can't waste your life thinking about things that will never be.
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Posted: Mon Oct 23, 2006 8:52 pm
I can see what you're getting at... Maybe I just like a longer story...
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