donteatpoop

It was our second anniversary. I came home from work as quickly as I could, a bottle of wine in hand. The door opened and I found my wife sitting on the couch with tear-rimmed eyes. I dropped the wine and approached with open arms. I remember being scared then, not knowing what sort of tragedy had hit her, and not sure how to offer comfort. She rose to meet me.

“I’ve been seeing someone for almost a year,” She said to me.

I stopped walking to her then. It felt like I was shot in the chest by her, at close range with a cannonball. Pivoting on foot, I turned around and made for the door. I wasn’t going to let her see the pain on my face.

Walking back to the car in shock, my insides were a turmoil of negative emotions. With numb fingers, I turned the ignition over and started the vehicle. I don’t know how hard I pressed the accelerator, but when I backed the car up the tires squealed and the car bumped the curb.

I was taught that men don’t cry, only drunks cry. So I drove for the nearest bar.

I don’t know what turn I made or how long I was driving, but I found myself parking in a virtually empty lot beside a tavern I had ever seen before. Getting out and closing the door, I read the sign aloud; “The Mystic Lounge.” It was very secluded, surrounded by a thick wood.

The night was cold, my breath formed into fogs to dissipate in the wind. The cold was a mirror of my heart. It was a lump of ice in my chest, feeding cold rivulets of blood through my body.

The lights were dim and a jukebox played a forgotten song beside a vacant dance floor. It should have been a jolly affair, but I could not be swept into the peaceful serenity that the beat offered. My regret and sorrow were far too concrete for anything positive to penetrate.

After climbing the stool, I sat at the bar and waited. I may have already mentioned it, but there were very few patrons within the establishment, so I wasn’t waiting long before the bartender approached me.

“What’ll it be?” He asked. He was a man of indeterminable age. He took note of the pain in my eyes, the troubles in my soul, and without waiting for a reply, he told me what I wanted. “Apathy on the rocks.” He said.

He reached for a bottle from the top shelf and poured it into a cup of ice. He set it before me and walked away without asking for payment. I stared after him for a moment before my eyes were drawn to the glass.

I’d never drunk apathy before, but I’d heard of it. Raising the glass to my lips, I took in the scent of the substance only to find that it was completely devoid of smell. Perhaps it was a variation of vodka, I had thought; taking some of it into my mouth and swallowing it down. It had a taste like cold nothing. There was no bite of alcohol like I’d expected, and I drank the rest down in two gulps. It made my stomach feel empty.

The emptiness in my stomach spread through my body until I was numb all over, devoid of emotion. It was as I pondered what manor of drink I had consumed that I realized the full implications of the emptiness inside of me. I felt nothing anymore. Gone was the pain of my wife’s betrayal, like a distant memory of a dream. No more anger or sorrow. Gone was everything, it would seem, save for the body and the mind. I was an empty shell of the man I had been only moments before.

If I could’ve felt comfort then, I am sure that I would have been comfortable; but as it was I felt nothing.

There is no way that I could say how long I was in that tavern with any degree of accuracy, but I was there long enough for the jukebox to play at least a dozen songs. I stared at the dance floor with a detached lack of interest, staring blankly at its emptiness.

Eventually I left the establishment, out into the bitter cold which didn’t seem so bitter or so cold. I got into my car and drove home, though I cannot tell you what turns I took, I somehow made it home.

I pulled into the drive to found my dog had been run over. Perhaps that bump of the curb as I backed out earlier was no bump of the curb at all. Somehow I expected the knowledge of my dog’s death to elicit emotion form me, but nothing came forth.

I walked straight to the bathroom to relieve my self and could feel the apathy draining out of me with numbing urine that splashed quietly in the bowl.

That’s when everything hit me. It hit me with an amplified intensity that was far too much for me to handle. The betrayal of my wife, the death of my dog, the two wasted years of marriage; it hurt.

After a desperate search, I found apathy again. Just two quick slices with my straight razor and apathy crept back in to take the place of the blood.

__________________
The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

donteatpoop

Does the silence mean you are in awe?

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The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

Silk

"critiques welcome, praise even more so"

Wow... just wow.

"Does the silence mean you are in awe?"

What kind of writer are you?

"<Insert Piece>"

Since I can't give you praise, I'll stay silent. Oh wait. OOPS.

__________________
Neophyte.


Locution E-Zine & Forums

donteatpoop

One walking the fine line of sanity.

hahaha.

So no critique either? I'm sure I mentioned that critiques were welcome shortly before the "praise even more so" joke.

Unless you feel it's flawless, of course. But somehow I doubt that. Was there anything that annoyed you while reading, a dull spot (or an entirely dull story). Thanks for reading it and responding, by the way.

__________________
The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

JosephB

donteatpoop,

I'll give it shot later -- probably tonight after I've gotten rid of the progeny for the evening.

__________________
"The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources."
-- Albert Einstein

"I am really only interested in a fiction of miracles."
-- Flannery O'Connor

donteatpoop

I definately appreciate it. Thanks.

__________________
The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

adrianhayter

Actually, I like the idea for the story. I would rewrite it to remove the sentences and paragraphs that the reader skips over - Don't ask me, if I knew that, my name would be Hemingway

I see the story this way:

An opening scene with the wife's infidelity. Next scene, "Mystic Bar and Grill" By reservation only. There's a bouncer at the front door. He's checking patrons for lost hope. Anybody that smiles, gets sent to the back of the line which goes on forever down a dark alley.

I like the apathy on the rocks idea but better (IMHO) would be as he sits in the bar (watching the other patrons) he realizes things aren't that terrible and is forcibly removed for having a bad attitude. Hope isn't allowed at the Mystic Bar and Grill.

I never use suicide as the conclusion - although I do use suicide metaphors throughout a piece. Suicide at the end allows an author to be lazy, to avoid the pain of discovery (insert your own sports cliche here)

Your writing style is alright, the structure has a clarity I like. It could use some economy though, a hard trim down to the barest stems.

For example:You beat me over the head with this para -there's got to be a shorter way to say this, better still, show this.

Sometimes less is better unless it's sex.


Adrian

Lost in Some Story

donteatpoop:

I think you've might have the beginning of something here, although it's going to take a lot of work to get you there. I like the idea of apathy being a drink. It's different and quirky. I think you could have a lot more fun with that part of the story in future re-writes.

My nits are fundamental stuff:
1. CHARACTER- I could not, no matter how hard I tried, feel any sympathy for this character. I felt there just wasn't enough there. He comes home to his wife who suddenly tells him she's been having an affair. I wanted more depth to her character. She appears for one paragraph and disappears for the rest of the story. Yes, he's desperate enough to drink himself into a stupor and kill himself, but in a story like this, I want to see the disintegration. I want to feel his pain. I want to wince and a little part of me wants to mourn when he dies. His character read like a newspaper article for me. I knew what happened. But I wasn't there. Does that make any sense?

2. PLOT- The plot, for me at least, never really got off the ground. So, his wife tells him that she is having an affair. He goes off and finds this fantastic drink. Then he kills himself. The elements of a plot are there-- conflict, tension, internal drama. When I read it, however, I felt that those parts, the parts that would make it interesting, were skimmed over. Keep in mind, that in order for a character and a plot to mean anything to a reader, the character has to have a goal, even a simple one. Your character had a goal: to please his wife. A good plot will place obstacles in the way of the character, preventing him from reaching that goal. Your obstacle came at the beginning of the story: his wife is cheating on him. For me, it felt that the plot was obliterated the second he turned and walked out the door. He gave up on his goal and instead went in a completely different direction. This is where the plot was lost, in my opinion.

I want to know more about the wife, the dog, the suicide. I want to know less about how he feels that the world is crashing down around him. I know it's cliche, but show, don't tell. Make me feel what he is feeling, rather than just telling me how he is feeling.

Don't be offended by this critique. I feel that you've got a writer's spirit. For the most part, you've got the mechanics down. You can definitely craft together words beautifully. What suffers is the basic story itself. Plot, Character. Work on those, and it'll be brilliant.

Good luck.

Lost

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"Writing is easy. You only need to stare at a piece of blank paper until your forehead bleeds"--Douglas Adams

donteatpoop

Thank you Lost and Hayter, I think you both touched on some very solid points.

As for the length of the story itself, there was a 600 ot 700 word limit on the story, so I was somewhat contrained on what I could write. I like the basic idea of what I came up with and have wanted to expand on it, but scratch my head as to where and how I sould.

The two of you have pointed out a lot of areas to focus my attention on. So thank you both for the critiques.

(and Lost, do people actually ask for critiques and get offended???)

__________________
The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

misterchris

This was pretty good, although in some ways it seems like an outline of a good story. The ideas are good but need to be built up in some areas.

I thought there should be some lead up to the "Apathy on Rocks". Its a somewhat mystical event. I felt there should have been more interplay with the bartender.

Also, encountering his dead dog with no lead up to it seemed out of nowhere. Maybe the character could make a comment that "at least I still have my faithful dog" after the initial confrontation with the wife.

JosephB

By procrastinating, I have allowed Lost In Story and adrianhayter to do the heavy lifting.

So I'm going to drill down to the next level and elaborate on what adrianhayter mentioned about economy. And point out a few things that might help simplify and clarify your writing. I'm not suggesting the examples I've written are right and what you've written is wrong.

Some of this has to do with establishing a voice for your character and sticking with it. So the words you choose are his vocabulary, so to speak. It doesn't mean your character doesn't know what certain words mean -- he's not stupid.

Would your character say "establishment" or would he just say "place" or "the bar" or whatever.

I started the car.

That's it. We know how to start a car. And why vehicle?

Somehow, I found myself in the parking lot of a bar or tavern that stood in a thick forest. I didn't know how I got there. The last thing I remembered was driving down my own street. A sign said "The Mystic Lounge."

I'm not saying you have to write like I do -- I'm just suggesting you try using fewer words to say the same thing.

There isn't a thing called fogs -- it's just fog.

Fog really doesn't fit here anyway. Think about it -- can the fleeting vapor caused by your breath make a fog? So, think about the plausibility of everything you write.

Just "sat at the bar.." is fine. More than you need between Point A and B

That just doesn't fit -- maybe if he's being sarcastic -- but that wouldn't fit with the voice you've established.

The fact the lights were dim has nothing to do with the jukebox beside the vacant dance floor --

The lights were dim. A jukebox beside an empty dance floor played some forgotten sung.

I can't think of of a good reason to ever say that.

The place was almost empty. A man sat alone at a table and there were a few people at the bar.

Why patron, establishment? Sometimes reaching for a different word just doesn't pay off. It just sounds like you a trying too hard to write. Think about what you character would say. Again, choose a voice and stick with it. Now I've used more words here, but they do something --

I drank it.

What did I just drink? I felt empty and numb. The anger, sorrow, pain — gone.

I'm exaggerating here -- but look hard for ways to economize. Fewer words, carefully chosen can do the job.

I think I see what you're trying to say -- but it's not working.

Hmm. And there's that establishment again.

I drove home.

Somehow, I made it home.

When I got home, I found my dog in the driveway — dead. It wasn't the curb I hit when I left the house. I should have felt something, but it was like I'd run over a cockroach.

So don't worry about saying "elicit emotion" or "the knowledge of my dog's death." Is this your character talking or are you trying to write?

__________________
"The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources."
-- Albert Einstein

"I am really only interested in a fiction of miracles."
-- Flannery O'Connor

Malone

If this is flash fiction (600-700 words), trim it down to the bones. There are many words and sentences you could cut out, and I felt there is too much telling (compared to showing) for this style of writing. I like the story very much, though, and disagree with whoever was against the suicidal ending. I like this, as it accents the sudden and overall pointless nature of life. I also liked the way you described the death.

Just one example of trimming that jumped out at me:
"It felt like I was shot in the chest by her, at close range with a cannonball"
could easily be:
"I was shot in the chest - close range with a cannonball" or some variation of that, although it's just my opinion and a few seconds of rewriting.

Enjoyable story, relatable.

Amadeus

It's a good piece, but the thunderflash beginning means that the rest just fades away. But what a beginning it is!