Is this any good? - Writers Forum

eyezero · 11-04-2007, 05:40 AM

Million mile an hour Ghost - Chapters 1-3
ok, I've re-posted this without the attachment and basicaly stopped being lazy. I'm sure I have a good story, but is it and my writing good enough? It may come across a little jumbled but it all becomes clear in later chapters. I've also added the first part of chapter 4. This is the one that gives me the most trouble, as in, does it work? Please comment. Many thanks, Paul.

Dead Eyed Stare - Chapter 1

The parents of Martin Patrick John are currently conducting a search of his bedroom. Everything is dank and grey. Their world has no substance, the meat has been removed leaving nothing, emptiness. Like dead trees shimmering in an empty desert, the pair stare, dead eyed, at the task before them, no more tears left here, their limp arms drained of rage. Just drifting back, constantly, drifting back over that day……

Junior John died four days, seven hours and thirty five minutes ago. He was found swinging by his neck from the apple tree in the Johns’ meticulously groomed garden, at the end of the electrical cable of Senior Johns’ perfectly maintained Fly-mo. He had been dead eight hours upon his discovery and with the heavy frost of that night, Martin was completely white from his frozen hair to his solid feet. Martin had not gone down alone though.

Shortly after his mother Alice, had found her son in the garden, his father Patrick had found Martins’ best friend dead in the basement. Both parents in a combined state of absolute hysteria had called in their neighbour and friend and business partner Tom, to sprint the fifty yards from his home and deal with the initial situation - Alice beating her fists against Pat, Pats’ eyes pouring into her golden locks, Tom busy on the phone with the police, - and all the while Martin swung gently in the breeze like a child on a tyre swing that has run out of momentum, too afraid to let go for fear the icy grip from the water below might choke their life out. Martin was even more reluctant to let go even though he only had an icy lawn two feet below his bare soles and his life, had already been choked out; right out.

Screams of “Why is my Baby dead?” and accusations as to where the faults lay shrieked from the living Johns’ into the hallway where Tom was calling for Pat to talk to the police on the other end of the line. To Pat it sounded as if his friend was at the other end of a sports hall and someone had slowed down time as he struggled to decipher what he was being asked to do by his friend. He managed with considerable effort, to make the legs that weighed a ton each work and began to move toward the man, his friend, who stood in his hall. Tom handed his friend the receiver and moved away giving Pat a reassuring, but manly, squeeze of the shoulder and deciding better of dealing with the mortified Alice, Tom headed instead out of the house to the garage for some wire snips and something to cover the body once he had cut it down. Dealing with the dead son was far more appealing than dealing with the distraught mother and considering the bond, “special” bond, that had developed between them he thought it, perhaps, a little inappropriate to comfort Alice in the presence of Pat, her husband, his friend, business partner and neighbour. Besides, who knew what she may blurt out in such a distressed state?

Crunching across the frozen lawn he was suddenly struck with the realisation that in all his forty two years he had never seen a corpse. The thought all but stopped him in his tracks, hands shaking, nausea rising, - he could see the dead boy now, across the white lawn, hanging like a string puppet with all but the head cord cut. Grey skin, frozen hair. Jeans stiff where he had pissed himself in his final disgrace, his mouth gaping for breath, eyes wide where the life had fled from him. The image reminded Tom of Edvard Munchs’ The Scream, a painting he had never liked. Liking this far less he summoned all his strength for the sake of Alice, and of course Pat, and continued forward to sever Martins’ final tether to this world. The body hit the frosted grass with an unexpected crack and crunch followed by the spatter of Toms’ stomach content shooting from his mouth – which he took to be partly due to the fact he had just cut down the lifeless body of a boy he watched grow up, partly because of the guilt he suddenly felt for fucking this dead boys mother and partly, minimal, for the guilt he felt toward his friend for fucking his wife. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand he was overwhelmed with sadness. Swiftly he covered Martin with plastic tarpaulin unable to look at him a second longer and retreated back toward the garage feeling faint.

By this time a silent police car had rolled into the drive and the “too old and fat for this shit” cop, strained up the slight incline to the front door. Tom headed him off before he could ring the bell and showed him to the back of the red brick detached house explaining as much as he knew along the way, pointing to the glossy green mound under the apple tree. Holding fast himself and the vomit by the kitchen door he watched the officer, whose shirt seemed as though it might burst open any moment the buttons were under so much strain, examine the scene, the body, and crunch back toward him rubbing his once white, nicotine stained moustache and pushing his glasses back up his nose. Not a trace of emotion could be seen from his face, his eyes or his body as if this was an every day occurrence and he was now somehow immune.

The pair entered the kitchen where Tom motioned toward the door leading to the basement he himself had not yet investigated, but he knew what lay down there. After what seemed like thirty seconds, but was probably a minute or two, the officer dragged his weight back up the basement stairs greeting a mug of coffee like an old friend, “Ah, there you are.” and cracked all the way down into a chair at the kitchen table sighing deeply and hoarse. Tom thought perhaps this cop was a little deaf or just plain ignorant, as he calmly drank his coffee and asked if he could smoke while Alice wailed incoherently from down the hall. His radio suddenly chirped into life making Tom start and a distorted female voice alerted the room to the fact the coroner was on the way.

“Well I’m gonna wait out front for the Doc to get here,” said the officer, but more to himself than Tom. “Shame he had to kill that poor dog though. Oh well.”

Tom glared at the officer as he swigged the last of his coffee, rubbed his yellowed moustache dry and left via the kitchen door. It seemed the cop had concluded there wasn’t really much to investigate here, simply boy cuts dogs’ throat, boy hangs himself; pity.

Following an autopsy and a brief flirt with an investigation it appeared that perhaps that’s all there really was to it. Martin Patrick John was assigned to the obituaries as “Another tragic teen suicide”, the body of his beloved Sam assigned a special place beneath a new rose bush and the apple tree, cremated like its victim, leaving the loving parents to discover, or attempt to discover, what had killed their son.

And they drift, drift back to reality.

And They Will Know Me Only When I’m Dead - chapter 2

Dear Mary, Virgin Madonna, keeper of my tears and the heart of man.
I am considering a visit eternal to see what your Son can offer me. I do not want to ask Him directly as I am afraid the sins I have and will commit might prevent my entering His loving house. I write instead to you in the hope you will smooth the ground for me. I hope you can understand what I must do and my Sam will suffer in my absence so I think it best he join me in eternal bliss. I am aware that the way I wish to enter is sinful but I fully believe I cannot allow another to release me. They may suffer the wrath of your beloved kin and be damned forever for my selfishness. I am grateful for your tolerance thus far and I plead for your understanding in this most difficult and dark time. Allow me the light I beg you.
I love you
Martin

As Alice read she wept silently the salty love dampening the ruled exercise paper inside the red margin saving Martins’ words of love from dilution – maybe there are always tears left? She looked up at her husband who faced her with a sorrowful gaze that portrayed his feeling of failure more adequately than words ever could. Taking the letter from her shaking hand he took in those words, but held back the tears. He had to be strong for his wife.

“How did we not know?” his voice quivered and broke but the weeping held.

Alice did not reply, she merely placed her sons shoebox of despair aside and left the room, her dressing gown slithering off the bed after her reluctant to follow, her slippers dragging across the carpet as if they were some how trying to hold her back. Patrick moved toward the bed to pick up the torch his wife could not bear, to carry it on and find the cause of their only Childs death. He understood why his wife had fatigued so early in their journey. This room is where the little boy she had carried inside her and vowed to protect all his life; had died. Though his final breath had not exhaled into these lemon quarters it was becoming ever clear he was dead long before he had gone the way of Judas and she had not seen the signs to stop it. As a protector she was fucking useless. As a mother she was fucking useless. And now, trying to find out where it had all gone wrong, she was…. useless.

Picking through the various letters to Mary and school photographs with defaced faces Patrick came across a small note book, the cover read “Martins Shame,” etched in red biro. He shook as he thumbed through the pages, morose, pessimistic, homosexual, self hating words and phrases scrawled almost illegibly for page after page after page, unsent love notes to some man or boy, named C, describing how he loved the taste of C’s seaman. Patrick felt sick. What had made his son this way? What had driven him to self destruction? Why had he not seen it? “Why, why, why, why?” he screamed doubling over and retching. As a father he was fucking useless. As a protector he was fucking useless, pathetic, feeble, weak; worthless! The tears released, he fell to the floor convulsing choked by the failure, choked by the waste and what would now be the wreckage of his life, but for Alice something infinitely worse. She had carried this child in her womb for nine months, two weeks and 3 days. She, had spent the last eighteen years caring and doting and loving this boy, bringing him up a good, clean, wholesome dead boy and all she could think was, “What a fucking waste time!” and she knew she shouldn’t think it, she hated herself for thinking it, if she had a gun right then right that second she would’ve blown her brain right through that back of her head to stop; stop thinking it. But that is where her attention was jammed and she could not move it on. Like those who laugh at the sight of their dead loved ones - grief, it brings on the most inappropriate thoughts, whether we like it or not.

And time rolls on, relentless, the wheels powering on, crushing the bones of the past to dust. Through the fog they continue forward, continue forward….

Coma - chapter 3

As Patrick and Alice sift through the detritus, he lies in coma. A machine beeps constantly beside his head to inform the various doctors and nurses of his current state of death. A vase rests on the nightstand to the other side of his head, filled half empty with green stagnant water that has failed to keep a small bouquet of white and pink lilies alive. They give of an earthy odour into the room. Not one person has yet thought to throw them out; how very caring. There has so far been no response to any stimuli for 16 days. People have stopped coming to see his body.

He is a machine.

eyezero · 11-04-2007, 05:44 AM

Dead Fish - chapter 4

‘Hello.’

Pause.

‘Again, please.’

‘Hello….. Hello,’ disinterested.

Pause.

‘Okey doke.’

Click and whir………… “Hello.” Cough. Long pause.

‘Just start with your name, and go from there.’

‘M m my name is Gabriel Fisher. I am, twenty four.’

Pause.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Here.’

‘No, I mean, where is your home?’

‘Er… I um, lived with my mum till I was twenny one and I have like kinda crashed at various friends and girlfriends since so…. I guess nowhere’

‘Ok Gabriel, you have siblings yes? Tell me something about that.’

Long pause. This room is warm, too warm.

‘Yeah, I have a brother and two sisters. My elder sister left before me. She’s married and runs a bar. They have a kid but it’s like they don’t it’s like she’s a fashion statement or something you know, “look at my beautiful girl in all her designer clothes,” and like “she goes to this school ‘cause it’s the best,” etcetera, etcetera. It’s bullshit. She doesn’t get on with my mum, my sister that is, but I can see why. Mum’s like a walking contradiction and she’s always gotta be right, always gotta be fucking right until your thoughts and feelings are pushed so far out they don’t matter anymore anyway, still, I like, try to stay out of it. I don’t really care anyway…..’ I sit back a bit in my chair, sigh and wipe my forehead where beads of sweat are forming.

‘So how was it growing up, have these “feelings” always been there or… just post pubescent?’

‘What?’

‘Have you always felt this way, toward your mother?’

‘I guess. I mean we grew up in a small town, it’s getting bigger all the time but it’s erm, you know, small enough for like, everyone, to know who you are and what you may, or may not have done. I hate it; nothing stays private for long.’

Pause. ‘The weather is good though, most of the time. The memories seem that way at least.’ I swallow hard, too warm in here.

‘Come to think of it, it rains a lot; I wish it were like the memories all the time. You know in summer, when it rains when it’s like really hot and everything smells sweet, new and fresh? I love that smell….’ I sit back a little further feeling increasingly hot. My mind starts to wander and feel heavy. Here come the new superstars crazy for the mandatory crazy for the money. Here come the artificial stars wanting the fame for nothing, always winning always failing. Here comes the new disgrace only twelve yet full of the world, not really them a fantasy world. Here comes the new hate, never before anything so fake. Is that a song or something? Fake. Counterfeit, an act pure and simple. Fake; funny word.

‘Er, what was that?’

Suddenly I realise I have been whispering, unaware.

‘Nothing.’ Cough. ‘So my Mums’ house is on the main street at the bottom of the hill almost at the point where you start leaving town, or entering depending which way you’re goin’. I didn’t know anybody my own age there when I was young ‘cause we were sent to school in another town. Not knowing anyone was good in one way I suppose. See there is this small wood opposite that house that no one ever went in, except us.’ Lindermann crosses his legs and sits back a little further in his chair. ‘I remember this one night, carnival night it was, the entire main street lit up by these big floats with there pounding music and decorated with girls in fancy costumes and me and my brother were throwing eggs at them as usual. Anyway this guy saw us and came over being all adult and was like “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” and we were like “Fuck off,” and ran into the woods thinking he’d never catch us. I was alright, well away and hiding under a bush but my brother was caught and dragged off back to the street.’

‘Mmmm…… go on.’

‘Anyway I had to try and get him away from this guy who was shouting for some nearby cops. I couldn’t of course, I mean I was eleven!’ I’m starting to loose interest in this now. ‘So the cops marched us home, we got a severe thrashing from Mums’ belt and spent the next day shut in our room.’ I feel out of breath, hot and sweaty, uncomfortable.

‘So you say it was good not having friends, in one way, but what about the rest of the time, what was that like for you Gabriel?’

‘Fucking shit of course.’ Fairly obvious I would have thought.

‘Explain… if you want.’

‘Well let’s put it like this. I was a fucking recluse basically when I should have been kicking up the dirt with other kids. What was –‘ Clunk!

‘Sorry, bear with me.’ I watch his fat hands fumble with his tape recorder. Then there is a click and whir. ‘Sorry. Please, go on.’

‘Worse though was church, every Sunday. When other kids went to the beach or whatever, we went to church. It was a chore and I hated it. The worst part of church is the silence, over an hour seemed like an eternity of it, not aloud to laugh, talk, even a mere chatter would be met with the gaze of Satan himself and a sharp “Sshh” spat at me from my Dad. It’s funny really, all those people there to worship some bullshit God and resent Satan, yet there he was hiding out in Gods house living inside those sad, spiteful, miserable people who liked nothing more than to put you down. After mass at least I could have a joke around with my brother and sisters while our parents talked drivel in the church hall with all the other bible bashers. The routine of it all made it worse, the never changing routine.’

‘How do you mean, “The routine”?’

‘You woke. Breakfast must be had; after all it is the most important meal of the day. Wash, dress, jeans would not do as they seemed to be out of favour with “Our Lord”, like he’d give a shit, so it was Sunday best which was everything I hated to wear, I felt like that kid at school no one likes and beats on everyday for the fun of it, then to church. We would always go in with the maximum of fuss to the same pew we always sat in toward the back. Church pews, ha, the most uncomfortable seating known to man. I have never understood why you must be uncomfortable to hear Gods word…. So the sermon over, the psychobabble complete, the bread, body of Christ broken and eaten, the wine, blood of Christ, swallowed, the kneeling singing chanting and bowing over, it’s to the church hall for refreshments of dry sandwiches, soft crisps, wine and sherry. Ha ha, at eleven this is where I had my first taste of being drunk. No one watched the liquor table and it was like a beacon calling me to try it, I think Satan defiantly hung out in the church hall also. After that first time I’d do it every week and every other Sunday when I performed my “alter boy” duties I’d have a go at the blood of Christ. Man; that was some harsh shit at that age, like whisky almost. From there the pub, my parents idyllic country local which for them was really just an extension of what they started in the church hall just with better drinks and even more sad people to talk shit to. I used to be bored out of my tree most times but, I guess it wasn’t so bad when it was summer. Now –‘ Knock knock. Clunk.

‘Gabriel, I apologise but we’ll have to stop there. Well done, I believe, perhaps, we can now begin to get somewhere, to start delving a little and try and find the root cause of your, erm, issues. How do you feel?’

I feel hot, I feel very hot and a little faint now, out of breath. What is he talking about?

‘Gabriel?’

Lindermanns’ voice sounds far away as he stands to show me the door. He’s staring at me. It seems too long and it’s making me even more uncomfortable. His eyes behind his brown rimmed glasses, keen as a hawk, ruthless like a hyena. I am sweating like a dead rabbit frozen in the headlights of a speeding car. I feel a little bewildered, a little unsure, a little shocked at having just ranted to this man, this, “Doctor” I didn’t think I trusted. No, I know I don’t trust.

‘We’ll continue tomorrow and again, well done, I think we will begin to make progress now.’ He says twitching like a fish with all the life nearly suffocated out by oxygen, motioning toward the door.

I stand up a little shaky and as I near the light wood panelled door I realise, from the cool air that rushes in as it swishes open, that it is too warm in here. A woman stands at the threshold, probably thirty but looks forty, attractive in a plain sort of way. She gives me a darling smile and tilts a sympathetic head to one side like I am some poor, cute little boy and she is having a maternal flush. I can feel my cheeks warm as I blush by quickly. I can’t wait to get the fuck out of this stuffy room and back to the sanctuary of my own space.

I feel a little sick now, a little dizzy.

Should have had breakfast.

Dizzy, faint.

Heavy legs, sick.

I breathe.

I breathe.

The feeling subsides a little.

A little more.

I’ll be ok.

Malone · 11-04-2007, 06:16 AM

At the beginning I'd remove "currently," and sub another word for "meat." It doesn't work for me personally. Instead of saying he'd been dead for eight hours when they found him, maybe just say "dead a long time." After the extremely specific time mentioned a few sentences earlier, I don't think being so specific with something coroners only guess at works.
" neighbour and friend and business partner Tom"
Remove the first "and." Use commas.
I read the first chapter and it's good, but needs lots of editing. What I listed above are just some examples to help you out. I like where you're going, though. I knew a family whose father ate dinner with his wife and children, then went upstairs and hung himself in the bedroom. His daughter found him. Bad stuff, but strong for writing.
I'll be back to read the rest later.

eyezero · 11-04-2007, 07:05 AM

Thanks. I'll await your reply once you've read the rest.