Nevermore

I'm quite pleased with most of this story, but I still want to expand my horizons, so any comments would be appreciated. Thank you in advance for your time.


Four Black Matches

There and then, it wasn’t real. It was a cruel fantasy, a juvenile way of dealing with what had happened. We were young, but that wouldn’t cut the ice these days. All we knew back then was; ‘Life is Unfair’. The message was always the same. From loving parents, from caring teachers, from taunting schoolmates, from each other, we heard the same, old phrase. But then we isolated it, decided to act against it, to DO something. It was always for Brent; that’s what we always said.
Fire has a way of eluding your mind. Sometimes when I think of it, I think of how mesmerising it was. But mostly, I remember the smoke on the water…

Four was a difficult number to get used to. With Brent there, I always had someone to back me up, someone to relate too. I wouldn’t have been there at all if not for the comfort of habit. Deep down I knew that I didn’t belong, but with no-one else to turn too I was trapped in this ‘gang’. So much menace in the word. I remember how ‘youth’ became a slur; an official slur, to be used by officials. Brent was ‘young’, but only because he was dead.

As we walked, not much was said:
“Someone should know where we are.” from Hannah.
A glare was fired from over Eric’s shoulder.
“I just don’t want it be like last time.”
Silence for a moment, his shoulder’s eased down. “It is imperative that our alibis are absolutely unmarred. We cannot make the mistake of placing trust in the wrong hands.”
“Yeah, can’t trust any of those arseholes at school an’ any adult would grass us up or stop us.”
“Quite.”
Silence again. It was a professional silence lined with purpose and conviction - Eric’s conviction. My brother was a deep, thoughtful type. He would always have the last word, which cupped the silence and formed it into something constructive. The last word was precious. When we got back to the storehouse, Eric went in first. Then Marvin with Hannah close behind. Then me.

We had always been rejects, but we were content. We were ourselves and we accepted each other as being ourselves. Brent was at the centre of this; he was able to accommodate our faults and make us feel better about them. Marvin’s hot temper, my brother’s involuntary pretentiousness, and my shyness were combated by an undying patience and understanding. Together we made our own utopian group and together we were shunned as freaks. We were retreating to find a refuge, Marvin taking Hannah along with him, when we found the storehouse.


It had happened there - about two months before. Brent had gone to the basement out of boredom. He was excitable and hated monotony. There were two cracks: the first was one of the steps breaking; the other was Brent.
Eric was the first to react. He called to Brent, asking if he was injured. When there was no reply, he went down to check for any recognition, breathing, pulse… he tried everything and found nothing.
We were helpless. The dread of the truth held us captive in that small room. Eventually we talked ourselves into getting an ambulance for Brent. After a full day of questioning, grief and unmoving silences, everything Brent had brought to us was lost.
My name was Mouse, because I didn’t say much. When I did say something, I became Mickey Mouse. My name was Marvin’s creation and he was very proud of it; Hannah became fond of it; even my noble brother used it - but always returned to my true name at home. Brent only used it when Marvin was around, as a gesture to him. Mouse became my name and my nature and when Brent died, I absorbed it.

The storehouse was eternal, like a gnarled tree or a river. It was small, but the formal despair around it that made it colossal. A stiff wire fence stalked around the building, low to the ground. Behind it, pipes and retro-refuse showed through the grassless earth like scars, and when the wind gave it a voice, the old place spoke of long days of labour. It was an old bricks and mortar fishing storehouse which hadn’t been used in years. In the dull blue of the mid-summer dusk, the streetlights were at their most intrusive. Their light knocked against wooden columns, boxes and canisters in the house making flat, angular shadows. Inside was dead – the corpse of a room.

Eric slowly paced the room with his eyes loaded, his heavy boots made oddly soft sounds on the wooden floor. Marvin walked in with a heightened swagger - Hannah in pride of place, wrapped around his arm. I was as undetectable as ever.
“Let us review before continuing; Hannah, your sister believes you to be at home?”
“Yeah.” Hannah replied. “She’s out with her girlfriend, but she’s meant to be looking after me. She’ll have to say we were there.
“You refer to both yourself and Marvin?”
“Yeah.”
“An’ what about you and Mousey?” Marvin barked. “What’s your cover?”
“Our parents are both asleep and believe us to be likewise. We should be able to return without rousing them and have as good an alibi as is really possible at this hour.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.” The silence. “The oil should be in the basement – we will require caution in order to retrieve it.”
The basement door stepped into the dull orange spotlight. It was mockingly still but held the pressure of the space behind it like a spear. In all our minds, Brent was still behind that door - at the foot of the stairs - still.
Marvin opposed the door head on. “I’ll get it no bother.”
“No don’t Marvin; it’s not safe down there…”
“Don’t you worry none, darlin’. Brent will ‘ave wanted me to go.”
These last words were too much for me. For all my nervousness, I knew that now was the time to speak up – for Brent.
“I’ll do it.”
Hot attention was thrown over me. Marvin was amused to hear me speak, Hannah simply looked puzzled. Eric’s head had turned as sharply as the others but I could see he understood. With this knowledge I walked towards the basement.
Marvin’s little spell of sniggering stopped as I walked past him. He moved to throw me aside but Eric was too swift for him, grabbing him by the shoulder as I forced the door backward.
“If you go after him you will both be endangered.” The words were muttered, but their purpose was clear. Marvin hauled Eric’s hand from his shoulder and marched outside, his loyal trophy at his heels. I did not look back from the doorway – my life was hanging on my focus.

The wooden stairs down to the basement were rotted, eaten and often gone entirely. A dank ambience illuminated only the first few steps. The smell of mould was mixed with rank blood and as I timorously laid my foot down I found the jagged splintered plank that marked Brent’s last deliberate step. A slick banister supported my right hand, the other was free to twitch and shudder, like a half-dead spider. The lurch of the floor’s arrival at feet made me vomit as far as my throat, which was stifled only by a few moments’ readjustment. As I moved off again, my shoe peeled itself off the concrete with a searing, sapping crackling and the smell of blood flooded my nostrils through the humid air. The basement was only seven feet square, but finding the can of oil we knew would be here took much methodical groping. As I stepped over the thin swamp of blood my mind fiendishly returned Brent’s sprawled remnants to where we had found them. I left his memory at the foot of those stairs, knowing that it could not traverse the broken stairway with broken limbs.

As I returned to the now welcome half-light, I could hear Hannah whine something incomprehensible from outside. I handed the oil to Eric as Marvin bounded through the doorway and pushed my shoulders with such strength that I almost fell backwards down the stairs. As Marvin realised this he backed off, afraid to offend the memory. Like a fool I turned and closed the door, giving Marvin the opportunity to grab my coat from the back and hurl me across the room. I landed on my hands, which made them burn and ache, but which allowed me to roll quickly from underneath Marvin’s lumbering mass. As he pounced from his crouched position where I had been, Eric dealt him a grandiose back-hander across the face. Marvin was floored in mid-leap but recovered quickly, his surprised expression shone with contracted skin and the oil Eric had left on his hands. Eric was standing over him without trepidation and for the first time I saw my brother as threatening. To Marvin, he must have seemed superhuman.
“Brent was not closest to you. You must learn to accept that.”
And then there was a new silence; a continuation of the first - the next stage of it. It was singing with the sense of the moment. It was time.

“We shall have a match each, shall we?”
As Eric walked away from Marvin, Hannah trotted from the doorway to help him. I could only stare at Eric as he slowly orbited the central pillar that supported the storehouse. Since entering, Eric had crowded crates, paper and an old sofa around the post, and doused all in oil. The expression on his face was one of stern passion. For that moment when his eyes were fixed on his construction, I knew in my gut that this was not the brother I had known for all my years. I could feel the old dread of loss seeping through me. It was like it was radiating from the walls – as I sat on the floor I absorbed it, as if it were cold stored in the wood. This building had taken so much of our lives, robbing us of ourselves…
Eric’s focus returned as Marvin rose and shrugged the dust from his shoulders. Without the hesitation of a search, Eric took an indescript box of matches from his top pocket, lit one and handed the box to Marvin, who did the same. I got to my feet as Hannah fumbled with her match, whimpering with each attempted strike. When she had it, Marvin took the box and handed it to me expressionlessly. I realised then that, whatever happened next, this would be the last of our meetings.

I took my own match just underneath the head, noting that the matches’ heads were blue. They weren’t red, like you might think it would be, but blue. They were the blue of mid summer dusks and the deep water of our shore. In the orange gloom of the storehouse, the struck the blue from its place - destroyed it – but in doing so we set it free, let it become what it was; a memory. In the early hours of the morning, the blue matches became black.

We lit the fire together. There were no words, no countdown, no cheer or cry of sorrow; just an action. Unanimous, natural, human. Together we put our matches to the pyre and cremated our friend who was trapped in the basement. Of course, he was given a proper funeral, but it was not the end for us. Brent needed more from us than our presences at his grave. We all knew this, but it was Eric who figured out what could be done and how. It was brilliant; to be rid of the storehouse, the memory, the guilt and of each other, in a way that would be written off as nothing more than vandalism. We were questioned, but we had Eric’s alibis.
It was Eric who led us all out of the storehouse for the last time, Marvin aberrantly silent, Hannah gagging her sobs out of her.
But Eric did not show the way in which he had changed, not physically. As I stood in the aura of the dying storehouse, the humility, the responsibility, the pensiveness that was Eric strode out across the inky water, the smoke weaving around his ankles, glowing embers waving him good-bye. We laid them both to rest that night, although we didn’t know it. But I know this; Eric’s soul had never shown itself until we met Brent, so it’s better that it remains with him.

__________________
That black shadow whose words shone light on the deepest concerns of the soul did give the name "Nevermore"
"Only this and nothing more."
"Oh, and type Bernard's Letter into Google. It'll do ya good."

Tiamat10

This is gonna be harsh. Sorry.

I finished reading this story and wanted to find you so that I could ask you some of the 4,576,901 questions that this story left me wanting answered.

That's not a compliment. This story is about a group of kids that sneak into a building and burn it down. I wish I knew why. There's obscure references to Brent, but we're not given any real justification as to why these KIDS want to give him a funeral pyre.

Of course, nothing that the kids did in the entire story was characteristic of what a person would expect a kid to do. The only reason that I read the entire story through was because I expected to find out that the kids weren't really kids at all, but some kind of alien race trapped in human form that wanted to free themselves from their fleshy bonds.

That didn't happen so I was disappointed.

Anyways, I'm finished ranting. Onto my actual critique.

Eric's shoulders melted? What exactly does that mean? Did he slump? Slouch? Did molten lava fall from the sky and land precisely on Eric's shoulders? Aside from the dreadful beat about shoulders melting, the dialogue itself is not something I'd expect a kid to say. It's too formal, too flowery, and too far above the speech of a kid. You could kinda, almost, maybe, sort of, not really get by with it if you give us some reason for Eric ALWAYS talking like he's trying to use the most complicated phrases to communicate simple ideas. But you don't, so I don't buy it.

A triple negative? You know a triple negative is the same thing as a single negative, right? So why not just use one 'not' and save yourself the paper? The process of editing your work is so that you can be able to convey the same meaning with as few words as possible. The objective of this piece seems to be quite the opposite: using as many words as you can squeeze into each sentence in order to completely convolute the thought.

Amplified audacity. Pride of place. One of the big rules in writing: Avoid annoying alliterations. What exactly IS amplified audacity, anyways? It doesn't make any sense! And pride of place is just as bad.

There are three very big problems with this one sentence. "The words were muttered..." That's a classic example of using passive voice because you think it sounds nice. Actually, in this case all it does is destroy the little action that your dialogue lends to this story.
Problem number two is describing muttered words as "razor sharp". It's a contradiction. Muttered words are, by definition, the exact opposite of razor sharp. The point of muttering is to muffle your words, not enunciate them.
Problem three is the phrase "razor sharp". It's a cliché. Be more creative.

More passive voice here that conjures up the image of two disembodied hands making their way down a staircase. How are we supposed to relate to your characters if all we get are snatches of their body parts randomly doing stuff?

WHY? Why does he want to vomit when he touches the floor? Is it covered with human entrails or some other vomit-worthy substance? Doesn't seem to be, so perhaps your character is sickly? Those are the only logical conclusions based on what you've written. Oh, and there's a typo. "Made ME vomit..."

There, those are the big things that you need to fix, but just so you know, I have not by any means pointed out all of my objections with your writing. All of it is overdone, too complex, too flowery, and just too bloody confusing to read. I think I could go through this piece and find a problem with every single sentence if I were inclined.

My advice to you is to scrap this entire story and start it again. For your rewrite, go for clarity instead of complexity. The idea behind this is rather intriguing, but the delivery failed miserably. Stop trying to be poetic, and try to be precise. Pick every single word carefully before you type it. Don't use seven words were three would work just as well.

Once you've done that, you'll have a much tighter, readable piece, and I hope you post it here because I'd be interested in seeing it.

__________________
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." --Red Smith

Nevermore

Thanks Tiamat. A little demoralising but after some lunch I resolved to try to fix things.

I've edited the above story, fixing the things you suggested. I also added a little background info to make things clearer. I didn't want to start over until I was sure the last version was totally unyielding.

I've tried to scrape off the heaviest descriptions and leave the useful images looking better. I'm beginning to get the hang of reading my own work (its more than looking for typos.

I'd like to know what you think of this version. Also, what do think of the ending? Does the meaning come through or is it still too vague?

__________________
That black shadow whose words shone light on the deepest concerns of the soul did give the name "Nevermore"
"Only this and nothing more."
"Oh, and type Bernard's Letter into Google. It'll do ya good."

Tiamat10

It's definitely an improvement, though I was more into the beginning this time through. Right around the part where Mouse has his monologue on why they call him Mouse I started to get bored. I wonder, do you really need that bit? What does it actually add to the story?

There are still a few awkward phrases here, though.

I reckon this is an analogy for a glare being 'shot' at someone, but I don't think it works.

This is an example of purpose prose. It's too melodramatic.

Does this mean she's vomiting or sobbing very hard? Be more clear.

I have no idea why they started fighting. I have a guess though. Is it because Mouse insisted on going down the stairs first? If so, clarify. If not, still clarify.

This is good. It made me smile. I wish there was more of this in the story and less of the flowery stuff.

Overall, it's much better, but it's still not quite there yet. Keep writing.

__________________
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." --Red Smith

Nevermore

Thanks again, Tiamat. I started to notice that most, if not all, of my descriptions are figurative. I think if some more of my descriptions were literal, it might water down the imagery to the stuff that actually works. I wasn't really sure about the first two phrases you quoted, but I think applying this literal technique may help.

I gave Mouse a little background in order to explain his personality, as well as to explain how Marvin's attempt to become 'best friends' with Brent was possible. But I can understand how this paragraph is intrusive to the plot. I'm thinking of putting more emphasis on Mouse's emotion to explain this part of the story.

I haven't got time to edit at the moment, but I should find the time by the end of tomorrow. I'd still like to know what you think of the ending, if you could comment before I re-edit I can make any changes in one go.

__________________
That black shadow whose words shone light on the deepest concerns of the soul did give the name "Nevermore"
"Only this and nothing more."
"Oh, and type Bernard's Letter into Google. It'll do ya good."

Tiamat10

Oh yeah. I was going to mention it but forgot. I didn't get the ending, not entirely. At least now I understand what happened the Brent, which helps a lot. The thing with Eric left me wondering though.

The way it's written makes me think he died...somehow. But if that's the case, I've no idea how or why.

__________________
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." --Red Smith

Nevermore

Ok, let's see now...

Mostly this edit involved a little clarifaction here and there. I think it makes a lot more sense now, as well as being easier to read. The changes are around Mouse's one line of dialogue, as well as in the later stages of Eric's development. I think the ending should be clearer now, but you tell me.

I moved Mouse's background info further up, to just before they reach the storehouse. I think this is important to help make Mouse's relationship to everyone a little clearer, especially as he doesn't interact much. Hopefully it's not too in the way where it is now.


There's also a little snippet in there concerning why they were burning down the storehouse and why it was significant. If it still doesn't make sense, please let me know.

Thanks for your time, Tiamat.

(But if anyone else want's to jump in, don't be shy!)

__________________
That black shadow whose words shone light on the deepest concerns of the soul did give the name "Nevermore"
"Only this and nothing more."
"Oh, and type Bernard's Letter into Google. It'll do ya good."

Tiamat10

So Eric is a ghost...? Really? Hmmm... Okay, my thoughts with that are that if you want that to be a surprise twist at the end, you need to make it stunningly clear. You want the reader to be like, "Holy crap, he's dead!" As it is right now (even after reading this story three times) my reaction is like "Um, so he's a ghost huh?" Or, if you want it to be kind of obscure, that's fine, but you need to put a few clues throughout the piece so that we start to suspect it but aren't sure until the end.

Here's a few more nits that I picked up.

Maybe part about Brent should be more specific. I like it, but it's a bit vague. People don't actually crack, but various parts of their bodies do.

Awkward phrase.

Don't use second person prose in a first person story, for one thing, and for another, this is a bit choppy. Try something like: "They weren't red, as I'd expected, but blue like midsummer dusks and the deep water of our shore."

I've avoided commenting on this whole paragraph up until now. It's all overdramatic, flowery prose. I like some of of it; it reminds me of Bradbury and I adore his prose. But this sentence doesn't work at all. And doesn't make a whole lot of sense, either.

You still use a LOT of passive voice where it isn't appropriate.

Who did the glaring? Put a person to this action, please.

This makes me imagine someone holding a steaming bucket full of something and literally throwing it over him.

He muttered the words but his intent was clear.

Marvin crashed to the floor in mid-leap but recovered quickly.

Do you see the difference? You put the reader directly in the story with the active voice, but with passive voice--when you ascribe actions to inanimate things--the reader feels like a spectator.

I'm not saying never to use passive voice, because it does serve a very good purpose. You just need to know when not to use it.

Lastly, the thing with Mouse again. You said you wanted to establish his relationship to the other characters with that paragraph. The problem I have with that is that you already mention his relationship to them a few paragraphs before that.

This is another paragraph that I've not liked from the very first read, but I left it alone because I see its purpose. Granted, you don't go into great detail about Mouse here, but we can pretty much infer a lot about him from that and from the prose itself since it's from his perspective.

If you really, really want to have that bit in here about Mouse's name, I think it would be better suited as a break in the dialogue where Eric uses his name. But shorten the paragraph so that it's not a huge off-set to the rest of the story.

Something like this, for example:

“An’ what about you and Mousey?” Marvin barked. “What’s your cover?”

They called me Mouse because I didn't say much. I adopted the title because it was appropriate, and when Brent died, I absorbed it.

“Our parents are both asleep and believe us to be likewise," Eric said. "We should be able to return without rousing them and have as good an alibi as is really possible at this hour.”

There, I hope all that helps. My fingers are actually tired now. Last thing I want to mention here: I still don't like your dialogue. Not just Eric's (though especially his) but all of theirs, really. Even though you added the line about Eric and why he talks so strangely, I think you should go with a "less is more" strategy. Deep, thoughtful types generally speak eloquently, but in short, simple sentences. People remember their words because they admire the ability to make plain things profound. Complicated sentence structures usually make people feel patronized.

You're quite diligent with fixing up this piece, and I really admire that--especially after some of the harsh critiques I've given you. This story is improving drastically, so keep it up.

By the way, if you want others to critique this as well, it helps to read their work and offer your advice. Most people return the favor.

__________________
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." --Red Smith

Nevermore

Thank you yet again, Tiamat.

For all my diligence, I think I need to take a break from this piece. I think I'll take what I've learned here and apply to something new, then maybe come back to this at a later date. This story was an excersise in creating a good plot to go around my writing style, but I think I overcomplicated matters for myself. I still think something can be made from this, but it it probably needs a proper re-write, like you said in the first place.


But I'm glad to have re-edited; I've learned a lot about how to write for the reader, not for writing's sake.

Cheers, Tiamat

Nevermore

P.S Eric's not a ghost. I was trying to make a statement about how a person can suffer a pyschological death because of a life-changing event and lose their old personality. It's still to vague, I can tell...

__________________
That black shadow whose words shone light on the deepest concerns of the soul did give the name "Nevermore"
"Only this and nothing more."
"Oh, and type Bernard's Letter into Google. It'll do ya good."