Thread: Click. Bang.

Hey guys. This is the first draft of a short story that I've written. Please tell me what you think. Hope its somewhat enjoyable.




This is not an account of the man who made all of the wrong choices; nor is it an account of the man who made the right choices for the wrong reasons. It is simply a tale of the displeased. The downtrodden malcontents who's figures seem to morph into the subway walls as they pass;hunched and starry eyed. Those who yearn for grounding yet look towards the sky. Tree's spread their roots out wide and extend their branches toward the sun, continually ascending until their eventual death, to be mourned as beings of greatness, of stature. That is nature. These beings do not fit with nature. They find themselves fighting the pull of an inexorable self-gravity. To give in, to fall, is to find that internal sense of renewal they so desperately desire.They are a caterpillar within a cocoon; consumed by a molten ire to break free, the act of which, can be seen as almost more beautiful than the swirling vortex of colors painted on their newly found wings. As they look out into space; the great vast emptiness of space, the great cold, unfeeling emptiness of space, they finally figure it out. They should have fought gravity; but, the fight was hard and their legs were tired and they weren't well fed and no one ever taught them how to prop themselves up. So they fall under. Burrowing back into the ground to find their renewal, taken in to be recycled by the Earth. They soon find it's a terrible machine.Click. Bang.

I'm driving on the highway because I have to go to work. I have to get to work and sit at my cubicle and type up reports. I don't want my boss to be angry. Nobody wants their boss to be angry..right? Is that the right answer? Sometimes I wish I could stop going to work and just drive. I'd drive around all over the place. It's raining right now and theres nothing I enjoy more than driving around in the rain. I listen to music and just fade away. The windows become filled with tiny rivers of water that cover me up and no one can see me through the windows when its raining. It's almost like that frosted glass that they make the mugs out of. The mugs I have in my kitchen are frosted I think, I ordered them from a catalog. I order a lot of things from catalogs, that way I don't have to go to the stores and hassle with people. People can be such a hassle. I feel like they're always looking at me all the time. Squinting at me with their squinty, beady little eyes. I get nervous and try to look inconspicuous; but they know, somehow they always know, and then they squint at me more. I don't like it when they do that. Okay, well I'm here, time to get out of the car John, time to go to work. I need to go in through the doors and try to look inconspicuous, don't attract the receptionists attention. I hate when she talks to me.

I work for the Kettle Electric Lamp Light Yellow division of Kettle Electric inc.. We put quality parts into quality homes at a quality price. Thats our motto. I think it's bullshit (but I better keep it down) I don't want Barb our receptionist to hear me. Then she'll talk to me probably. I don't want that. I always have such a hard time getting the door open because I have a briefcase and my lunch and my hardhat and I only have two hands. I have two hands..right? Everyone has two hands... But mine are awkward. It's so awkward going through the door. It's like being a member of an audience and watching someone mess up horribly. Thats how it feels to walk through those doors all weird. Like a clown just dropped what he was juggling and the house is packed and nobodies laughing. But I wouldn't be that kind of clown. I cant juggle.

The sad clowns are a dealbreaker when I go to a circus. If they're not very good I can always tell right away-right away and then I know that I wasted my money and that I haven't really come to see anything at all. What else is there for me to see at the circus? I don't know what makes a good juggler, or a good lion, or a good ring master. Maybe it's the coattails. The last circus I went to the ringmaster had these big long coattails that stretched out behind him-But I know what makes a good sad clown. They're separate from the rest of the circus. They are the artists. They are the one's with a craft, not a job. The subtle droop of a shoulder, the single tear that dives down past the nose; this is the show. And I sit in awe when there is a truly great performance. And I cry. Tears to match the clown, he and I mirroring each other like two dancers in a ballet. Hunched over the rails I have watched so many times, inscribing the minutia of each movement into my memory. I feel I must. For I know others don't.

I made it through the door without dropping any of my stuff. At least theres that. I have to wear a hardhat because I work on the inspection floor. I decide whether our quality lights are good enough or if they're a part of the demented refuse that we throw away. My hat doesn't seem to stay on right when I walk. It makes me feel apprehensive. I made it past the door and then Barb didn't even say "Hi John", like she usually does; but, this hat doesn't fit and I think that everyone is staring at it. I think God must be out to get me. Every day even if something good happens like Barb doesn't bother me, it still gets paid back by somebody staring. It's like she went on break and told them to take over torturing me. I should just hurry over to my office before anyone else can see me. I hope I don't run into my boss. His name is Mr. Kigscouwhl; but, he prefers I call him boss. He always hates when I'm late to my floor so I'll hurry.

Theres not much where I work, just a couple desks, some filing cabinets, and a window that doesn't have much of a view. I can see the ocean sometimes(not the actual ocean; but, my window looks into an abandoned courtyard and when it rains the drops will repel down the brick walls, ebbing and flowing they rush down the storm drain. I like to pretend that it's the ocean that I'm looking at.) Theres something very beautiful about the ocean. It washes itself clean; no one could ever say that they hated the ocean. The ocean would never be outcast or thrown aside or torn apart or embarrassed, because it's in a constant state of renewal. Wave upon wave crash down on the beach, shaping and sifting the soil and shoreline. Silently shifting the sand. A new beach is born every minute of every day...or so I say; but, I'm sure I'm right..I hope I'm right. On the actual floor itself there are machines for the production of light bulbs, all kinds of light bulbs. Incandescent, fluorescent, LED, HID, Halogen, and many types of diodes. I have no idea how they work; but, my job is simple enough. All I have to do is follow the guidelines for what constitutes a good bulb and then if a bulb comes out misshapen or odd or out of whack, I just throw it out. I toss it into the trash with the rest of the rejects. The sound is awful, that horrid stinging clash of breaking glass. The bulbs scream out the most awful sounds, their lungs give out as their shells crash into the other martyrs, twisted abberations produced by a machine that should have been perfect. After I've gone through all of the bad bulbs, the rotten, filthy, useless bulbs, I then have to bag them for the Trashman.

The Trashman scares me. He reminds me of the mirrors in the circus that distort and smear you, making you tall and gangly. His body is long and thin with rough angles, like a wire manakin with a half toothed grin. Every day I walk through the dark alley outside of my floor towards the dumpster to meet the Trashman. It's such an embarrassment to walk with this trash bag. I try so hard to walk normally; but, I can't. I have to limp on one leg as the momentum of the bag swings forward. Everyone stares at me as I do this, the Trashman especially. He stares down that long dark alleyway, poorly lit by halogens, intent on taking my bag from me, guarding a ten foot high compacting device, the maw of which is filled with vicious thresher teeth. As I get nearer it almost becomes unbearable. His yellow eyes piercing my peace of mind. I want to move the bag in front of my face. Then I wouldn't have to see him. But that wouldn't be normal..right? No, it wouldn't be normal at all. So I make it to the trashman and I place the bag down and I run for it. I run back down the alleyway. I rip open the door to my floor like a madman. I slam it shut. I lock it. The trashman sits there waiting, his yellow eyes burning in the darkness, his yellow teeth glowing in the darkness, before he picks up the trash and lets his machine gobble it up.Then sweating and out of breath I try to gather myself before the walk back to my quiet office near the ocean. But I can never calm down. Everyone always stares. Everyone always knows that somethings gone wrong, horribly wrong, terribly horribly wrong. And when I finally make it back to my office, who do I find sitting in my chair, staring out at my ocean? Mr. Kigscouwhl.

Each time I say Hi Boss. I'm fidgeting, oh God why do I fidget? Why do I find myself fidgeting at the most inopportune times. He can see me fidgeting. He can see that I'm no good. He's going to fire me. I'm going to get fired and thrown out. I'm going to get fired and have nowhere to go. But he doesn't. He just wants to talk to me about the new line of incandescents. They're superior to the old ones. Fifty times the wattage at half the cost and half the labor. I always ask him what to do with the other bulbs, the less efficient bulbs. He says that tomorrow I'll get to work demolishing the other bulbs.

Finally he leaves. I'm all alone again. I like being alone because I don't have to worry about anyone seeing me. Now I have two hours to myself before the end of the day. Before the long horrible walk toward the exit of my floor. Before the exacting horrible visible strenuous walk to the exit of my floor. Anymore thought on this matter and I will decidely explode..or implode? I'm not sure which; but, I'll surely die. Now I have a chance to meditate. I have my two hours. I have my ocean. I have my peace of mind again and my heart has stopped racing. I can lock the door to my office like I always do. I can close the blinds to my office like I always do. And now I'm taking out a sketchpad and crawling beneath the space of my desk where no one can see me like I always do. And I'm drawing. It's beautiful. She is perfect in every way. She is the incarnation of each bulb that I did not break today. I am the trash. I am the broken bulbs to be put into the bag; but, she is valuable, infinitely valuable. I love her. Her brown hair cascades in sheets as I draw her; like light cast across water, folding into itself indefinitely. Her eyes are brown as well, brown like Autumn. Shakespeare would love her like summer, I love her more like spring because she embodies renewal. Her name is Kylie and she is the daughter of Mr. Kigscouwhl. Kylie Kigscouwl. She is the only thing that I can claim to love in this damned world. This shattered warped bastard of a world. Its only redemptive quality is her existence. My only happiness comes from thoughts of her. And oh I do think of her.

I shouldn't say that. Is that inappropriate. Is it inapproporiate for a man to feel the way that I do about a beautiful woman..Am I right? I must be right. I don't care if I'm right, it's how I feel. I feel for her like I feel about killing all of that glass, bittersweet. And I think about her so often, as I am now. I've pictured us together, I've mapped out our entire history. Is that sick? Am I some sort of malformation? Or is that normal...it must not be normal. Were walking together now, down a dark street. It's snowing and I offer her my jacket. She says shes fine; but, I take it off anyway. I put it around her with a dexterity I don't have. In my dreams no one is watching me. No one's there to make me nervous or embarrassed or ashamed or upset. I'm not being relentlessly analyzed and computed and figured into some social equation that I know I'll never satisfy. So I'm dextrous and suave, words lilt out of my mouth with the tamber of a talented tenor. Twixt two train tracks we trekked I say as we cross them. No stutter. No lisp. Just words and alliteration and a kiss. My first kiss. Oh what I have missed. She is lovely and snow shrouds her eye lashes. Like an angel she disappears as my pen runs dry and my alarm goes off and my two hours are up. My two fleeting hours have fled from me. And I'm sucked back to reality. Back to the office, the heavy burden of realness. And she is gone and I am alone again. I gaze out my window and watch as more rain gathers in the swirling vortex of trash and water in the middle of our courtyard. Waves swim towards the storm drain, each one cleaning the ground of its refuse, of its stinking garbage. The waves cleanse because they are redemptive. Like Kylie they are redemptive.

It's now time for me to leave. I have all of my things. I have my briefcase, I have my papers for tomorrow, I have my hardhat that will not fit me right. I'm ready to make a go for it. I triple check to make sure my shoes are tied. To slip would be to die. The laughter would fill up the room, great bouts of laughter asphyxiating me. But today I do something different. Today I don't go the quick way out of the building. Today I decide to walk the longer path around the outskirts. Why? I'm exposing myself, people are watching me, how can I do this? How can I allow myself this torture? I'm too awkward, I have to leave directly. Kylie works on the third floor and she has to come out this way I say to myself. She has to come out this way and I'll see her and I'll show her my drawings. I'll show her that I love her and she will love me back. Then I won't be afraid anymore. Then people will stop looking at me because they'll be looking at her. I am ugly but she is beautiful. I am hideous but she is gorgeous. I have a limp and an awkwardness but she is grace. She will bring my dreams to reality and I won't have to deal with this heaviness, this gravity that is pulling on me. She will understand because she is beautiful and she is stunning and she can see that I love her very deeply.

I can see her coming now. She is walking towards me and I have to say something to her. She's waving to me and she's smiling. I can't believe it she is smiling!! Maybe she'll love me like I love her!Maybe she can rescue me from this horrible existence... But she isn't waving at me. But she isn't smiling at me. She's smiling at Matt Looper behind me. He works on the floor below me. Fuck him. Damn him and his good looks and his nice hair and his way of talking to her and his air of confidence. Damn him to the hell that I'm in. Now I know exactly how those bulbs feel each day when I dispatch of them. Now I know their anguish and their pain. Those three words. I'm in pain. What a horrible sentence.

I know what I must do today. I've lost the one thing that I had to hope for and now I know what I must do. I drive to my building with no regard for who is looking. I don't care if they see me, if they see me in my misery. Let them see. Let them see what they have driven me to, what they have creative. The great "They" as a collective have created what I was yesterday and what I am today. I get out of the car and amble towards the doors of the Kettle Electric Lamp Light Yellow division. My walk is crooked and punctuated with limps and a wheezing cough. I'm not healthy but I dont take my time like yesterday. I don't afford everyone who is watching me the comfort of a slow, steadied walk. I open the doors and rasp out a disgusting, shrieking version of hello to Barb. She is left dumbfounded as I continue to creep down the way towards my floor. I throw my things in my office, I don't need my hardhat today. Now I've reached my task. I examine the bulbs furiously. My heart is pounding and my temples are throbbing. My pulse is screaming as I scramble to find the slightest defect in each bulb. The most minute mistake in the manufacture of these bulbs warrants deletion. They will be deleted. I chant the company slogan as I work, climbing into a frenzy of horrid shrieking cacophonous noise. We put quality parts into quality homes!Quality homes at a quality price!! Then silence. The work is done and the bulbs are sorted. Smashed and destroyed they are thrown into a bag and sealed away forever. Never again will they taint the masses of perfect beautiful bulbs. They were rejected. I have rejected the unwanted. I am a hero.

But I still have unfinished business and I still know what I have to do. I calmly walk out into that dark alleyway lit by the dim halogens. I no longer feel the need to hide my face behind the black garbage bag. There he sits. The Trashman, tall and thin and gangly. Perched up against the dumpster, his yellow eyes set back into his head glow. Two flashlights in the darkness. His yellow teeth are terrifying to behold and his scraggly, uneven patches of hair makes his oblong head ever more frightening. This time he is smoking a cigarette, letting the tendrils of ash and dust float upwards toward the sky. He is giggling, no-cackling with delight, some hidden pleasure, some fiendish devilish pleasure. As I finally reach the spot where I drop the trash I cannot help but think of the clown. The sad clowns I so often used to visit. The sad clowns who shed their tears for me and I my tears for them. In this moment I too begin to shed a single tear as I place the trash into the machine. I look up into the Trashman's demonic yellow eyes as he hoists me up in his knotted twisted talons, and in the guttural disgusting voice God cursed me with I mutter "I'm ready". Click. Bang.

I liked that, pretty good.

Things I felt worked, and that drew me in:

- The references to wanting grounding but trying to find it via escapism ('looking to the sky'). That immediately spoke to me because it encapsulated in one short sentence what so many human beings do, what almost all of us do from time to time - we want something more from life, but we tend to run away from reality.

- The reference to growing wings/fighting your way out of a chrysalis. That is a really powerful image.

- The description of how the narrator's life is a 'loop' - how he goes to work and does this that and the other because he has to, rather than because it's rewarding. Another universal one.

- The parts where the tone goes from calm, casual and factual to melodramatic. The change is very effective. For example where you went from describing the character's work in a calm tone to 'The bulbs scream out the most awful sounds, their lungs give out as their shells crash into the other martyrs, twisted abberations produced by a machine that should have been perfect. After I've gone through all of the bad bulbs, the rotten, filthy, useless bulbs, I then have to bag them for the Trashman.'.

Only thing that didn't work so well was where you wrote long descriptive passages such as this 'The mugs I have in my kitchen are frosted I think, I ordered them from a catalog. I order a lot of things from catalogs, that way I don't have to go to the stores and hassle with people. People can be such a hassle. I feel like they're always looking at me all the time. Squinting at me with their squinty, beady little eyes. I get nervous and try to look inconspicuous; but they know, somehow they always know, and then they squint at me more. I don't like it when they do that. Okay, well I'm here, time to get out of the car John, time to go to work. I need to go in through the doors and try to look inconspicuous, don't attract the receptionists attention. I hate when she talks to me.'. They tended to lose my attention.

Hope that helps.

Overall it was a very moving story. I think that his insecurities are something that a lot of people can identify with and you've done a great job of really bringing him to life. I think the only thing I would change is that the paragraphs are kind of long and I agree with neo, some of the sentences could be more effective if you broke them down. Also when he transitioned form one day to the next I was a little lost and had to read that paragraph twice. I just assumed he had gone home so you may want to clarify. Great story.

Originally Posted by Richard :/

This is not an account of the man who made all of the wrong choices; nor is it an account of the man who made the right choices for the wrong reasons. It is simply a tale of the displeased. The downtrodden malcontents who's figures seem to morph into the subway walls as they pass;hunched and starry eyed. Those who yearn for grounding yet look towards the sky. Tree's spread their roots out wide and extend their branches toward the sun, continually ascending until their eventual death, to be mourned as beings of greatness, of stature. That is nature. These beings do not fit with nature. They find themselves fighting the pull of an inexorable self-gravity. To give in, to fall, is to find that internal sense of renewal they so desperately desire.They are a caterpillar within a cocoon; consumed by a molten ire to break free, the act of which, can be seen as almost more beautiful than the swirling vortex of colors painted on their newly found wings. As they look out into space; the great vast emptiness of space, the great cold, unfeeling emptiness of space, they finally figure it out. They should have fought gravity; but, the fight was hard and their legs were tired and they weren't well fed and no one ever taught them how to prop themselves up. So they fall under. Burrowing back into the ground to find their renewal, taken in to be recycled by the Earth. They soon find it's a terrible machine.Click. Bang.

I haven't had any coffee today so I didn't read past the first paragraph. I liked it, but your switches between singular and plural bothered me enough to stop me from reading any further (and I'm tired). Your first sentence is about a man (singular). Your second turns to malcontents (plural) and you start referring to "figures" and "those". You then refer to "they" being "a caterpillar", a collective being a single thing. I dunno, maybe it's just me but I think it reads kinda clunky because of it. When you're clear about just referring to the same collective group I really enjoyed it; the trees for example. Minor issues perhaps, but your writing is good enough to be focussing on them.

Yeah I mixed and matched singular and plural there not so much on accident; but, I thought that maybe I was drawing a generalization from this one man's plight towards that plight in general? I guess. I wanted to show that what he was going through was something universal. I should probably reword it but im not sure if I'll go back to this story. It was supposed to be about someone who's got some sort of mental disorder like schizofrenia etc. That's why some of the passages seemed to drag on/were long/seemed unusual.