i think this piece works well as it lulls the reader by describing this feeble character but as you know this is crime fiction, you expect something ominous to take place and although not entirely gruesome or described in much detail,it still manages to shock whilst also being comical ('he was the kind of person who ducked when a ball was thrown in his direction').i also like the way everything is described in such simple terms and proves you dont have to rely on vivid imagery.
Task 2: my piece....
The gentle breeze caresses my neck, waking me from my sleep, still dazed from last nights events yet not concerned with making this mess any clearer. Just then a light filtrates the single window in my room, glancing across all my possessions; the chair, the bed, the toilet, the basin and a souvenir of my mother. I pick it up and study it, occasionally dusting the top and in that moment, I suddenly wondered what it felt to die. Many experience it but none live to tell the tale, like a Sunday roast with great aunt Julie only this time it is visibly served on a plate accompanied by two over-cooked potatoes, lumpy gravy and broccoli which could break your teeth. Dad, Frank and Ian have all experienced it; in very different ways, but dead all the same. And we can’t forget mum. She died in the most painful way out of the four, but if I were her I’d be grateful, I mean how boring must it be to go to sleep and never wake up, or get shot and feel all your nerves begin to spasm? I’d much rather have had someone sever my neck with their fingernails, paying close attention to my jugular vein. Now that’s a way go!I was twelve when mum died, a happy and well-adjusted child considering my dad and two brothers had left the year before. I remember it as though it were this morning, then again its not something I’m likely to forget
* * * *
Rising from my front row seat, I opened the wardrobe door and my mothers face resembled that of a child just been told that Santa doesn’t exist. Her eyes began to fade further into her head, as her lids slowly began to shut. Although she was dead, my job felt slightly incomplete as she still looked happy, so I began to work on her head, slowly clawing away at her flesh of her neck with my fingernails, occasionally scraping the skin cells from underneath to get a deeper cut. After an hour of continuous scratching and digging I could see her trachea, which strangely resembled a hollow sausage. It was at this point I heard the sirens, quietly at first but then it got louder and began to call me and I knew my work was done and pocketed my souvenir. It was a sign.The police and ambulance arrived at the same time, like two uncles competing for the attention of their favourite nephew and in the mist of this, a fat, balding officer ran out of the house and emptied the contents of his stomach on the pavement; a few take-away curries and a full English now lay splattered across the cold stone outside my house. This puzzled me. Surely my mum wasn’t that ugly, not to a guy who had probably seen more cooked meats than Gordon Ramsey. The nice police lady escorted me to the car, still not aware that it was me who was responsible for the blood splattered walls in my mums room owing to my fantastic performance; a double bluff: a distraught youngster whilst also appearing slightly guilty. It was so perfect!Sitting in my cell, I gaze into my mothers eyes. They glare at me and I gaze back smiling at my work.They are still fresh from yesterday, and I feel I have received justice. I mean most youngsters would spend their 13th birthday going paintballing or ice-skating not massacring their mother. Perhaps next time I ask for a bike, she will listen.
Hi Sparky,
ReplyDeleteSuperb piece. Just a few minor problems I want to get out of the way.
Please review apostrophe rules. Confusing its (possessive) for it's (it is) is a very common error; in fact, the way language evolves the flip-flop could become permanent - but for now...) Many apostrophes are also missing. Also, sometimes the object of your sentence is unclear.
"The gentle breeze caresses my neck, waking me from my sleep, still dazed from last nights events yet not concerned with making this mess any clearer."
Is it the breeze which is not concerned or the character (my")? (and find the missing apostrophe!)
The reason I'm highlighting these flaws is that your writing is full of surprising, fresh imagery and vocabulary; but I can't always be sure everything is intentional. I tend to believe that it is the breeze that is not concerned because of
"Just then a light filtrates the single window in my room, glancing across all my possessions..."
Here it is clear that light is the subject. It's a wonderful image and a very sophisticated technique, leading the reader by the changing light. And "filtrates"? I'm trying desperately to bend my brain around it. The light puts the window through a filter? It does bend the tired "filters through the window." Again, if your writing didn't contain the minor flaws above I'd trust every odd (good!)
word you write.
The most glaring example is "in the mist of all this a fat balding..." I really, really want to believe that "mist" is a pun on 'midst' and an evocative description of the scene, the chaos, the mess, blood etc. I want to believe so I will.
Okay enough of that.. In the wonderful meaning your generation has given it, this piece is "sick.". Or is it "ill"? Whatever, it's a brilliant example of black humour full of gritty descriptions and genuinely original imagery (were you being serious re: imagery about the Atkinson piece?)
I'm especially impressed with your decision to make family a recurring image. The extended metaphors about Aunt Julie's Sunday Roast and the competing uncles do their jobs as images but also add to the gruesomeness of this family's fate. Very clever.
These layers force the reader to re-read the piece. Knowing the character's crime makes the first paragraph funnier and creepier.
"I was twelve when mum died, a happy and well-adjusted child considering my dad and two brothers had left the year before."
Now the reader can appreciate the depth of the humour, knowing what "left" means.
On the first reading I thought the character was in mourning and the "souvenir" was poignant. I found the morbid musings - getting shot being "boring", the focus on details like jugular - odd but perhaps understandable given the trauma. Second time through, and we've got
"I pick up the (eyeball) and, occasionally dust the top of the (eyeball)."
Not so poignant any more. Funny, disturbing, great!
Writing something that improves with each reading, which demands at least a second reading is the sign of quality literature.
So please tighten up the few errors so we can appreciate with confidence your talent.
Hi Sparky,
ReplyDeleteYou take a minimalist attitude towards this piece, and it has worked really well. You can really develop the plot instead of getting bogged down in reams of description.
In the first paragraph, there is a little bit of tense confusion, "I pick it up... occasionally dusting... suddenly wondered". It should read "I occasionally dust... I suddenly wonder".
Also in this same paragraph, I love the line "souvenir of my mum". It could be something so innocent, but the "of" immediately made me think of something mroe sinister - this is a great example of how one tiny word can make so much difference in the intrepretation of a text.
One line I don't like, however, is the last line. It trivialises the great writing that you've done by giving the narrator a childish, selfish reason for his crimes. I think I would have prefered it if you had left the ending open in that sense, giving him no reason, or a really vague one which the readers could interpret in their own way, or just leaving him him as a very disturbed individual.
You've got some good imagery going on, the "hollow sausage" being one of my favourites - as gross as that is! My other favourite is the uncles fighting over the attention of the nephew.
I think you do a good job of putting yourself in the point of view of the killer. Your piece doesn't feel hackneyed or cliched - great job!
I really enjoyed reading your post this weel Sparky, keep up the great work!
Frances
Hey,
ReplyDeleteI like the gentle, almost romantic way this piece starts – it’s an insidious beginning to a crime piece. I worry a little about some (unintended?) humour with the juxtaposition of “toilet”, “basin” and “a souvenir of my mother” – it makes the toilet sound more important to the prisoner than the mother’s souvenir! Although I like the fact that you’re not explicit straight away about the fact that this is a prison – we’re allowed to work it out for ourselves, given the presence of the toilet in the room...
There is a funny simile that made me smile with “Many experience it but none live to tell the tale, like a Sunday roast with great aunt Julie only this time it is visibly served on a plate accompanied by two over-cooked potatoes, lumpy gravy and broccoli which could break your teeth”, but I’m not sure I follow the second part – sure, it’s unappealing, but the link between the two is a bit convoluted.
On the other hand, I LOVE the simile “I could see her trachea, which strangely resembled a hollow sausage”. That’s great – funny, macabre and true, which is perfect for this sort of voice, and the meat-imagery continues well with the man “who had probably seen more cooked meats than Gordon Ramsey”, and again, the end-phrase “Perhaps next time I ask for a bike, she will listen” is blackly comic. I just feel that a little too much time is spent on the actual death of the mother; we want to move a little quicker in general, I think.
Well done, though – a distinctive piece.
Penny