(Feb. Challenge) Frank's Flowers (2907)
Derek Wee
noticed the format is unconventional. Please tell me if it is incorrect.
Could someone please take the punctuation stick to it? "Was mich nicht
umbringt, macht mich stärker." as 'they' say ...
2907 words, 89 paras, 13.5 hours. Struggled to trim the word-count. Any
feedback is good feedback.
FRANK'S FLOWERS
"Their supernatural longevity no longer signified to her evergreen life, but
living death."
Derek Wee
Frank's flowers looked as fresh as the day he bought them eighteen months
ago. In all that time, neither breeze nor age had caused so much as a petal
to drop. Every daisy, carnation, and lily still exuded an air of crispness.
Buds remained on the brink of flowering, and stems never rotted. Stella
dutifully changed their water daily before setting them back in the centre
of her kitchen table.
Frank had conspired with a nurse to buy them as a surprise for Stella. Being
too weak to get them himself, he attracted her with the call button, then
pressed a twenty-dollar note into her young palm and whispered in her ear as
she leaned over his bed to check his drips. She returned minutes later from
the florist downstairs with a huge bunch, and gently placed them under his
arm. They exchanged impish smiles, and he told her to keep the change.
Stella put her hand to her mouth when she saw him with the flowers. The
shadow of death loomed over her husband like no-one else in the ward, but
she alone had seen how much he'd changed since he fell ill. His skin, now
pale, collected limply about his bones. She had seen him carried away, bit
by bit, over the last few years. The only thing that hadn't wasted away was
his smile. Now the disease was brazen enough to diminish him daily.
Frank saw her emerald eyes start watering and knew to say something quickly.
"Hey darling, these are for you." He said warmly, with a slight rasp caused
by infection. He wriggled his fingers and the flowers rustled, shaking some
moisture onto the creased hospital linen.
Stella picked up the bunch and brought them to her nose. She was desperate
for something fresh in this place smelling of detergent and secretions.
Then, to stifle crying once more, she tucked the bunch under her arm and
covered her mouth with her palm. She thought she'd done her mourning after
the third remission.
"You gotta put them in water," said Frank, "and your armpit ain't got
enough."
Stella smiled and shuffled the bunch and her handbag, settling on holding
them in her folded arms, as if they could block the impact of her husband
dying.
"You gonna be okay?" he asked, staring into her eyes.
"Yes." She nodded, meaning 'no.'
"You took such great care of me. I wish I could be around to return the
favour. C'mere."
She stepped close enough for him to touch her hand.
"I just want you to be happy." Frank sighed.
He fell asleep shortly after, his body tiring of fighting for life. There
were complications by Saturday, and the funeral by Thursday.
Leonard was the first to call. They had confirmed their phone numbers at the
funeral; blue writing on programs smudged by a sudden downpour. Somehow, his
copy of 'In loving memory of Frank Elliott' survived, and he turned up at
Stella's door one night after ringing.
Stella let him into the house, as she had for so many of Frank's card
nights, but this time was different; Leonard dressed better and brought
flowers.
"You've already got some." He observed as they passed the kitchen table.
"They're Frank's." said Stella thoughtlessly.
"Oh." Said Leonard sheepishly.
"Just give them here, and I'll put them in water." She said, nimbly whisking
away his bouquet, plonking them in another vase and setting them alongside
the other. She barely paused to appreciate them before returning to the
stove.
"You're still a wonderful cook, Stella." Said Leonard, sipping sherry after
dinner.
"And you're still a charmer, Leonard." Laughed Stella, "But don't think that
'll get you out of helping with the dishes." She felt giddy, unaccustomed to
laughing ever since Frank got sick.
"You're not too disagreeable yourself."
"You're about to add 'for your age', weren't you?" she addressed him with
mock sternness.
"No." said Leonard emphatically, without qualifying.
Stella sobered instantly and began clearing the plates. She was shaken, but
not so much that she worked with any less delicacy. The dishes vanished with
a minimum of clinking and clanking.
Stella and Leonard kissed each other good night on the cheek. 'Well, I'll
be. He did get out of helping with the dishes.' Stella murmured after
swinging her front door shut, noticing suddenly how lonely it was in the
house. The emptiness of dark rooms, now redundant, made a heavy presence in
her mind. She went to bed thinking of Leonard, but never without Frank in
her visions as well: Frank and Leonard packing the car for their fishing
trip. Frank and Leonard hiding the evidence after killing her dahlias. Frank
and Leonard: they had been such great friends for so long, and it was
obvious that Frank saw nothing but good in him. Stella wondered: if she hadn
't received Frank's Valentine in her sophomore year.
Leonard called every day, looking to make another date, but Stella always
demurred. She had one reason: though she changed the water in both vases
daily, the flowers Leonard gave her were visibly wilting while Frank's
flowers sustained their vigour. She took this as a sign, of what she didn't
know, but she knew she did not want to go further with Leonard. Still, he
was a wonderful guy who was still friendly despite her many rebuffs. She had
to let him down gently, but quickly.
Stella wrote thank-you notes to those who attended the funeral, apologising
superfluously for the terrible weather. She addressed one to 'Leonard and
Carol Sterling', underlining 'Leonard and Carol' with a deep, dark groove
that bound the names together in ink. Leonard only called her once after
that.
Carol Sterling, however, began taking an interest in Stella. Whether through
suspicion or compassion, she constantly called the new widow to see how she
was coping, and to plan outings to plays or movies. She even concocted a
nickname: 'Stelliot', which Stella endured in exchange for the effervescent
blonde's fine company.
"Hey, Stelliot!" Carol piped one day as they lounged in the theatre café. "I
have a friend ." She proceeded to effuse about a man who was intelligent,
cultured, and neat, but miraculously single. It had been nine months anyway,
Carol said, her energetic delivery out of place among the cool portraits and
icy patrons of the art deco theatre - time to move on. Stella listened with
a vacant smile. Frank's flowers kept her happy enough. And though their
vitality was such that they seemed to leave their water clearer, Stella took
pride in refilling the vase daily, as if affirming her part in something
eternal. It would just be for fun, Carol wheedled almost pleadingly, and
Stella reluctantly agreed to a blind date.
Clive turned out to be a hunched, bespectacled accountant from across town.
Without the slickness required of a financial advisor or the callousness of
a auditor, he had spent twenty-five successful if not distinguished years as
a book-keeper.
"I thought of a Cupid, but that seemed too presumptuous. I don't like
romantic imagery with human likenesses, anyway." He said gravely, handing
over a small brown box of chocolates after Stella opened her door. She had
adjusted her maroon blouse, and he picked lint from his brown cardigan for
an uncomfortable moment before he'd unpredictably chosen to deliver his
introductory line.
Stella accepted them graciously, hitched her handbag on her shoulder, and
told herself to keep an open mind, while preparing herself for a long night.
Over dinner, he argued with the waiters no less than five times ("I
specifically asked for kidney beans"), and took eight calls from his mother
("I told you I'm coming home late"). On realising that she had been keeping
tally, and was now feeling an urge to put them in a spreadsheet, Stella
frowned and told Clive she had to get up early and would he please drive her
home.
It was such a relief to see the flowers as she had left them. There were
worse things than a lonely house. Stella kicked her heels off - had she
known she was taller than Clive, she would have worn pumps. She sat at the
table across the vase, and watched them as she munched the chocolates.
"Are you sure you're alright to work, Stelliot dear?" This was Carol's first
phone call to Stella since she'd started working; both were glad they had
avoided talking about Clive.
"Yes, yes." Stella pinched the receiver between her shoulder and ear while
scanning the documents. "I was working while taking care of Frank. It's one
of those jobs that you can pick right up again."
"Well, don't burn yourself out."
"You mean I can date after nine months, but not work after twelve? Is there
some kind of widow-timeline I'm not aware of?"
"No," Carol said uncomfortably, "I didn't mean it like that. Stella, I."
Stella interrupted with an urgent laugh, "I know, I know. Just funning you.
Thanks for the call, anyway. Got to go. Bye."
The reason for Stella's hasty adieu was sitting on the corner of her desk.
Brock, her manager, had folded his arms and twisted around to beam a warm,
wrinkly smile at her, like Dean Martin about to croon tenderly over a female
admirer. Stella had never considered any of the Rat Pack attractive, but she
had to concede that Brock's rascally charm worked very, very well for him.
"Yes?" Stella found herself smiling at Brock's attention.
"You've been making such a contribution ever since you started," his voice
was wholesome, lending the rascal a touch of the debonair. "working late
nights and all. I can't let that go. If you're not doing anything, how about
dinner?"
"No!" she blurted, then stopped herself with her hand to her chest. "I mean,
I'm not doing anything. Yes, let's have dinner."
"Good."
The Brock who opened the office doors for Stella before flicking the lights
out was different to the Brock who had brazenly perched on her desk. He
seemed more refined than the roguish persona he'd left behind at work. As
they talked over dinner, she saw an incredible depth to him, as if he was a
library which had opened its doors for the first time. (Of course, Stella
told herself, she'd known he was putting on a façade at work all the time.)
She was quite unaware what to make of her discovery, but still felt a great
buzz when he dropped her home and shyly asked her out to dinner again the
following night.
"So, what do you think?" Stella asked the flowers playfully over Sunday
morning cup of tea. They didn't respond, seeming blissfully oblivious in
their spot of sun on the table. They looked no older after fourteen months,
and were warm to the touch when Stella changed their water.
Rogue or sophisticate, Stella found herself falling for both Brocks. His
life, his rich experiences contrasted so greatly with his image, yet he
played them both as if there were no difference, making them fit into one
body: a well-groomed middle-aged boy, with grey temples and a smile that
could charm a parking inspector. She went out with him at night. She went
out with him during the day - the sure sign of a budding relationship. It
would be so poetic - so appropriate - to have the flowers die now, but
Stella's joy was halted by the sight of them every night. Their supernatural
longevity no longer signified to her evergreen life, but living death.
She grew to resent them and their grip on her life. She refused to dispose
of flowers outright - Frank had always known this - which exasperated her
more. Brock started asking what was wrong. After one lukewarm date, blaming
herself and coming home alone, she decided she'd had enough. She tossed her
coat and bag onto a chair and swept up the vase.
"What's wrong with him, eh? What's wrong?" She snarled at it, "You don't
want me to be happy. I don't know what you want!"
Grimacing, she emptied the water into the sink, revelling in the drumming of
water on stainless steel.
"Let's see how long more you can last like that!" she spiked the drained
vase on the tabletop with a loud 'crack', like a footballer delivering a
touchdown. Then she pretended not to notice as the flowers cheerfully
survived a dry week and weekend. She had decided to go on with life
regardless.
"Would you like to come in for some coffee?" she said numbly as she sat in
the passenger seat of Brock's car. Somehow, speaking the words didn't bring
as much joy as she thought they would.
"Finally!" said Brock, and he eagerly rounded the bonnet to open her door.
Stella mechanically entered her house and stripped off her coat, bag, and
shoes. This was not a moment to be savoured, but endured.
"Nice flowers." Said Brock casually, his eyes only briefly leaving Stella's
legs as he followed her into the kitchen.
"Thanks." She mumbled. She had, until then, managed to ignore them while
gathering the coffee ingredients - mugs, spoons, plunger. She reached over
her stove for the sugar and gasped as a hand slipped onto her waist.
"Turn around." Brock whispered, his breath scorching her ear.
Stella listlessly put down the sugar and twisted into Brock's face, which
clamped down on hers for a rough kiss. Even as she closed her eyes and held
her breath while Brock energetically chewed on her lips, she could see the
flowers on the table just behind him.
She pushed his hands away as he tried to reach around her, and forced him
away. "I'm sorry," she sighed, "I can't."
"What do you mean?" he said, leaning bewildered on her stove. Stella had
stepped slowly to the dining table and now propped herself up with a hand on
the back of a chair. "I'm not going to stand here while you lead me on then
walk away."
Stella turned as she felt him approach but was too slow. Brock charged into
her, grabbing her arm and her head as he pushed his mouth onto hers. His
weight drove her into the table. He pressed more vigorously when rewarded by
the gasp of her breath escaping. Brock was so convinced he had unlocked her
secret passions that he didn't notice her hand scrambling for, and reaching
the vase of flowers. She swung the vase around and into Brock's head, where
it shattered spectacularly into a crystal rain.
"Back off, Brock." Stella wheezed as she held the jagged base threateningly.
Brock -the real Brock so long hidden under his twin facades - staggered back
into the cook-top, nervously touching the streams of blood trickling around
his ear.
Brock steadied himself, then approached her once again; whether to apologise
or to attempt another seduction, Stella would never know. At that moment,
her phone rang and he skulked warily away.
"Hey Stelliot."
"Hey Carol."
"You alright?"
"Yes, yes, yes." Stella repeated, as if trying to convince herself things
were back to normal.
"I wanted to tell you the other day: I'm really grateful for you being such
a friend and coming out with me to all those things Leonard hates."
"Thank you Carol, but what's going on?" Stella had almost forgotten the
struggle moments before at the sound of her friend's tremulous voice.
"I'm sick, Carol."
"Is it serious?"
"You know that thing Frank had?"
Stella closed her eyes. "Yes."
"Well, it's like that, but different."
"How different?"
"It's worse."
"Is there treatment?"
Carol paused before saying, "We've already tried it. We tried everything. It
's weeks now, not months." She continued, unable to stop the words, "And I
know I should have had children. And I know Leonard hates me for choosing
the medicine instead. And I know it's a burden on you, but I thought you'd
understand. And I know I'm selfish for being so upset about you working so
often you can't spend time." her voice trailed into sobs.
"Carol," Stella said firmly, "give me a moment to clean up here, and I'm
coming over."
Stella put down the phone and strode into the kitchen. Newly energised, she
swept up the mess, put the flowers in a new vase, and set it neatly on her
table after filling it with fresh, clean water.
At Carol's funeral, Leonard grabbed Stella's hand.
"Thanks," he said, "For making her last days so wonderful."
She found herself grasping back, relishing the unexpected contact through
black gloves. Leonard looked like her: devastated, lost; like someone
shocked awake by their house burning down. Looking for things no longer
there. She knew he had touched her hand to make sure he could still feel,
and was grateful, for that was what she needed as well.
"Can I call you?" he asked.
"Maybe," she smiled, "Maybe next week." Then slowly, reluctantly, she let go
of his hand and walked away.
Frank's flowers looked as fresh as the day he bought them eighteen months
ago. Stella dutifully changed their water before setting them back in the
centre of her kitchen table. This time, however, she noticed one bloom
looking sickly. She felt a presence leave her at the sight of that wavering
blossom. A great joy, a great sorrow - she didn't know which - was
detaching, leaving her lighter, but diminished all the same. Relief flooded
in to replace it, as did a deep emptiness. Stella was in tears before the
first petal fell.
Alaric
Leonard (well, I didn't know whether Leonard was going to leave his wife or
she would die, but I understood the destiny.) Not a bad thing, necessarily,
although a guessable end usually means that the story needs to be quite
short. This isn't notably long for its contents, but a cut of 750 words,
perhaps in the first half, wouldn't do any harm.
You're a good, clean writer. The only grammatical biggie I saw was your
tendency to use capitals after dialogue.
Nice in the end feelgood story. Welcome to AFO.
"Derek Wee" <derek fullstop wee at courts dot sa dot gov dot au> wrote in
message news:403eeb89$1...@duster.adelaide.on.net...
Wind River
>
> My first submission and challenge. I hope it meets the requirements. I
> noticed the format is unconventional. Please tell me if it is incorrect.
> Could someone please take the punctuation stick to it? "Was mich nicht
> umbringt, macht mich stärker." as 'they' say ...
> 2907 words, 89 paras, 13.5 hours. Struggled to trim the word-count. Any
> feedback is good feedback.
Hi Derek,
Welcome to AFO.
> FRANK'S FLOWERS
> "Their supernatural longevity no longer signified to her evergreen life, but
> living death."
>
> Derek Wee
>
> Frank's flowers looked as fresh as the day he bought them eighteen months
> ago. In all that time, neither breeze nor age had caused so much as a petal
> to drop. Every daisy, carnation, and lily still exuded an air of crispness.
> Buds remained on the brink of flowering, and stems never rotted. Stella
> dutifully changed their water daily before setting them back in the centre
> of her kitchen table.
intriguing beginning.
<snipped>
> "You've already got some." He observed as they passed the kitchen table.
>
> "They're Frank's." said Stella thoughtlessly.
>
> "Oh." Said Leonard sheepishly.
The standard way to do dialog is with a comma and a lowercase tag. Like
this: "Oh," said Leonard sheepishly.
> "Just give them here, and I'll put them in water." She said, nimbly whisking
> away his bouquet, plonking them in another vase and setting them alongside
> the other. She barely paused to appreciate them before returning to the
> stove.
I think this paragraph might be stronger without adverbs. The reason I
say this is because the reader concentrates on the modifer instead of
the verb. "Whisking" is weakened because "nimbly" overpowers it.
> "You're still a wonderful cook, Stella." Said Leonard, sipping sherry after
> dinner.
>
> "And you're still a charmer, Leonard." Laughed Stella, "But don't think that
> 'll get you out of helping with the dishes." She felt giddy, unaccustomed to
> laughing ever since Frank got sick.
>
> "You're not too disagreeable yourself."
>
> "You're about to add 'for your age', weren't you?" she addressed him with
> mock sternness.
>
> "No." said Leonard emphatically, without qualifying.
Here, I think you're relying to much on descriptors. You could just say
"No." without a tagline, and the strength of his answer would be in the
shortness of it.
<snipped>
This was an enjoyable story. Your writing is good, but I think it would
be even stronger if you didn't rely on so many modifers. My favorite
analogy is that writing is like a garden. When there are too many
varieties growing, some of the most beautiful ones get lost. In the
thick vegetation, they don't grow as strong because their nourishment is
sapped by the others. I hope I'm making sense.
I love the idea of the flowers directing Stella's love life. I also like
the happy ending. Those are rare these days.
-Sue
Miki Kocic
Your story passed my skip test, which involves putting on my casual
reader entertainment-seeking hat and reading the story to see if I ever
skip paragraphs, look at my watch, or glance at the scrollbar to see how
far along I am. I was kept involved throughout the story and never
experienced boredom.
You are definitely a writer. You have an eye and a voice superior to my
own, and I think your talent for word use is exceptional. The way to be
able to judge something like that is to do a bare-ass plot summary, and
if the boiled-down story seems weak but the full version still works as
a story, then you're talking about a gifted writer. The plot summary
here is: "Woman's husband dies, and the flowers he gave her just before
death magically endure through her coming to terms with being single
again until she finds the right man to replace her husband." You've
made a pretty good story out of that plot.
I only noticed two major problems. One was a tendency to have abrupt
jumps and elisions that confused me. They are indicated below and can
be fixed fairly easily. The other is a heavy reliance on adverbs. I
personally don't mind them, but most people are fairly allergic.
In one place, you don't clearly indicate that Brock leaves the house
when the phone rings, and I imagined him standing in the kitchen
listening to the conversation.
People will jump all over you to be less wordy, but for my personal
taste, wordiness is not a problem. I like language to sweep me along at
the pace it wants.
Some detailed comments below, with stuff I don't comment on snipped:
Derek Wee wrote:
> FRANK'S FLOWERS
> Derek Wee
>
> Frank's flowers looked as fresh as the day he bought them eighteen months
> ago. In all that time, neither breeze nor age had caused so much as a petal
> to drop. Every daisy, carnation, and lily still exuded an air of crispness.
> Buds remained on the brink of flowering, and stems never rotted. Stella
> dutifully changed their water daily before setting them back in the centre
> of her kitchen table.
The hook of deathless flowers works for me but might not work for
everyone. I would only drop the "dutifully," though not the "daily."
> Frank had conspired with a nurse to buy them as a surprise for Stella. Being
> too weak to get them himself, he attracted her with the call button, then
> pressed a twenty-dollar note into her young palm and whispered in her ear as
> she leaned over his bed to check his drips. She returned minutes later from
> the florist downstairs with a huge bunch, and gently placed them under his
> arm. They exchanged impish smiles, and he told her to keep the change.
People will get on your case about point-of-view shifts. The main point
of view in the story is Stella's, but the beginning part is from Frank's
perspective. I have no problem with that at all, but it's widely
considered a sign of unprofessionalism.
> Stella put her hand to her mouth when she saw him with the flowers. The
> shadow of death loomed over her husband like no-one else in the ward, but
> she alone had seen how much he'd changed since he fell ill. His skin, now
> pale, collected limply about his bones. She had seen him carried away, bit
> by bit, over the last few years. The only thing that hadn't wasted away was
> his smile. Now the disease was brazen enough to diminish him daily.
The phrase "shadow of death" is worn out and stale. I would find a
different metaphor.
> Frank saw her emerald eyes start watering and knew to say something quickly.
Again, a point-of-view shift. Same comment as above.
> "You gotta put them in water," said Frank, "and your armpit ain't got
> enough."
Heh. I find the crude joke charming, because it speaks of real people
and develops the dying man's character well, but some might find it out
of tone with the rest of the story.
> He fell asleep shortly after, his body tiring of fighting for life. There
> were complications by Saturday, and the funeral by Thursday.
I really like the way you skip over nonessentials here.
> "They're Frank's." said Stella thoughtlessly.
I think you can drop the "thoughtlessly."
> "Oh." Said Leonard sheepishly.
It might be better to describe his facial expression--does he squint,
blush, or what? Be specific.
> "Just give them here, and I'll put them in water." She said, nimbly whisking
> away his bouquet, plonking them in another vase and setting them alongside
> the other. She barely paused to appreciate them before returning to the
> stove.
>
> "You're still a wonderful cook, Stella." Said Leonard, sipping sherry after
> dinner.
These two paragraphs make it seem as if he calls her a wonderful cook
while still standing in the kitchen before dinner. I would flip the
attribution and dialogue around in the second paragraph: "After dinner,
sipping sherry, Leonard said, 'You're still a wonderful cook, Stella.'"
> Stella and Leonard kissed each other good night on the cheek. 'Well, I'll
> be. He did get out of helping with the dishes.' Stella murmured after
> swinging her front door shut, noticing suddenly how lonely it was in the
> house.
Here again, there is a jump. It sounds as if she thinks "Well, I'll be"
as soon as they kiss each other.
> Stella wrote thank-you notes to those who attended the funeral, apologising
> superfluously for the terrible weather.
I'd drop the "superfluously."
> Clive turned out to be a hunched, bespectacled accountant from across town.
> Without the slickness required of a financial advisor or the callousness of
> a auditor, he had spent twenty-five successful if not distinguished years as
> a book-keeper.
When using the indefinite article before a word that begins with a
vowel, it's "an," so "an auditor." I also spell "bookkeeper" as one word.
> "Yes, yes." Stella pinched the receiver between her shoulder and ear while
> scanning the documents. "I was working while taking care of Frank. It's one
> of those jobs that you can pick right up again."
I've never heard of a company that allows 12 months bereavement leave.
The standard here in Canada is three days. Stella is lucky to have such
an understanding boss. Also, I have to wornder what job one can just
pick up again after a full-year absence. I don't know of any.
> "No," Carol said uncomfortably, "I didn't mean it like that. Stella, I."
Ellipses (three dots) after the last "I."
> "Let's see how long more you can last like that!" she spiked the drained
> vase on the tabletop with a loud 'crack', like a footballer delivering a
> touchdown. Then she pretended not to notice as the flowers cheerfully
> survived a dry week and weekend. She had decided to go on with life
> regardless.
This shows lack of familiarity with American football, because
touchdowns don't cause a crack. I recommend that, after February is
over, you take the story out of the challenge and eliminate the
touchdown reference.
> Stella turned as she felt him approach but was too slow. Brock charged into
> her, grabbing her arm and her head as he pushed his mouth onto hers. His
> weight drove her into the table. He pressed more vigorously when rewarded by
> the gasp of her breath escaping.
Good eye for detail. Ya, so often, men are dunces.
> Brock steadied himself, then approached her once again; whether to apologise
> or to attempt another seduction, Stella would never know. At that moment,
> her phone rang and he skulked warily away.
Here is where I was confused: I didn't get the impression that he had
left the house.
Thanks for posting this, and hope my comments are helpful.
Miki
Dan Rogers
message news:403eeb89$1...@duster.adelaide.on.net...
Hi Derek. Welcome to AFO and to the Challenge.
> I hope it meets the requirements. I
> noticed the format is unconventional. Please tell me if it is incorrect.
I didn't see any problems.
> Could someone please take the punctuation stick to it?
I didn't notice a plethora of punctuation problems either, other than those
associated with dialogue tags, which Sue has already mentioned.
> "Was mich nicht
> umbringt, macht mich stärker." as 'they' say ...
> 2907 words, 89 paras, 13.5 hours. Struggled to trim the word-count. Any
> feedback is good feedback.
Good attitude, Derek.
You have a varied vocabulary and I thought your story idea was creative. You
managed to mix up your narrative, exposition, and dialogue well, although I
would have preferred more scenes with dialogue and less exposition or
summary in order to advance the story.
Rather than nit this line by line, I'm going to make some overall comments
broken down into two areas: first, technical writing, and then plot and
characterizations.
Technical Writing
------------------
1) Sue and Miki set the spikes and I'm going to hammer them home: you use
far too many adverbs. Adverbs are a part of the English language, as
necessary as all the other parts, but writing is an exercise in leanness, in
painting word pictures in unconventional ways. _Any_ kind of
over-modification, be it with adverbs or adjectives, makes for weak writing
in my opinion. A good exercise would be to reexamine every adverb in this
piece and:
a) Question whether or not it's necessary, whether it adds anything to what
you're trying to say. If it doesn't, excise it.
b) If the adverb is propping up a weak verb (e.g. went, put, walked, and
many many others), choose a more muscular verb that will make the adverb
unnnecessary. (This can be done with adjectives and nouns, too.)
c) If in the final analysis you think the adverb is required, ask yourself
whether there's a more elegant way to describe what you want to say, perhaps
through a simile or metaphor. Over-reliance on modifiers is often a sign of
writer's sloth in my opinion.
When I first started writing fiction I was adverb-crazy and verbiose to the
Nth degree. I remember a 6,000-word story I wrote where another writer
challenged me to reduce it by 1,500 words and to eliminate every adverb and
"just" (a favorite word of mine) in the piece. I thought she was nuts, but I
accepted the gauntlet and to my surprise found out she was right.
I would especially examine each adverb modifying the verb "said." When
writing dialogue, especially long swatches of it, the writer wants to be as
invisible as possible. Therefore, he or she should only use dialogue tags
where there would be confusion without them. And when a tag _is_ required,
stay away from "creative" ones such as "he sighed," "he laughed," "he
breathed." Words are seldom sighed or laughed or breathed. These are actions
separate from speaking. "Said" is the most invisible tag you can use, so if
you want the reader to focus on the dialogue (which should be the most
important thing), then keep your tags simple and unmodified.
An example of what I think is an overly ambitious line of dialogue is:
"Just give them here, and I'll put them in water." She said, nimbly whisking
away his bouquet, plonking them in another vase and setting them alongside
the other.
Disregarding that the dialogue should end in a comma and the "She" should
not be capitalized, I think everything after "said" would be better in a
separate sentence. It would read smoother. As a general rule, I try to keep
what comes after my dialogue tags as short as possible. Also, like Sue, I
suggest you lose the "nimbly." "Whisked" is already a great verb and doesn't
require further modification. In fact, you have several strong verbs here,
which is to your credit.
2) In a few instances you put the horse before the cart in your timeline.
Miki mentioned this, too. What I mean is, you structure a sentence or group
of sentences with the actions out of sequential order. In my opinion, this
is confusing for the reader. Miki gave a few examples and I'll offer
another:
(Clive speaking to Stella): "I thought of a Cupid, but that seemed too
presumptuous. I don't like romantic imagery with human likenesses, anyway."
He said gravely, handing over a small brown box of chocolates after Stella
opened her door. She had adjusted her maroon blouse, and he picked lint from
his brown cardigan for an uncomfortable moment before he'd unpredictably
chosen to deliver his introductory line.
This scene should start with Stella opening the door, then Clive handing her
the chocolates, then whatever they do during that uncomfortable moment, then
the line of dialogue. Keep it linear, in other words.
Also, I'm all for injecting color to please the eye but this can be
overdone. I would suggest that three color references in that one paragraph
is too much.
Plot and Characters
---------------------
While, as I said, I found your story concept original, I had problems with a
few of the characters and some of the leaps in plot.
In the end, you want us to believe that Leonard is the one that Frank wants
Stella to be with. But our introduction to Leonard has him hitting on Stella
shortly after her husband's funeral, with his being married to boot. This
does not make his character sympathetic, and in my opinion he has to be if
you want us to root for him. There are more subtle ways (through scenes) to
depict a budding attraction between Leonard and Stella that for moral
reasons they can't act upon.
With Brock, we start out with a stereotypical "bad boy" image, but then that
image is dispelled and we are led to believe it was all just a facade. But
if I am to suspend my disbelief that he would attack Stella in the fashion
you depict, I think those "bad boy" characteristics have to remain lurking
in the background. Characters need to evolve in a logical fashion during the
course of the story and for the most part do things that are within
character. The fact that Brock is a toad doesn't have to be painted in black
and white, but there has to be some reason why we'd believe he could shift
gears so radically--perhaps some office gossip that Stella chooses to
ignore. Or something.
With regard to plot advancement, there were several instances where I felt
things were rushed or didn't make sense. One was where Leonard shows up at
Stella's door to give her the funeral program and then suddenly is having
dinner with her, presumably while his wife is waiting for him at home. It
just didn't ring true. Another instance that comes to mind (and I think this
has already been mentioned by Miki) is where Carol calls Stella to tell her
she has the same unspecified ailment Frank had (BTW, too convenient, I'd
suggest, and why not name it?), and that she's already taken all the
treatments available and has only weeks to live. If the two women are as
close as the story suggests, then I find it unbelievable Stella wouldn't
have some inkling of this.
You have the makings of a story here, Derek, which could be made better if
you imbue your characters with more human qualities and show us those
qualities through scenes. Try to avoid stereotypes and caricaturish
depictions (e.g. Clive) in a dramatic piece. Stella's internal conflict
could also be better defined, I think. It may be difficult to show her
gradual metamorphosis from being too much in love with Frank to consider
other men, to taking the first steps toward a relationship again, in a story
under 3,000 words. Nevertheless, through scenes I think you could get us
there.
A few final comments: I didn't have a good handle on the age of these
characters; I think this could be made more explicit. Also, perhaps the idea
behind Frank's flowers could be enhanced by having the flowers do different
things each time she dates a different man. For example, with Clive they
could be in a sad droop; with Brock, they might be in a heightened, more
vivid state, almost like a warning. Just some thoughts.
I hope I haven't been too intrusive, Derek. Keep writing.
Best,
Dan