[June Challenge] The Needles Drip Blots of Blue (2494 Words)
Opus
many possibilities climbed out of my fucked up head, and I rolled this
over from June 1 until now and it stretched me until I think I popped
something. THANK YOU!
Anyway, hope you like. I'll give y'all the meanings after you've taken
guesses.
Opus
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
2494 Words
Dedicated to Barry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Life is a dance of the grotesque. Find the beauty bemused and you've
mastered your demons.
The blood gushed river-raging down my cheek, orchard sweet. Wine I'd
tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my juniour prom. We drank it on the
way home before he fucked me raw. I never told them . . .
"Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes flashed red like
Satan's scrotum.
I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated back to the pillow
as another blow locked with my head. I began to dream of far away
fields of clover and golden retrievers.
Sleep, child.
"Guess what? Today makes one year since the courts said you could live
with us. Isn't that *wonderful*?" Mrs. Lewis gave a thread-bare smile
when Mr. Lewis was around.
He sat proselytising to no one.
"After breakfast, we are taking you to the Museum. Wouldn't you like
that?" she asked with fear singeing her eyes.
Nodding was a way of life for me. Safer that way, I s'ppose.
But not today.
"The LORD has kept me from having children. Go, sleep with my
maidservant; perhaps I can build a family through her." He whispered in
my ear and shoved into me until he fell sweat-stained onto my padded
cell bed. He hiked up his pants.
I didn't look him in the eye -- it was still swollen blue from
yesterday.
"You are doing God's work here, my little maidservant. Get ready for
the museum. I'll be back to unlock the door when you're ready."
Mrs. Lewis watched from her hole in the wall.
The golden retriever jumped over the fence.
My mind ran rampant with joy at the museum. The paintings were full of
cheap-paint colours I adored. Cold marble felt good on my bare feet and
the air was like in our refrigerator. When "he" wasn't looking, I would
smile at Mrs. Lewis and she would muse-touch my shoulder. For an
instant, it was almost like . . .
We always had lunch in the café. I was allowed water or sometimes if I
was good, iced tea. Today I wasn't good. As they munched burgers I saw
pig teeth and giggled. I didn't mean to. He kicked my leg. I was
brave as the knot raised on my shin.
"Is anything wrong?" said the manager, whose head was twice its normal
size. "Did you just kick that child?"
Mrs. Lewis dropped her coward-head and Mr. Lewis lowered his fool one.
"No sir, I had a leg cramp and accidentally kicked his." I waited,
heart-leaden.
He ignored me. "If I ever see you touch that child again, I will have
you arrested." He didn't wait for an answer.
Mr. Lewis glared at me.
I'd never seen a man's bathroom before. It's not like I imagined. The
stalls are big enough for two people. I always got to wear dresses
cause they hid things better. This time lasted a long time, and the
hand-gagging kept me from making noise, so as not to "'mburrass the
family."
"My, doesn't she look pretty? What a beautiful young lady. I'll bet
the boys are lining up for you already. Dear, did you see that
beautiful golden retriever just jump through those clouds?"
The tile was cool. I was dizzy. He shoved me to stand up straight.
The whispering. "That you may tell your children and grandchildren how
I dealt harshly with the Egyptians and how I performed my signs among
them, and that you may know that I am the LORD."
He brushed my cheek.
I'll try harder.
Mrs. Lewis gave me sunglasses and we walked to the Van Goghs. I liked
one they called "Starry Night." It swirled and massed and danced and
eye-flirted with me. I stared at it so long the colours washed into
each other and began to drip.
"Will you behave yourself while we're over there?"
Another nod.
I resumed my game. Its circles hypnotic and beckoning. Endless.
Joyous and endless. I followed each brush stroke around the perimeter
of each star. I couldn't stop myself. Each stroke pushed me into the
next and the next and . . .
"May I swallow you whole?"
I turned but no one was there.
I resumed my star-gazing.
"Let me swallow you whole."
This time it exhaled from the painting, and I walked as close as they
would allow. I heard a euphony like ocean waves. It so soothed me that
I wanted to sleep-serene on its shores.
"Are you talking to me?" I answered my own question by assuming I was
now brain-busted.
"Your visits here are as welcome as a swallow in the spring." The voice
had a chime-like quality while still floating on top of the whooshing
wave, and I got greedy and wanted to hear more. It read my thoughts.
"And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort
in its truth and enter in." The lights from the stars began to pulsate
and I stared transfixed, the soporific combination of wave-chimes and
pulse-particles nearly tipping me over.
"Are you for real?" I sounded like I was in the third grade.
"Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d."
For a moment, the voice went quiet and I waited. Instead of soft-water
poetry, a wind began to blow the fields beneath the rotary sky, and as
the wind became louder, the grasses and trees swayed with such vehemence
that they overlapped the entire community below. Everything in the
painting increased in concentration: intensity of the starlight,
colours of the sky and field and the din of the wind. The painting was
coming to life!
I looked for my fosters, but they were still on the other side and
didn't notice me for once. Fear welled up and blow-punched every
thought in my head, making holes in my logic where meagre wisdom had
once resided. My heart began searing strips of pain as my breathing
laboured, but I was powerless to stop it.
Then, as if on cue, a golden retriever raced across the field, leaping
higher than any amber wave. He stopped and turned toward me, and wagged
his ragged tail as if he really saw me.
My heart leapt for joy and pushed a tear onto my face simultaneously,
and as I stared transfixed into his trusting eyes, I watched the canvas
getting closer, the frame drawing nearer, my body becoming smaller, and
the rope passing beneath my feet as I sailed toward the painting. I
closed my eyes and stifled a scream, but when I opened them, I was
standing in the field next to the golden retriever and he was licking my
face. I could feel it -- his hot breath on my tear-tracked cheek.
I turned back to see the gallery, but it was no longer there. Bright
blue and aquamarine fields surrounded me on every side, running stately
between the purple and black dwellings. I could still see each brush
stroke, only this time each was larger than me. The colours were so
intense and vivid that I felt if I had to look at one more, they would
cause my insides to ignite.
At that moment, the golden retriever nuzzled my hand and pointed upward
with his nose. I looked up.
There, shining above me, was Van Gogh's starry night -- his illumined
vision. The very sky I had lost myself in! The circular brushstrokes
began fading into solid colours that washed effortlessly over one
another, and oh the colours they were! Brazilian blacks, illicit
indigos, purples dripping with passion, saturnine stars . . .
"Welcome home."
It was the voice.
"Is this my home now? Will you never let me go?"
"Do you wish to go?"
The golden retriever licked my palm.
"It is time to sleep. You must prepare," said the voice again.
I wanted to ask for what, but suddenly I was so tired I couldn't stand.
The golden retriever lay down at the same time I began to fall, and my
head softly landed on his side.
At sometime during the night the voice awakened me with a chorus of
singing, and I got up and danced. The golden retriever morphed into a
man -- a handsome, rugged, dark long-haired man with gentle eyes and
touch. He placed his arms around me and we tangoed. He never stopped
staring into my eyes. We danced circles around trees, flower fields and
rivers; each measure accompanied by doves that flew from my chest, then
lit delicately on tree limbs as they watched our pas de deux.
When the song ended many hours later, the man leaned in slowly, placed a
hand to my hair and kissed me as softly as I'd ever imagined. He
lingered for a moment, pulled away, smiled deeply, and I watched him
turn slowly back into the golden retriever.
I arose the next morning to green fields, a gleaming sun, and hunger.
The food materialised as I wished it, and soon there was enough food for
ten. I shared with the golden retriever who hadn't left my side all
night. Above me, I was distracted by the sound of cooing doves. . .
"It is time," said the voice.
"For what?"
"You have much to do before they arrive."
The word "they" blood-boiled.
"Don't be afraid. Here, the sky obeys your commands."
A deep hum came from the forest behind me. As I turned, a soot-black
swarm of wasps, one mile wide, targeted me and ice-water ran up my
veins, certain it would drown my heart. I stood motionless as the swarm
came closer, growing in size and din. I looked for a body of water, but
remembered I couldn't swim. There were no caves, and no covering to
protect myself. So I did the only thing I knew to do.
"VOICE! HELP ME! What do I do?"
Silence.
Again, I pleaded as they swarmed closer.
Silence.
I begged once more.
"You have the strength within you. Use it."
"But I don't know ho . . ."
The wasps were upon me and I let out a throat-ripping scream. They flew
around me, above, between, chilling me to the bone. They dived bombed
for a relentless two minutes, and as they did, I felt an anger well up
from within. It felt foreign, as if I had red-hot goo in my belly, and
it spread to my extremities.
The wasps continued, but this time, I heard them laughing --
taunt-teasing my fear, and as the queen drew up in front of me, now as
large as an adult human, her eyes flashed green as she stared me down,
her wings creating an intimidating tumult.
For a moment, we both stared, neither moving. She advanced on me, her
stinger raised high and wings outstretched, and I'd had enough.
"STOP! NO MORE! You have no more power over me. Leave!"
She stopped forward-moving, beckoned to the swarm to return, and with a
final nod of her head to me in defeat, retreated to whence they came.
"Well done. Now."
I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb clues, but I
waited. At that moment, Mr. Lewis's voice rang over the once serene
flower-fields. I heard Mrs. Lewis crying. They rounded the corner of
the church, and were now standing in front of me. For an instant, the
golden retriever coward behind my legs, but I swallowed hard and
comforted him, then returned my steel gaze. I was on home turf now, and
I refused to be afraid.
"What are you doing here?" I said.
"Where in hell are we? Did YOU do this?"
"I did not, but don't think you didn't deserve it." My courage
continued to rise.
He became so indignant his fat face beeted up. "How DARE you speak to
me in such a manner." With that he advanced on me and in one stride was
in front of me, fists raised.
I did not cower. My hand made contact with his face and the knot on his
forehead sent him backwards. I braced for a second attempt, and he
delivered. He kicked his leg into what should have been my groin, but I
side-stepped him and laid my own boot into his crotch.
He folded like origami.
The doves, swallows and forest animals were laughing. So I laughed,
too.
"Have you had enough?" I said as he gasped.
"Why? After all I've done for you."
"Touché."
Mrs. Lewis spoke up. "I . . .I . . ."
"Can't stand to watch now, can ya?"
Mr. Lewis only coughed and she just stared dumbly.
The golden retriever began to circle me excitedly. The doves cooed even
louder.
"C'mon, you fat bastard! Bring it on!"
He shot up like a missile and charged me once more, with a force as
great as a hurricane. Again, I only braced, prepared to use his weight
against him. But this time I misjudged and he landed with his arms
locked around my windpipe, squeezing as hard as he could. He continued
squeezing and I began choking and gagging. He was close enough so that
I could smell the booze on his breath. I felt the air slip from me and
as I looked over the fields once more I saw them begin to dim, certain
my time had run out.
I noticed the golden retriever out of my eye's corner, and he wasn't
moving to help. As my eyesight drew darker, I pleaded with my eyes for
help.
He stood on his hind legs and into my ear, whispered, "Love yourself
enough to fight. You are worth it."
I looked back at the drink-ridden fat-bastard beet in front of me and
got pissed one more time. Raising my arms above my head, I brought them
down across his own and turned, loosening his grip on me. With a free
foot I kicked straight up behind me and into his crotch once more, which
sent him down a last time, passed out.
I fell to the ground exhausted, and the golden retriever licked my face
as the sky turned to night.
"How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as she tightened the
restraints.
"Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. Won't talk."
"She have any family?"
"She did, but they came up missing about two years ago and were never
found."
"It's a nice painting. Van Gogh, isn't it?"
"Starry Night."
Both of the nurses left, and the girl in the bed began to chuckle at the
painting and its two figures in the field who moved around like bugs in
a jar.
"You there?" she said.
A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay
down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping for the last two
years.
jeanannd
the little girl really is insane or not. The painting with two figures in
it, her adopted family who abused her missing...them? Her rage as the
only weapon she has against them in the end, most appropriate.
--
^ ^
>"< jeanannd
/ I \ /
\ / I \/
"Opus" <opus...@bloomcounty.com> wrote in message
news:3EEEAEB2...@bloomcounty.com...
Wind River
>
> Opus
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
> Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
> 2494 Words
>
> Dedicated to Barry.
Uh-oh. I'm not reading any further. Okay, I will, but only peeking from
behind my fingers.
> Life is a dance of the grotesque. Find the beauty bemused and you've
> mastered your demons.
>
> The blood gushed river-raging
Hah, appealing to the challenge setter, eh?
> down my cheek, orchard sweet. Wine I'd
> tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my juniour prom. We drank it on the
> way home before he fucked me raw. I never told them .
Junior?
<snipped>
> Mrs. Lewis gave me sunglasses and we walked to the Van Goghs. I liked
> one they called "Starry Night." It swirled and massed and danced and
> eye-flirted with me. I stared at it so long the colours washed into
> each other and began to drip.
That painting really does eye-flirt.
I don't completely understand this one, but I don't think it would be as
effective if I did. When you're writing from within someone's mind, it
has to be about their thoughts and visions. There are some wonderful
images in this story, Opus. I like the way you wrote it with a
sprinkling of BobWisms. That works well for all us AFOers who know his
style and appreciate it. Well done.
-Sue
Quadpus
> the museum. I'll be back to unlock the door when you're ready."
Inconsistent capitalization of "museum."
> He ignored me. "If I ever see you touch that child again, I will have
> you arrested." He didn't wait for an answer.
Puzzling. Kicking somebody under the table is a time-honored way of
surrepetitiously getting somebody attention; I'd think Mr. Lewis would
really have to wallop her to get the manager all incensed like this.
> I'd never seen a man's bathroom before. It's not like I imagined. The
> stalls are big enough for two people.
You're right, you've never seen a man's bathroom before.
> The whispering. "That you may tell your children and grandchildren how
> I dealt harshly with the Egyptians and how I performed my signs among
> them, and that you may know that I am the LORD."
What I'm getting so far: foster parent/guardian with a twisted Abraham
complex is beating/raping his charge; the golden retriever is a mental
escape device, something that represents happiness/freedom/the way
childhood ought to be.
> For a moment, the voice went quiet and I waited. Instead of soft-water
> poetry, a wind began to blow the fields beneath the rotary sky, and as
> the wind became louder, the grasses and trees swayed with such vehemence
> that they overlapped the entire community below. Everything in the
> painting increased in concentration: intensity of the starlight,
> colours of the sky and field and the din of the wind. The painting was
> coming to life!
"We were an hour outside of Barstow when the mescaline kicked in..."
> There, shining above me, was Van Gogh's starry night -- his illumined
> vision. The very sky I had lost myself in!
I wonder if this is necessary. It seems evident before this that she has
entered the painting.
> The wasps were upon me and I let out a throat-ripping scream. They flew
> around me, above, between, chilling me to the bone. They dived bombed
> for a relentless two minutes, and as they did, I felt an anger well up
> from within.
dive-bombed
> The wasps continued, but this time, I heard them laughing -- taunt-teasing
Sometimes even Bob slings the hyphenated neologies around just a bit too
much for my tastes, now that everybody else is starting to do it, I think
I've hit my saturation point.
> She stopped forward-moving, beckoned to the swarm to return, and with a
> final nod of her head to me in defeat, retreated to whence they came.
I sense a recursion to the protagonist's nodding early in the story, but
if that's intended it could be more emphatic.
> I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb clues, but I
> waited. At that moment, Mr. Lewis's voice rang over the once serene
> flower-fields. I heard Mrs. Lewis crying. They rounded the corner of
> the church, and were now standing in front of me. For an instant, the
> golden retriever coward behind my legs, but I swallowed hard and
> comforted him, then returned my steel gaze. I was on home turf now, and
> I refused to be afraid.
cowered
> "How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as she tightened the
> restraints.
Aww, back to reality.
> "Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. Won't talk."
How can she be in restraints in (I presume) some care facility somewhere
and keep staring at the picture at the same time?
> "It's a nice painting. Van Gogh, isn't it?"
>
> "Starry Night."
It was all just a dream...
> Both of the nurses left, and the girl in the bed began to chuckle at the
> painting and its two figures in the field who moved around like bugs in
> a jar.
...Or was it?
> A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay
> down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping for the last two
> years.
It's a nice magical-realist revenge fantasy, but it loses some of its
charm when it turns into a chop-socky brawl between abuser and abusee.
There's some beautiful imagery and symbolism at play here, though -- it
was a pleasure to read.
Opus
> much for my tastes, now that everybody else is starting to do it, I think
> I've hit my saturation point.
>
in love with alliteration and language fuck, as it were. And I don't
know what everyone else is doing, as I'm severely behind in my reading,
so I assure you, it wasn't a mimicry attempt.
Thanks for reading; will take serious time with all replies soon. I
just didn't want you to leave with the impression that I wrote any of
this, or in any particular style, for Bob's benefit only, or that I
wasn't creative enough on my own to come up with an original style.
O
--
"Thank you for your submission. We are not interested in your work at
this time. That doesn't mean we didn't laugh, it just means we didn't
laugh hard enough." --Carla's rejection letter number 5.
http://www.carlarene.com
http://www.opusgraphics.net
Quadpus
>
> Starting? Um, I guess you've not read too much of my stuff, then. I'm
> in love with alliteration and language fuck, as it were. And I don't
> know what everyone else is doing, as I'm severely behind in my reading,
> so I assure you, it wasn't a mimicry attempt.
Er, sorry. I try to read as much as I can from everybody, but it's not
easy to keep track of everyone's stylistic traits and when they developed
them. I have been seeing more of these hyphenated constructions lately,
though, and in those cases were people are using them when they hadn't
previously, I suspect it's Bob's influence. No surprise there, and no
problem, really -- it's natural that a great writer like Bob, with such a
strong, idiosyncratic voice, should have that affect on people.
Wind River
Many of us did it this month to celebrate Bob's challenge. I thought
that's why you were doing too, Opus. My apologies if my crit was
offensive in that regard.
Don't worry, Quad, my writing will return to my own style (whatever that
is) next month.
-Sue
Alaric
"Wind River" <wind...@voyager.net> wrote in message
news:3EF0B997...@voyager.net...
I'm heart-tickled to lug-noise it.
Anopheles
"Opus" wrote:
> WestyB, I had a ton of fun thinking of what to do for this one. Oh so
> many possibilities climbed out of my fucked up head, and I rolled this
> over from June 1 until now and it stretched me until I think I popped
> something. THANK YOU!
>
> Anyway, hope you like. I'll give y'all the meanings after you've taken
> guesses.
>
> Opus
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
> Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
> 2494 Words
>
> Dedicated to Barry.
OK, I'm being set up here. I'm feeling nervous.
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
> Life is a dance of the grotesque.
Hit me for a home run in the first sentence. Like it.
>Find the beauty bemused and you've
> mastered your demons.
Sounds good but what does it mean?
> The blood gushed river-raging down my cheek, orchard sweet. Wine I'd
> tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my juniour prom. We drank it on the
> way home before he fucked me raw. I never told them . . .
junior.
Here's another woman imitating Westy to gain advantage. Slowly but surely,
we're all going to sound like him. Not that that's a bad thing....
> "Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes flashed red like
> Satan's scrotum.
You've dated him, too?
> I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated back to the pillow
> as another blow locked with my head. I began to dream of far away
> fields of clover and golden retrievers.
Love it.
> Sleep, child.
>
> "Guess what? Today makes one year since the courts said you could live
> with us. Isn't that *wonderful*?" Mrs. Lewis gave a thread-bare smile
> when Mr. Lewis was around.
threadbare
> He sat proselytising to no one.
>
> "After breakfast, we are taking you to the Museum. Wouldn't you like
> that?" she asked with fear singeing her eyes.
singeing? Burning eyes has metaphoric provenance but singeing would be taken
more literally.
> Nodding was a way of life for me. Safer that way, I s'ppose.
>
> But not today.
>
> "The LORD has kept me from having children. Go, sleep with my
> maidservant; perhaps I can build a family through her." He whispered in
> my ear and shoved into me until he fell sweat-stained onto my padded
> cell bed. He hiked up his pants.
>
> I didn't look him in the eye -- it was still swollen blue from
> yesterday.
Whose eye? Ambiguous.
eye-flirted? You're shameless.
> "Will you behave yourself while we're over there?"
>
> Another nod.
>
> I resumed my game. Its circles hypnotic and beckoning. Endless.
> Joyous and endless. I followed each brush stroke around the perimeter
> of each star. I couldn't stop myself. Each stroke pushed me into the
> next and the next and . . .
>
> "May I swallow you whole?"
>
> I turned but no one was there.
>
> I resumed my star-gazing.
>
> "Let me swallow you whole."
>
> This time it exhaled from the painting, and I walked as close as they
> would allow. I heard a euphony like ocean waves. It so soothed me that
> I wanted to sleep-serene on its shores.
>
> "Are you talking to me?" I answered my own question by assuming I was
> now brain-busted.
>
> "Your visits here are as welcome as a swallow in the spring." The voice
> had a chime-like quality while still floating on top of the whooshing
> wave, and I got greedy and wanted to hear more. It read my thoughts.
>
> "And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort
> in its truth and enter in." The lights from the stars began to pulsate
> and I stared transfixed, the soporific combination of wave-chimes and
> pulse-particles nearly tipping me over.
ye? (See below)
> "Are you for real?" I sounded like I was in the third grade.
>
> "Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
> Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd."
>
> For a moment, the voice went quiet and I waited. Instead of soft-water
> poetry, a wind began to blow the fields beneath the rotary sky, and as
> the wind became louder, the grasses and trees swayed with such vehemence
> that they overlapped the entire community below. Everything in the
> painting increased in concentration: intensity of the starlight,
> colours of the sky and field and the din of the wind. The painting was
> coming to life!
Impressive.
Strange things to say first up.
Goo? No, not *goo*, it spoils the ambience. Try molten lead, melted wax,
etc.
> The wasps continued, but this time, I heard them laughing --
> taunt-teasing my fear, and as the queen drew up in front of me, now as
> large as an adult human, her eyes flashed green as she stared me down,
> her wings creating an intimidating tumult.
>
> For a moment, we both stared, neither moving. She advanced on me, her
> stinger raised high and wings outstretched, and I'd had enough.
>
> "STOP! NO MORE! You have no more power over me. Leave!"
>
> She stopped forward-moving, beckoned to the swarm to return, and with a
> final nod of her head to me in defeat, retreated to whence they came.
>
> "Well done. Now."
>
> I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb clues, but I
> waited. At that moment, Mr. Lewis's voice rang over the once serene
> flower-fields. I heard Mrs. Lewis crying. They rounded the corner of
> the church, and were now standing in front of me. For an instant, the
> golden retriever coward behind my legs, but I swallowed hard and
> comforted him, then returned my steel gaze. I was on home turf now, and
> I refused to be afraid.
cowed.
> "What are you doing here?" I said.
>
> "Where in hell are we? Did YOU do this?"
>
> "I did not, but don't think you didn't deserve it." My courage
> continued to rise.
>
> He became so indignant his fat face beeted up. "How DARE you speak to
> me in such a manner." With that he advanced on me and in one stride was
> in front of me, fists raised.
>
> I did not cower. My hand made contact with his face and the knot on his
> forehead sent him backwards. I braced for a second attempt, and he
> delivered. He kicked his leg into what should have been my groin, but I
> side-stepped him and laid my own boot into his crotch.
>
> He folded like origami.
Nice. His swan song?
> The doves, swallows and forest animals were laughing. So I laughed,
> too.
>
> "Have you had enough?" I said as he gasped.
>
> "Why? After all I've done for you."
>
> "Touché."
>
> Mrs. Lewis spoke up. "I . . .I . . ."
>
> "Can't stand to watch now, can ya?"
>
> Mr. Lewis only coughed and she just stared dumbly.
>
> The golden retriever began to circle me excitedly. The doves cooed even
> louder.
>
> "C'mon, you fat bastard! Bring it on!"
>
> He shot up like a missile and charged me once more, with a force as
> great as a hurricane. Again, I only braced, prepared to use his weight
> against him. But this time I misjudged and he landed with his arms
> locked around my windpipe, squeezing as hard as he could. He continued
> squeezing and I began choking and gagging. He was close enough so that
> I could smell the booze on his breath. I felt the air slip from me and
> as I looked over the fields once more I saw them begin to dim, certain
> my time had run out.
>
> I noticed the golden retriever out of my eye's corner, and he wasn't
> moving to help. As my eyesight drew darker, I pleaded with my eyes for
> help.
Ambiguity alert on last.
> He stood on his hind legs and into my ear, whispered, "Love yourself
> enough to fight. You are worth it."
>
> I looked back at the drink-ridden fat-bastard beet in front of me and
> got pissed one more time. Raising my arms above my head, I brought them
> down across his own and turned, loosening his grip on me. With a free
> foot I kicked straight up behind me and into his crotch once more, which
> sent him down a last time, passed out.
>
> I fell to the ground exhausted, and the golden retriever licked my face
> as the sky turned to night.
Needs spacer here.
> "How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as she tightened the
> restraints.
>
> "Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. Won't talk."
>
> "She have any family?"
>
> "She did, but they came up missing about two years ago and were never
> found."
>
> "It's a nice painting. Van Gogh, isn't it?"
>
> "Starry Night."
>
> Both of the nurses left, and the girl in the bed began to chuckle at the
> painting and its two figures in the field who moved around like bugs in
> a jar.
>
> "You there?" she said.
>
> A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay
> down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping for the last two
> years.
>
Well, deep and meaningful aplenty, Opie. Lots to chew on here. Some quite
enchanting use of words.
I think the dog is the girl's own spirit. It is clearly the focus of the
piece. It alone can do the things she longs to do. It is her alter ego. The
two fosters? Well, unless we're into a magic session here, I suggest she
killed them both.
The Van Gogh? Well it ties in with the dog. Animals are symbols of the anima
and in this case the anima is free, if timid, with the nature of the dog.
The painting reflects this because the main feature are the moon and stars.
These, too, are *self* symbols but they are of higher order, free of the
manipulation of man. It is interesting to recall that Vince painted this not
in Arles but in the mental institution which reflects the girl's situation.
Thanks for the dedication. I'm extremely flattered.
Nicely done, Opie.
*** Ye ****
I may be going over trod ground but *Ye* was never used as a word. The error
was made by semi-literate religious types. The printers used the Thorn
character in place of the *th* and this was mistaken for a *y*. This gave
birth to the word, *ye* to replace the actual *thee* that was meant. Hence,
characters that use *Ye* are not genuine.
End of lecturing.
Anopheles
doc
> *** Ye ****
>
> I may be going over trod ground but *Ye* was never used as a word. The
> error was made by semi-literate religious types. The printers used the
> Thorn character in place of the *th* and this was mistaken for a *y*.
> This gave birth to the word, *ye* to replace the actual *thee* that was
> meant. Hence, characters that use *Ye* are not genuine.
>
> End of lecturing.
>
> Anopheles
And "Ye" was always pronounced with the "th" during the period of its use,
because the thorn represented the "th" sound in Old and Middle English
characters. It's only today that we've come full circle and misspell *and*
mispronounce it. "Ye" as a pronoun for "you" is OK, though, pronounced with
the "y" sound.
End of everything. Run.
doc
Seymour Grass
"doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
news:20030618195236.213$Lt...@newsreader.com...
| "Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote:
| > *** Ye ****
| >
| > I may be going over trod ground but *Ye* was never used as a word. The
| > error was made by semi-literate religious types.
You are saying that Lancelot Andrewes and the other scholar-translators of
the King James Authorized version were "semi-literate"? Or, okay you're
going to say that this 'ye' business was due to printer error . . .
| > The printers used the
| > Thorn character in place of the *th* and this was mistaken for a *y*.
| > This gave birth to the word, *ye* to replace the actual *thee* that was
| > meant.
Actually not. In proper Elizabethan usage, as any who have spent time with
Shakespeare will over time have perceived, "thee" is never properly used in
the nominative and accusative case of the noun, as wrongly e.g. "Thee art
the one." The usage to be correct is "Thou art the one." The word "thee"
is to be used most usually in the genitive and dative case, when its like
*you* (the second person pronoun) preceded by a preposition or as an object,
direct or indirect, as e.g. "To thee, I shall bow, m'lord." Or in the
genitive case, "It is over by thee." Or, "It has come from thee." You would
not say, ". . . over by thou." The word "thou" is the nominative case when
*you* is the subject, but when *you* is in the predicate the correct choice
is "thee".
You are repeating an old wives tale. What you say makes of Shakespeare and
the biblical translators, even their publishers, idiots who (according to
you) are saying with John the Baptist, "Thee are a generation of vipers?"
Not. The pronoun 'ye' cannot translate to 'thee', as rather it would, in
the singular be correct only as "thou art a generation of vipers." But his
address is to the plural "thou" which is 'ye' as in fact, he is translated
as having said, "Ye are a generation . . ." Clearly, the word 'ye' is used
as a way to say, y'all, to address nominatively or accusatively more than
one person, more than one 'thou'. When a tavern owner posts his sign, 'Ye
Olde Boar's Tusk Pub", he is, after colloquial fashion saying, "Your Old
Boar's Tusk."
Now suppose you just take that scapegoating tusk of yours out of the hide of
the religious establishment for once, if only long enough to be told in no
uncertain terms that there are scholars in the Catholic and Anglican schools
who could teach the likes of a prejudiced floppy-eared hippety-hopper like
thou into a corner any time, in any day of any century you can name--and
then some.
Now, there's the big overgrown Bunny Trail, Nophie--Use it!
--
John http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/ http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8/
"They held even this, thus: namely, True Nature is that which does not
mislead another. And Wisdom is that which does not mislead itself. And
Conscientiousness is that which when it recognizes virtue, performs it." --
Zoroaster
Seymour Grass
"Seymour Grass" <JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote in message
news:bcr125$luqgt$1...@ID-167346.news.dfncis.de...
Correction?
| Now suppose you just take that scapegoating tusk of yours out of the hide
of
| the religious establishment for once, if only long enough to be told in no
| uncertain terms that there are scholars in the Catholic and Anglican
schools
| who could teach the likes of a prejudiced floppy-eared hippety-hopper like
| thou . . .
Ahem. Perhaps that should be "thee", since Nophie is the direct object and
not the nominative subject. But as the second person pronoun for *you* is
written here in the accusative case of a direct object that could further
define the matter as to leave (as a general rule) "thee" strictly to the
province of an indirect object.
For myself, this has been a study that proceeds pretty much by ear, and by a
memory of cases. I've never seen it specifically addressed in any grammar,
although I'm sure one might be found that does so analyze the matter.
I feel fairly certain that "like thee" is by far the more preferable form
over "like thou".
--
JP
Pat J. O'Brien
> Not. The pronoun 'ye' cannot translate to 'thee', as rather it would, in
> the singular be correct only as "thou art a generation of vipers." But
his
> address is to the plural "thou" which is 'ye' as in fact, he is translated
> as having said, "Ye are a generation . . ." Clearly, the word 'ye' is
used
> as a way to say, y'all, to address nominatively or accusatively more than
> one person, more than one 'thou'. When a tavern owner posts his sign, 'Ye
> Olde Boar's Tusk Pub", he is, after colloquial fashion saying, "Your Old
> Boar's Tusk."
I don't think so. /thorn/e was an Old and Middle English article, the
ancestor of our word "the." The thorn as written did look a lot like a y,
and was in fact often typeset incorrectly. When a pub keeper, in an effort
to be quaint, hangs a sign that reads, "Ye Olde Pub," she means, "The Old
Pub." The etymology of the second person pronoun is a different story.
--Pat
Anopheles
Not quite! We're both wrong according to the OCD.
Anopheles
Anopheles
Damnit! That shitty old Oxford Concise got it wrong again.
Anopheles
"Seymour Grass" wrote:
>
> "Seymour Grass" <JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote in message
> news:bcr125$luqgt$1...@ID-167346.news.dfncis.de...
>
> Correction?
No comment.
Seymour Grass
"Seymour Grass" <JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote in message
| For myself, this has been a study that proceeds pretty much by ear, and by
a
| memory of cases. I've never seen it specifically addressed in any grammar,
| although I'm sure one might be found that does so analyze the matter.
See the discussion here . . .
http://www.linguistlist.org/~ask-ling/archive-most-recent/msg06230.html
--
JP David http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8
http://jpdavid.bravepages.com/index.html
"To be spoken of, but not spoken to--is delightful!" -- Oscar Wilde in
Paris, upon his release from Reading Gaol
Seymour Grass
"Pat J. O'Brien" <MarlonB...@hotmail.com> wrote in message
news:hjcIa.27825$Fa6.18780@sccrnsc02...
| I don't think so. /thorn/e was an Old and Middle English article, the
| ancestor of our word "the."
Then what are you going to make of this . . .
http://www.linguistlist.org/~ask-ling/archive-most-recent/msg06230.html
"The second person plural forms were 'ye' in the nominative, 'your/yours' in
the genitive, and 'you' in the objective case. "
"Seeking to know is only too often learning to doubt." -- Antoinette du
Ligier de la Garde Deshoulieres (1638-1694), French poet
doc
> Not quite! We're both wrong according to the OCD.
>
> Anopheles
Wow! What are the odds of THAT!
Ummm . . .
. . . does this mean that Jerv was right?
doc
(let's see: a bottle of sleeping pills, a razor to the wrist, or a 12 ga.
between the eyes? Choices, choices . . . . )
doc
> "Seymour Grass" wrote:
> >
> >
> > Now, there's the big overgrown Bunny Trail, Nophie--Use it!
>
> Damnit! That shitty old Oxford Concise got it wrong again.
Yeah. Score another one for Jerv's Bantam Pocket Crossword Puzzle
Dictionary.
doc
Patrick Null
And, yes, I DO have my venom goggles and my toxic suit on, so don't even
THINK about spitting in my general direction.
Heh.
Let's see what you have.
"Opus" <opus...@bloomcounty.com> wrote in message
news:3EEEAEB2...@bloomcounty.com...
> WestyB, I had a ton of fun thinking of what to do for >this one. Oh so
> many possibilities climbed out of my fucked up head, >and I rolled this
> over from June 1 until now and it stretched me until I >think I popped
> something. THANK YOU!
>
> Anyway, hope you like. I'll give y'all the meanings >after you've taken
> guesses.
>
> Opus
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
> Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
> 2494 Words
>
> Dedicated to Barry.
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hey, Opus, this was fantastic. Hardly any nits from me. This is so tight
that if it was a belt, it would squueze my nuts off.
>
> Life is a dance of the grotesque. Find the beauty >bemused and you've
> mastered your demons.
Love this opening paragraph. Bam! And you've hooked me right off the bat.
I like "bemused" for some reason.
>
> The blood gushed river-raging down my cheek, >orchard sweet. Wine I'd
> tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my juniour
junior
>prom. We drank it on the
> way home before he fucked me raw. I never told >them . . .
Wow, I hafta tell you, the "fucked me raw" just says everything for me.
It's hard to encapsulate a sex scene so beautifully(or not so beautifully as
the case may be lol) in a sentence let alone three words so congratulations
are in order.
>
> "Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes >flashed red like
> Satan's scrotum.
>
> I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated >back to the pillow
> as another blow locked with my head. I began to >dream of far away
> fields of clover and golden retrievers.
At first, I didn't realize he had hit her. I thought it was a migraine
pounding in her skull or something. Not a critique, just an observation.
> "After breakfast, we are taking you to the Museum. >Wouldn't you like
> that?" she asked with fear singeing her eyes.
Is "singeing" a word?
> "The LORD has kept me from having children. Go, >sleep with my
> maidservant; perhaps I can build a family through her." >He whispered in
> my ear and shoved into me until he fell sweat-stained >onto my padded
> cell bed. He hiked up his pants.
Atrocious.
> Mrs. Lewis watched from her hole in the wall.
Interesting. I didn't take from the text that she was a prisoner as well,
but this line makes it sound like she is.
> "Is anything wrong?" said the manager, whose head >was twice its normal
> size. "Did you just kick that child?"
I dunno, Opus, this seems to pre-planned by the author. As if he would be
watching or come walking along at the same time she gets kicked. I would
take the manager bit out, since it doesn't seem to have any relevance later
on. And if it's a device to have her get raped yet again(for that's her
punishment for making a fool of him), I would make this part more seamless,
or give the "fat bastard" a different reason.
> I'd never seen a man's bathroom before. It's not like I >imagined. The
> stalls are big enough for two people.
Nope, only the handi-capped ones.
> I always got to wear dresses
> cause they hid things better. This time lasted a long >time, and the
> hand-gagging kept me from making noise, so as not to >"'mburrass the
> family."
Jesus Christ. You're doing your job well, Opus. I can't stand him.
> "Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
> Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness >unquell'd."
Oooohhhh......nice.
>Everything in the
> painting increased in concentration: intensity of the >starlight,
> colours of the sky and field and the din of the wind. >The painting was
> coming to life!
I would delete this last line. It's pretty obvious what's happening.
> "Welcome home."
>
> It was the voice.
>
> "Is this my home now? Will you never let me go?"
I would think the first question she would ask is "what just happened to
me?" or "who are you?"
> "You have much to do before they arrive."
>
> The word "they" blood-boiled.
Nice last line.
> I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb >clues,
plastic? Maybe something associated with painting since that's where she
is?
>They rounded the corner of
> the church,
This church just comes out of nowhere cause you never mentioned it before.
I think it's the word "the" that's doing it, because "the" always assigns
some sort of importance to an object. Maybe A church?
> He became so indignant his fat face beeted up. "How >DARE you speak to
> me in such a manner."
Is he speaking calmly, almost in a menacing whisper? Or is he so outraged
that he's shouting? I wonder if an exclamation mark would work better.
>With that
Comma
>he advanced on me and in one stride was
> in front of me, fists raised.
I thought they were already in front of her.
> He folded like origami.
Don't know if I like this simile. A simple "he crumpled" would, I think,
work better.
>
> The doves, swallows and forest animals were >laughing. So I laughed,
> too.
Heh.
>
> "Have you had enough?" I said as he gasped.
>
> "Why? After all I've done for you."
>
> "Touché."
Don't know if I get the "touche." And it seems an awfully calm response
after what she had just gone through at the hands of this monster.
> He was close enough so that
> I could smell the booze on his breath.
Why are all fat bastards alcoholics? :-)
> I looked back at the drink-ridden fat-bastard beet
You keep repeating that he's a fat bastard. I think we get the point.
>in front of me and
> got pissed one more time.
The "got pissed" is awfully telly. Normally, I wouldn't mind, but I was so
spellbound by your language throughout this story that this telly phrase
seems out of place.
>Raising my arms above my head, I brought them
> down across his own and turned, loosening his grip on >me.
And he turned? he loosened his grip on me? It seems like there's a word or
two missing.
>With a free
> foot
Comma
>I kicked straight up behind me and into his crotch once >more, which
> sent him down a last time, passed out.
>
> I fell to the ground exhausted, and the golden retriever >licked my face
> as the sky turned to night.
>
> "How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as >she tightened the
> restraints.
>
> "Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. >Won't talk."
>
> "She have any family?"
>
> "She did, but they came up missing about two years >ago and were never
> found."
>
> "It's a nice painting. Van Gogh, isn't it?"
>
> "Starry Night."
>
> Both of the nurses left, and the girl in the bed began to >chuckle at the
> painting and its two figures in the field who moved >around like bugs in
> a jar.
>
> "You there?" she said.
>
> A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the >golden retriever lay
> down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping >for the last two
> years.
I've already written my critique, but I just noticed something on a second
read through. Her parents have been dead for four years. The golden
retriever has only been there for two years. So, that leaves me to wonder
if she killed her parents BEFORE she ever saw the painting. And if so, she
developed her courage long before she met her dog. And if that's the case,
she is imagining his death over and over again in the painting. Anyway, the
rest of my critique.
I liked this, Opus! Really liked it. My only general comment is that I
think you explained too much at the end, not leaving it ambiguous enough.
That'll probably be my downfall too, but it's easier to spot it in other
people's works than my own.
For instance, I might have left it like this:
"How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as she tightened the
restraints.
"Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. Won't talk."
"She have any family?"
"She did."
But that's just me.
What does it mean? Here's my thoughts: she killed her family. That much
is obvious. I don't think she did it through the painting, though. She
only used it as a vehicle, an inspirational touch of courage because she
couldn't find it within herself. The painting, the Starry sky, represents
freedom, a way to remove her shackles and roam free through the fields
without worries. Her continuous rape damaged her psychologically, and she
continues to find hope and companionship(for that's what the golden
retriever represents-she's never had a friend before) in the painting, even
though her parents are now dead.
Good one, Opus.
Take care.
Alaric
I'm really gonna hate it.
John is nnnnn...rrrr...
John is nnnnnnn...
John is rrrrrr...
rrrrrr....
Right.
There. Got it out.
The issue, surely, ain't the Oxford or any web site. The issue is usage. In
fact, someone said it's never used. I'm here to tell you that in the north
of England it is. Widely. I use it in pub talk. Thee, thou, ye, aye, they're
all still common tongue in good ol' Oldham.
But (phew, I can disagree with him) it isn't as limited in use. It can be
singular ("Are ye coming?" or "An accountant? Ye? Do me a favour.") That's
rare, though - it's an old man's usage. Much more common is plural ("Ye
Rochdale folk are w***ers" or "You lot are going where? Well, I'm goin'
nowhere with ye?") An odd differential is that in the first example the end
sound would be "ee" whereas in the second it would be "e" as in "yes."
EXAMPLES (NORTHERN POEMS):
O! What do ye Wesh i' the Beck
George H. Cowling
"O! What do ye wesh i' the beck, awd wench?
Is it watter ye lack at heame?"
It's nobbut a murderer's shrood, young man,
A shrood for to cover his weam.(1)
"O! what do ye cut i' the slack, awd hag?
Is it fencin' ye lack for your beas'(2)?"
It's nobbut a murderer's coffin, sir,
A coffin to felt(3) his feace."
"O! what do ye greaye(4) at the crossroads, witch?
Is it roots ye lack for your swine?"
"It's nobbut a murderer's grave, fair sir,
A grave for to bury him fine."
"An' whea be-owes(5) coffin an' shrood, foul witch?
An' wheas is the grave i' the grass?"
"This spell I hae woven for thee, dear hairt,
Coom, kill me, an' bring it to pass."
Other 'xamples on t'same page:-
http://www.hyphenologist.co.uk/songs/ydp.html#O!%20What%20do%20ye%20Wesh%20i
'%20the
--
"Over the years, I've only seen a couple of sigs which actually were worth
reading, and almost none of them have any relevance to the post they're
attached to."
Doc Farquar
"doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
news:20030619112017.820$t...@newsreader.com...
Opus
And I'll add to this the original passage that started this all for Barry:
> "And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort
> in its truth and enter in."
>
Barry, this passage is indeed Keats, so I think he would beg to differ on your
summation that Ye is not a real word.
Opus, hoping there is now an end to this stupidness
jeanannd
"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:bct033$7g1$1...@hercules.btinternet.com...
> I'm gonna hate this.
>
> I'm really gonna hate it.
>
> John is nnnnn...rrrr...
>
> John is nnnnnnn...
>
> John is rrrrrr...
>
> rrrrrr....
>
> Right.
>
> There. Got it out.
>
> The issue, surely, ain't the Oxford or any web site. The issue is usage.
In
> fact, someone said it's never used. I'm here to tell you that in the north
> of England it is. Widely. I use it in pub talk. Thee, thou, ye, aye,
they're
> all still common tongue in good ol' Oldham.
>
> But (phew, I can disagree with him) it isn't as limited in use. It can be
> singular ("Are ye coming?" or "An accountant? Ye? Do me a favour.") That's
> rare, though - it's an old man's usage. Much more common is plural ("Ye
> Rochdale folk are w***ers" or "You lot are going where? Well, I'm goin'
> nowhere with ye?") An odd differential is that in the first example the
end
> sound would be "ee" whereas in the second it would be "e" as in "yes."
I like The Croc Hunter. An online friend of mine in Australia, tells me
most Australians consider Steve Austin - The Croc Hunter, a wanker. So
guess it's a common phrase in Australia too.
jeanannd
As I'm not an English teacher I decided to put Ye in the Online dictionary
for the American Heritage Dictionary. The results were: DEFINITE ARTICLE:
Archaic The.
ETYMOLOGY: Misreading of ye, from Middle English [thorn]e, spelling of the,
the (using the letter thorn).
USAGE NOTE: In an attempt to seem quaint or old-fashioned, many store signs
such as "Ye Olde Coffee Shoppe" use spellings that are no longer current.
The word ye in such signs looks identical to the archaic second plural
pronoun ye, but it is in fact not the same word. Ye in "Ye Olde Coffee
Shoppe" is just an older spelling of the definite article the. The y in this
ye was never pronounced (y) but was rather the result of improvisation by
early printers. In Old English and early Middle English, the sound (th) was
represented by the letter thorn ([thorn]). When printing presses were first
set up in England in the 1470s, the type and the typesetters all came from
Continental Europe, where this letter was not in use. The letter y was used
instead because in the handwriting of the day the thorn was very similar to
y. Thus we see such spellings as ye for the, yt or yat for that, and so on
well into the 19th century. However, the modern revival of the archaic
spelling of the has not been accompanied by a revival of the knowledge of
how it was pronounced, with the result that (y) is the usual pronunciation
today.
Well that's what the online dictionary says anyway.
--
^ ^
>"< jeanannd
/ I \ /
\ / I \/
"Opus" <opus...@bloomcounty.com> wrote in message
news:3EF20D38...@bloomcounty.com...
Opus
> most Australians consider Steve Austin - The Croc Hunter, a wanker. So
> guess it's a common phrase in Australia too.
>
told me the resident anopheles.
Opus
jeanannd
> > An online friend of mine in Australia, tells me
> > most Australians consider Steve Austin - The Croc Hunter, a wanker.
So
> > guess it's a common phrase in Australia too.
> >
> Tosser is the most widely-used in Australia for the same meaning. Or so
> told me the resident anopheles.
>
> Opus
Does Tosser mean the same thing as Wanker?
Opus
O
jeanannd wrote:
> > Tosser is the most widely-used in Australia for the same meaning. Or so
> > told me the resident anopheles.
> >
> > Opus
>
> Does Tosser mean the same thing as Wanker?
>
--
doc
> Well that's what the online dictionary says anyway.
Well, that agrees with what I learned way back in the Dark Ages (high
school). Had an English teacher who loved these little oddities and
miscromprehensions.
Here's another one. Ever here someone describe one of their strengths as
their "forte?" As in, "I did well in the math test, but I expected to.
After all, math is my forte." Most people pronounce "forte" as for-tay, but
it's actually closer to fort or fart; forte (for-tay) means loud in music.
Cheers!
doc
jeanannd
Yes, have heard people use forte often. Had no idea it means loud in music
or the pronunciation was different. Thank you, I love learning things like
this every now and then. :)
Anopheles
"Opus" wrote:
> > An online friend of mine in Australia, tells me
> > most Australians consider Steve Austin - The Croc Hunter, a wanker.
So
> > guess it's a common phrase in Australia too.
> >
> Tosser is the most widely-used in Australia for the same meaning. Or so
> told me the resident anopheles.
Never believe that wanker. Tosser is UK.
Opus
of you two wankers...
Opus
Anopheles wrote:
--
Anopheles
Ouch! I bet that hurt.
Looks like this is getting to the OK Corral stage.
Before it does, I never meant to suggest it wasn't used, only that it was
used under a misunderstanding.
I cannot argue on behalf of the north of England where a lot of other funny
anachronisms continue.
If the thorn character was mistaken as a "y" in the word "thee", one gets
"yee" not "thee".
jeanannd
"Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
news:bctbmu$n8h97$1...@ID-34438.news.dfncis.de...
vegamite outside of Australia. I order
mine from a local import gourmet store. (blame an Australian friend for
sending some to me to try).
doc
> "Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
> news:bctbmu$n8h97$1...@ID-34438.news.dfncis.de...
> get vegamite outside of Australia. I order
> mine from a local import gourmet store. (blame an Australian friend for
> sending some to me to try).
Isn't Vegamite like Marmite? You can get Marmite in the local Safeway, if
you have one. Can't imagine why you wouldn't; they're based in Oakland and
I have one here in Southern Maryland.
But petty details aside, why in the world would anyone in their right mind
eat that stuff (Aussies take note: I said "right mind." 'Kew)? It's foul!
Jean Ann, Jean Ann. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I had a lot of respect for you, Jean
Ann, before this revelation.
Now, I'm awed. 8^)
doc
(ever tried a baloot?)
jeanannd
"doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
I think I like the vegamite better. Especially lightly spread on toast.
LOL, that's what I said BEFORE I tried vegamite. I don't know, I liked it.
Try it Doc, you might like it. :)
doc
> LOL, that's what I said BEFORE I tried vegamite. I don't know, I liked
> it. Try it Doc, you might like it. :)
Isn't that what the serpent said, Jean Ann?
doc
jeanannd
"doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
LOL, does this mean you think Australia is the Garden Of Eden? ;)
Anopheles
Vegemite is very special to Australians. It's made by condensing southern
wombat poo until all moisture is removed, then adding a little alligator
saliva for flavour. It's made right here in Melbourne.
The kiddies love it.
Anopheles
jeanannd
history and what it is? I think our nearest equivalent in the US is the
meat product Spam.
Wind River
>
> Here's another woman imitating Westy to gain advantage.
And the men haven't?
doc
They have more poisonous snakes than I would ever want to deal with, not to
mention the spiders.
That said, Australia may not be the Garden of Eden, but I'll bet you can
see it from there.
doc
jeanannd
"doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
Yes, I hear they have a most aggressive type of spider there that is
poisonous. (most poisonous spiders are not highly aggressive). But they
also have a beautiful rare endangered rainbow tarantula in their rain
forest. Kangaroos, cute koala bears, sunny beaches (okay they have those
big white sharks too) and great beer!!! :)
Anopheles
"jeanannd" wrote:
>
> "doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
> news:20030620165507.744$fg...@newsreader.com...
> > "jeanannd" <jeanann...@attbi.com> wrote:
> > > "doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
> > > news:20030619211436.226$N...@newsreader.com...
> > > > "jeanannd" <jeanann...@attbi.com> wrote:
> > > >
> > > > > LOL, that's what I said BEFORE I tried vegamite. I don't know, I
> > > > > liked it. Try it Doc, you might like it. :)
> > > >
> > > > Isn't that what the serpent said, Jean Ann?
> > > >
> > > > doc
> > >
> > > LOL, does this mean you think Australia is the Garden Of Eden? ;)
> >
> > They have more poisonous snakes than I would ever want to deal with, not
> to
> > mention the spiders.
> >
> > That said, Australia may not be the Garden of Eden, but I'll bet you can
> > see it from there.
> >
> > doc
>
> Yes, I hear they have a most aggressive type of spider there that is
> poisonous. (most poisonous spiders are not highly aggressive). But they
> also have a beautiful rare endangered rainbow tarantula in their rain
> forest. Kangaroos, cute koala bears, sunny beaches (okay they have those
> big white sharks too) and great beer!!! :)
> --
As much as I desire to please, Koala bears live on only in the minds of
Americans. There are no native bears in Australia. Bare men are plentiful.
doc
>
> Yes, I hear they have a most aggressive type of spider there that is
> poisonous. (most poisonous spiders are not highly aggressive). But
> they also have a beautiful rare endangered rainbow tarantula in their
> rain forest. Kangaroos, cute koala bears, sunny beaches (okay they have
> those big white sharks too) and great beer!!! :)
Damn.
OK, you book the flight. I'll pay for the incidentals.
doc
Anopheles
Yeah, right. Like I'm going to kick Sam out of his bed again.
Pat J. O'Brien
>
> http://www.linguistlist.org/~ask-ling/archive-most-recent/msg06230.html
> "The second person plural forms were 'ye' in the nominative, 'your/yours'
in
> the genitive, and 'you' in the objective case. "
You're missing my point. "Ye" and "/thorn/e" were two different words. Mills
is talking about "ye." I'm talking about "/thorn/e."
The etymology of "ye" runs like this: Sanskrit
"yuyam," Greek "yumeish," Lithuanian "jus," Gothic "jus," German "ihr," Old
High German "ir," Icelandic "er," Danish "i," Dutch "gij," Old Saxon "ge,"
Anglo Saxon "ge," "ye" being an inflection thereof.
The etymology of "the" is complicated. It comes from the stem of the Old
English "se." Its etymology is related to that of the demonstrative,
"that." The etymology of the Old English demonstrative stem runs like this:
Indo-European "to," Sanskrit "ta-" Greek "to," Gothic "sa," Old Norse "sa,"
Old High German "der, de," Low German "de," Dutch "de," Middle Low German
"de," Middle Dutch "de," Old Saxon "se," and Old Frisian "thi."
You'd probably want to look at "this", "that", and "those", because the
stem is common among them. It stands to reason that you'd find
examples of similar graphic variations. And indeed, you would find examples.
Further, the Oxford has an entry for "ye" that describes it as a graphic
variation of "the." The "ye" in "Ye Olde" is different from the "ye" in
"Hear ye, hear ye." It's a different part of speech.
--Pat
jeanannd
bears. They are cute though! :)
jeanannd
"doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
LOL, Doc....we can buy the beer here. They export their beer. Not that
I'll turn down a free trip to Australia mind you. (your paying right?)
Anopheles
You two need to pass the physical first. Start practising with this.....
Give me a home among the gum trees
With lots of plum trees
A sheep or two and a kangaroo
A clothesline out the back
Veranda out the front
And an old rocking chair
Of course, the cute part is the little gestures that go along with it.
Unfortunately they're easier to show than explain in words.
"Give me a home "
Hold your arms over your head, coming up to a point at the hands. This is
the roof of your home.
"among the gum trees "
Move your arms out and spread your fingers. You're a gum tree.
"With lots of plum trees "
Wiggle your fingers and wave your arms slightly to indicate the plums.
"A sheep or two "
Hold your hands to each side of your head with your index fingers pointed
up. These are the horns of your sheep.
"and a kangaroo "
Hold your arms up tight in front of your chest, wrists limp and fingers
curved so that they point back down to the ground. Hop a couple times.
Congratulations, you're a kangaroo!
"A clothesline "
Hold your hands out in front of your chest, index finger to thumb on both
hands and start out with these four fingers together. Move your hands apart,
keeping index finger to thumb on each hand.
"out the back "
Point your thumbs out and bend your arms up to point behind you with your
thumbs.
"Veranda out "
Hold your arms up in front of your chest, bend your hands at the wrist so
they point straight up and bend your fingers so they point straight in front
of you. Push your arms forward while straightening your hands & wrists out.
Your fingers should stay at the same level as you do this.
"the front "
Change your hands to point in front of you with your index fingers.
"And an old rocking chair "
Hold your arms out to each side like they're resting on the arms of a
chair. Rock back and forth at your waist.
Get back when you can say "Melbourne" properly.
Anopheles
doc
Well, of course! Got your bags packed?
doc
doc
Alaric
--
"Over the years, I've only seen a couple of sigs which actually were worth
reading, and almost none of them have any relevance to the post they're
attached to."
Doc Farquar
"Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
news:bd01a9$mnmg5$1...@ID-34438.news.dfncis.de...
Stop pretending to have a culture.
Anopheles
Never heard of it. What's that?
Oh, you mean culcha!
We have a shitload of that muck.
I know. You're pissed because you're jealous of the gum tree song.
Anopheles
doc
they're easier to show than explain in words.
>
> "Give me a home "
> Hold your arms over your head, coming up to a point at the hands. This
> is the roof of your home.
> "among the gum trees "
> Move your arms out and spread your fingers. You're a gum tree.
> "With lots of plum trees "
> Wiggle your fingers and wave your arms slightly to indicate the plums.
> "A sheep or two "
> Hold your hands to each side of your head with your index fingers
> pointed up. These are the horns of your sheep.
Wonderful, 'noph.
Magic lives, doesn't it?
doc
Opus
Now review my story, dammit!
Welcome back.
Opus
--
jeanannd
might take some practice. Perhaps you could just ship me Steve Irwin the
Croc Hunter (watch it though, his wife Terry might object). <G>
jeanannd
"doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
Wind River
>
> "doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
> news:20030620190231.753$g...@newsreader.com...
> > "jeanannd" <jeanann...@attbi.com> wrote:
> > > "doc" <docfa...@yahooNOSPAM.com> wrote in message
> > > news:20030620174731.379$3...@newsreader.com...
> > > > "jeanannd" <jeanann...@attbi.com> wrote:
> > > >
> > > > >
> > > > > Yes, I hear they have a most aggressive type of spider there that is
> > > > > poisonous. (most poisonous spiders are not highly aggressive).
> But
> > > > > they also have a beautiful rare endangered rainbow tarantula in
> their
> > > > > rain forest. Kangaroos, cute koala bears, sunny beaches (okay they
> > > > > have those big white sharks too) and great beer!!! :)
> > > >
> > > > Damn.
> > > >
> > > > OK, you book the flight. I'll pay for the incidentals.
> > > >
> > > > doc
> > >
> > > LOL, Doc....we can buy the beer here. They export their beer. Not
> > > that I'll turn down a free trip to Australia mind you. (your paying
> > > right?)
> > > :)
> >
> > Well, of course! Got your bags packed?
> >
> > doc
> >
> Of course! Can Sue come with us? :)
Only if I can bring insect repellent. :)
Patrick Null
"Wind River" <wind...@voyager.net> wrote in message
news:3EF3CE6D...@voyager.net...
For the bugs? Or Noph? :-)
Wind River
Which do you think?
Anopheles
That's not what you say in those private emails. Man, the lust is palpable.
doc
Why not? It's my treat and Anopheles is going to pay in the long run,
anyway. Maybe not with money, but money is a transitory thing.
I'm thinking October or November. Should be early Spring, down under. What
do you say?
doc
Wind River
Tha *leaves* me out. I like Fall too much. Wouldn't want to trade it for
Spring. Besides, I think the 'quitos come out in Summer -- Noph?
Wind River
>
> > > Of course! Can Sue come with us? :)
> >
> > Only if I can bring insect repellent. :)
>
> That's not what you say in those private emails. Man, the lust is palpable.
That's not me in those emails! If size mattered to me do you think I'd
be spending time with an insect ... uh ... wait ... that wasn't me talking.
jeanannd
I'll go (bringing lot's of insect repellent of course). Hope there's no
limit on stuff you can bring back with you (vegamite, beer, kolas) <G>
jeanannd
SUE!!!! Wow, who spiked your drink? LOL, imagine the feelings of the
poor guy...insect! ;) I know, PT Angelique or Hoffman is affecting you.
<G>
Anopheles
What is this question? You're doubting my sexuality?
Anopheles
So, now size doesn't matter. We already know you ain't fussy about other
stuff.
jeanannd
Harper
<< The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
2494 Words >>
<< Life is a dance of the grotesque. Find the beauty bemused and you've
mastered your demons. >>
You say the lovliest things. "Bemused" in the sense of "absorbed?" Without the
poetry, does this
mean--become absorbed in beauty? "Find 'the' beauty" makes me think you're
talking about a specific beauty.
<< "Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes flashed red like Satan's
scrotum. >>
Wow. Lurid image! It borders on the comical, Op, in my opinion. Just thought
I'd mention it.
<< I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated back to the pillow as
another blow locked with my head. I began to dream of far away
fields of clover and golden retrievers. >>
Ugh. Horrible, what's being done to her.
<< He sat proselytising to no one. >>
He sat preaching to no one? About what? Sorry.
<< I didn't look him in the eye -- it was still swollen blue from yesterday. >>
Whose? His or the speakers?
<< "You are doing God's work here, my little maidservant. Get ready for the
museum. I'll be back to unlock the door when you're ready." >>
He's very evil.
<< Cold marble felt good on my bare feet >>
That is a singular, simply beautiful observation to make. Wonderful, Op.
<< I always got to wear dresses cause they hid things better. >>
I like the childlike phraseology for this piece (as opposed to big words like
"proselytize")
<< Mrs. Lewis gave me sunglasses and we walked to the Van Goghs. I liked one
they called "Starry Night." It swirled and massed and danced and
eye-flirted with me. >>
Nice Bob touch there.
<< I resumed my game. Its circles hypnotic and beckoning. Endless. Joyous and
endless. I followed each brush stroke around the perimeter of each star. I
couldn't stop myself. Each stroke pushed me into the next and the next and . .
.
"May I swallow you whole?"
I turned but no one was there. >>
Outstanding! Really! Love the swirling colors of the paragraph above, love the
whimsical/scary bolt-from-the-blue "may I swallow you whole" that interrupts
it. Some of the best writing I've seen from you, Op.
<< This time it exhaled from the painting, and I walked as close as they would
allow. I heard a euphony like ocean waves. It so soothed me that
I wanted to sleep-serene on its shores. >>
I'd lose "This time." "Euphony" is a million-dolllar word--what's wrong with
"sound"? "Sleep-serene" is another nice Bob W. homage.
<< "Are you for real?" I sounded like I was in the third grade. >>
Isnt' she, approximately? A child, anyway? We're not doing linear space-time,
are we? :-)
<< "Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d." >>
Who is saying this?
<< My heart leapt for joy and pushed a tear onto my face simultaneously, and as
I stared transfixed into his trusting eyes, >>
"Simultaneously" is imho extraneous and an breaks your rhythm here.
<< The colours were so intense and vivid that I felt if I had to look at one
more, they would cause my insides to ignite. >>
Imho I'd go with vivid _or_ intense. "Insides" might be more colloquial than
you want, not sure.
<< There, shining above me, was Van Gogh's starry night -- his illumined
vision. The very sky I had lost myself in! >>
I'd scratch that last line, as well as "his illuminated vision." Imho,
sometimes less is more.
<< "Is this my home now? Will you never let me go?" >>
The question seems premature.
<< I wanted to ask for what, but suddenly I was so tired I couldn't stand. The
golden retriever lay down at the same time I began to fall, and my
head softly landed on his side. >>
I understand this is a dreamscape or visionscape, but falling head first onto a
dog's side still evokes a curious image. Ouchy, for the speaker and for the
dog. I dunno.
<< I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb clues, >>
Um, what? I thought the Voice was a friend?
<< coward >>
cowered
<< He became so indignant his fat face beeted up. "How DARE you speak to me in
such a manner." With that he advanced on me and in one stride was
in front of me, fists raised. >>
Your Mr. Lewis is turning into a parody of a mean bastard maybe a little. You
know how to intimidate without thundering like a cartoon villian.
<< I did not cower. My hand made contact with his face and the knot on his
forehead sent him backwards. I braced for a second attempt, and he
delivered. He kicked his leg into what should have been my groin, but I
side-stepped him and laid my own boot into his crotch. >>
If the whole piece were tongue-in-cheek/witty thing a la say, Buffy the Vampire
slayer or something, I'd say a fight scene would be entirely appropriate, but
here it just strikes me as, I dunno, a little odd. Just me, maybe.
<< He folded like origami. >>
Oh, cool. Like that.
<< The doves, swallows and forest animals were laughing. So I laughed, too. >>
I'm not sure it becomes the forest animals or the speaker to laugh at Mr.
Lewis' pain. Is this a witty twist on revenge fantasy--I mean, are you saying
that no one can claim the moral high ground? If that's the case, OK, but I
think then your speaker has to be a bit more sardonic and less the
straightforward victim throughout.
<< "Touché." >>
Who says this? The girl? The tone's off, Op. It's starting to sound mighty
strange.
<< "C'mon, you fat bastard! Bring it on!"
He shot up like a missile and charged me once more, with a force as great as a
hurricane. Again, I only braced, prepared to use his weight against him. But
this time I misjudged and he landed with his arms
locked around my windpipe, squeezing as hard as he could. He continued
squeezing and I began choking and gagging. He was close enough so that
I could smell the booze on his breath. I felt the air slip from me and as I
looked over the fields once more I saw them begin to dim, certain
my time had run out.
I noticed the golden retriever out of my eye's corner, and he wasn't moving to
help. As my eyesight drew darker, I pleaded with my eyes for
help.
He stood on his hind legs and into my ear, whispered, "Love yourself enough to
fight. You are worth it."
I looked back at the drink-ridden fat-bastard beet in front of me and got
pissed one more time. Raising my arms above my head, I brought them down
across his own and turned, loosening his grip on me. With a free foot I kicked
straight up behind me and into his crotch once more, which sent him down a last
time, passed out. >>
Great fight scene. Lots of action. It just feels totally out of place in this
story--*unless*--I'm missing your entire point, which is entirely possible. Do
you intend to take the sometimes over-serious sensibilities of
molestation-survivor stories and give it a ha-ha whalloping? If that's the
case, some of this scalding wit might come in a little sooner. Otherwise, I
mean if that's not what you're doing, forgive me Opie, but it just seems very
strange to me.
<< A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay
down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping for the last two
years. >>
It's certainly a tour de force. Lots of good stuff, here, Opus. I'm unclear as
to your intent, however, and I don't want to assume anything. Looking forward
to your explication.
Harpsi
--
2004 is going to be an interesting election year.
doc
> WestyB, I had a ton of fun thinking of what to do for this one. Oh so
> many possibilities climbed out of my fucked up head, and I rolled this
> over from June 1 until now and it stretched me until I think I popped
> something. THANK YOU!
>
> Anyway, hope you like. I'll give y'all the meanings after you've taken
> guesses.
>
> Opus
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
> Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
> 2494 Words
>
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was well-written, for the most part. A lot of it I didn't understand,
of course. The opening lines, for instance, are interesting, but they don't
seem to relate to each other or to the rest of the story. Maybe that's
because I can't seem to wrap my mind around the "beauty bemused" sentence.
I'd drop them and start off with the blood gushing sentence. Just a
suggestion.
You also might want to reconsider your "Satan's scrotum" simile. It seems a
bit too humorous for the tone of this story.
I think you did a wonderful job with the Van Gogh sequence. That was some
very good writing.
I wish I could give you some better suggestions, but -- as I feared -- I
was totally lost by the symbolism. My fault, not yours.
Nice job, Opus.
doc
Wind River
Fussy? Oh you, yes, I do like fuzzy.
Wind River
Lol. Too much spam that's not applicable to me.
Wind River
Oops. Let's not go in that direction in this thread.
Alaric
right? Er. No. Damn that Westermeyer and his challenge.
So. Opus goes Bob W. River-raging. Eye-flirted. Satan's scrotum, eh? Cool.
What do I get? Mr. Lewis is child-abusing. Mrs Lewis enjoys watching. But
she's a muse too? Odd. And Mr. L. does it in public - even in restaurants.
Why's he so desperate when Mrs L is complicit? I have these questions, and
interest.
But then we go into the painting world, and that's fine initially - but then
the story goes off the rails. From the psychobabble "Love yourself enough to
fight" transformed into a single "No" sending the wasps away to the change
of innocent to foul mouth - "fat bastard" - the characterisation takes
second place to resolving issues in alternately punitive and soaring manner.
A good start lost for me. I'd finish with her entering the painting. I
certainly wouldn't bring the family in there. I'd just give her happiness
and not satisfaction. Sorry, Opie. You're an excellent writer, but this
isn't your best realised piece.
R. Westermeyer
wrote:
>WestyB, I had a ton of fun thinking of what to do for this one. Oh so
>many possibilities climbed out of my fucked up head, and I rolled this
>over from June 1 until now and it stretched me until I think I popped
>something. THANK YOU!
Glad I could be of service, O.
>Anyway, hope you like. I'll give y'all the meanings after you've taken
>guesses.
>
>Opus
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
>Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
>2494 Words
>
>Dedicated to Barry.
Want to hear that story :)
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was a maelstrom of horror and misery. In other words, I liked it
a great deal. My take (haven't read a whisper of anyone else's reviews
YET, or your interp--that comes before judgment day). But my take is
this: Foster'd child from frying pan into fire. Abused, used,
completely confined in the sort of childhood hell you only read about
in....I was going to say "textbooks", but they are always off the mark
when it comes to this stuff. you only read about them in stories like
this. For certain not making any suggestions that this is autobio, O,
but for me, you've presented a ruined person who descends into madness
and perpetual fantasy to elude her tormentors. I know the painting. I
know the dog. I know the joy of the tango.
At first I thought the Karate and judo stuff was hyperbole shit you
usually get in stories like this UNTIL, I realized it was fantasy.
Then I took it back.
ONly nit: the hyphenated nouns and verbs. I know I use them all the
time, and maybe this is a good opportunity for me to examine my own
overuse of them, but WAY too many. Some were repeated too.
I like my powdered condiments delivered through the perforated flap,
not the pour flap. y'know?
Superb. Look forward to reading your brain-guide for this story.
Bob
nativelaw
"Opus" <opus...@bloomcounty.com> wrote in message
news:3EEEAEB2...@bloomcounty.com...
> The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
> Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
> 2494 Words
>
> Dedicated to Barry.
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
> Life is a dance of the grotesque. Find the beauty bemused and you've
> mastered your demons.
Hi Opus,
I've been looking forward to getting here finally, sorry so late.
You've got some exquisite language in this piece. Some of your very best
writing, IMO. As a story, I am not so much troubled by not understanding
all of it as in the sense that it has shot too broad, has not remained focus
to narrow enough elements to remain story. I think that's simply a matter
of needing to decide what are the most important elements to it and honing
it down. You could probably lose 500 words (though while there are areas to
hone there are other areas that need more, so maybe not.)
The central story idea is wonderful, I think, if incredibly sad, in this
little abused girl's tie to the painting that ultimately becomes where she
stays (mentally) during her coma (or that is how i took it. The painting
always gave her joy.)
By way of some examples of what I mean about overbroad or honing: The
opening paragraph sounds more like a philosophy of life, poetically stated,
than part of the story. It may have inspired the story, but after the
story's done I would, personally, back it right out.
The next opening paragraph is a real 'hook' but also ultimately doesn't seem
needed for the story unless I'm misinterpreting. With all the abuse of this
girl by these people, that man, what does Jimmy fucking her raw have to do
with it (they "didn't know" and don't need any excuse to abuse the hell out
of her anyway.) If the "he" in that first paragraph is not intended to be
Jimmy not that abusive POS, if you're trying to say the abuse started the
night of her junior prom, and if "they" is for ex, people at the prom and
not this sadistic couple, then I think you need to make that clearer.
>
> The blood gushed river-raging down my cheek, orchard sweet. Wine I'd
> tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my juniour prom. We drank it on the
> way home before he fucked me raw. I never told them . . .
>
> "Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes flashed red like
> Satan's scrotum.
I join in this being almost a comical image.
>
> I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated back to the pillow
> as another blow locked with my head. I began to dream of far away
> fields of clover and golden retrievers.
>
> Sleep, child.
>
> "Guess what? Today makes one year since the courts said you could live
> with us. Isn't that *wonderful*?" Mrs. Lewis gave a thread-bare smile
> when Mr. Lewis was around.
By this point I'm wanting to know how old she is when she first goes to live
with them, and why she does. Are these relatives (seems not) or foster care
parents and if so, where's her family?
>
> He sat proselytising to no one.
>
> "After breakfast, we are taking you to the Museum. Wouldn't you like
> that?" she asked with fear singeing her eyes.
What is the reason for her fear? Is she afraid of her husband? Afraid that
their kooky sick life is going to be discovered when there are trips in
public, that the girl might run off? I like "fear singeing" as a noun-verb
combo.
>
> Nodding was a way of life for me. Safer that way, I s'ppose.
>
> But not today.
>
> "The LORD has kept me from having children. Go, sleep with my
> maidservant; perhaps I can build a family through her." He whispered in
> my ear and shoved into me until he fell sweat-stained onto my padded
> cell bed. He hiked up his pants.
>
> I didn't look him in the eye -- it was still swollen blue from
> yesterday.
>
> "You are doing God's work here, my little maidservant. Get ready for
> the museum. I'll be back to unlock the door when you're ready."
>
> Mrs. Lewis watched from her hole in the wall.
>
> The golden retriever jumped over the fence.
Thoughts of escape? Or she does escape, by her joy in the museum which lets
her forget?
>
> My mind ran rampant with joy at the museum. The paintings were full of
> cheap-paint colours I adored. Cold marble felt good on my bare feet and
> the air was like in our refrigerator. When "he" wasn't looking, I would
> smile at Mrs. Lewis and she would muse-touch my shoulder. For an
> instant, it was almost like . . .
>
> We always had lunch in the café. I was allowed water or sometimes if I
> was good, iced tea. Today I wasn't good. As they munched burgers I saw
> pig teeth and giggled. I didn't mean to. He kicked my leg. I was
> brave as the knot raised on my shin.
>
> "Is anything wrong?" said the manager, whose head was twice its normal
> size. "Did you just kick that child?"
>
> Mrs. Lewis dropped her coward-head and Mr. Lewis lowered his fool one.
>
> "No sir, I had a leg cramp and accidentally kicked his." I waited,
> heart-leaden.
>
> He ignored me. "If I ever see you touch that child again, I will have
> you arrested." He didn't wait for an answer.
>
> Mr. Lewis glared at me.
>
> I'd never seen a man's bathroom before. It's not like I imagined. The
> stalls are big enough for two people. I always got to wear dresses
> cause they hid things better. This time lasted a long time, and the
> hand-gagging kept me from making noise, so as not to "'mburrass the
> family."
>
> "My, doesn't she look pretty? What a beautiful young lady. I'll bet
> the boys are lining up for you already. Dear, did you see that
> beautiful golden retriever just jump through those clouds?"
>
> The tile was cool. I was dizzy. He shoved me to stand up straight.
>
> The whispering. "That you may tell your children and grandchildren how
> I dealt harshly with the Egyptians and how I performed my signs among
> them, and that you may know that I am the LORD."
>
> He brushed my cheek.
>
> I'll try harder.
This whole section about the (what i am presuming is the cafe' or museum
bathroom, seems overkill in a sense -- we already know he's sexual abusing
her -- would he be that risky to do so again in a bathroom stall the same
day the manager of the place is already "onto" him? or is this a different
day? Just not sure you need it. Also, and maybe I'm not understanding, why
would that sick guy be talking about the golden retriever? Are these her
thoughts which are all screwed up imagining what he's saying? If so a
little overly selfconscious I think, if you step back it works better IMO.
>
> Mrs. Lewis gave me sunglasses and we walked to the Van Goghs. I liked
> one they called "Starry Night." It swirled and massed and danced and
> eye-flirted with me. I stared at it so long the colours washed into
> each other and began to drip.
That is one of my fav paragraphs.
>
> "Will you behave yourself while we're over there?"
>
> Another nod.
>
> I resumed my game. Its circles hypnotic and beckoning. Endless.
> Joyous and endless. I followed each brush stroke around the perimeter
> of each star. I couldn't stop myself. Each stroke pushed me into the
> next and the next and . . .
>
> "May I swallow you whole?"
>
> I turned but no one was there.
>
> I resumed my star-gazing.
>
> "Let me swallow you whole."
>
> This time it exhaled from the painting, and I walked as close as they
> would allow. I heard a euphony like ocean waves. It so soothed me that
> I wanted to sleep-serene on its shores.
>
> "Are you talking to me?" I answered my own question by assuming I was
> now brain-busted.
This sounds like an older narrator all of the sudden.
>
> "Your visits here are as welcome as a swallow in the spring." The voice
> had a chime-like quality while still floating on top of the whooshing
> wave, and I got greedy and wanted to hear more. It read my thoughts.
>
> "And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort
> in its truth and enter in." The lights from the stars began to pulsate
> and I stared transfixed, the soporific combination of wave-chimes and
> pulse-particles nearly tipping me over.
>
> "Are you for real?" I sounded like I was in the third grade.
>
> "Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
> Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd."
>
> For a moment, the voice went quiet and I waited. Instead of soft-water
> poetry, a wind began to blow the fields beneath the rotary sky, and as
> the wind became louder, the grasses and trees swayed with such vehemence
> that they overlapped the entire community below. Everything in the
> painting increased in concentration: intensity of the starlight,
> colours of the sky and field and the din of the wind. The painting was
> coming to life!
>
> I looked for my fosters, but they were still on the other side and
> didn't notice me for once. Fear welled up and blow-punched every
> thought in my head, making holes in my logic where meagre wisdom had
> once resided. My heart began searing strips of pain as my breathing
> laboured, but I was powerless to stop it.
I love the language of this section, but it seems a shift in age and tone
for the narrator to all of the sudden more detached and analytical analyses.
I'm also really not sure the age of the narrator here.
>
> Then, as if on cue, a golden retriever raced across the field, leaping
> higher than any amber wave. He stopped and turned toward me, and wagged
> his ragged tail as if he really saw me.
>
> My heart leapt for joy and pushed a tear onto my face simultaneously,
> and as I stared transfixed into his trusting eyes, I watched the canvas
> getting closer, the frame drawing nearer, my body becoming smaller, and
> the rope passing beneath my feet as I sailed toward the painting. I
> closed my eyes and stifled a scream, but when I opened them, I was
> standing in the field next to the golden retriever and he was licking my
> face. I could feel it -- his hot breath on my tear-tracked cheek.
>
> I turned back to see the gallery, but it was no longer there. Bright
> blue and aquamarine fields surrounded me on every side, running stately
> between the purple and black dwellings. I could still see each brush
> stroke, only this time each was larger than me. The colours were so
> intense and vivid that I felt if I had to look at one more, they would
> cause my insides to ignite.
>
> At that moment, the golden retriever nuzzled my hand and pointed upward
> with his nose. I looked up.
>
> There, shining above me, was Van Gogh's starry night -- his illumined
> vision. The very sky I had lost myself in! The circular brushstrokes
> began fading into solid colours that washed effortlessly over one
> another, and oh the colours they were! Brazilian blacks, illicit
> indigos, purples dripping with passion, saturnine stars . . .
>
> "Welcome home."
>
> It was the voice.
>
> "Is this my home now? Will you never let me go?"
>
> "Do you wish to go?"
>
> The golden retriever licked my palm.
>
> "It is time to sleep. You must prepare," said the voice again.
>
> I wanted to ask for what, but suddenly I was so tired I couldn't stand.
> The golden retriever lay down at the same time I began to fall, and my
> head softly landed on his side.
>
> At sometime during the night the voice awakened me with a chorus of
> singing, and I got up and danced. The golden retriever morphed into a
> man -- a handsome, rugged, dark long-haired man with gentle eyes and
> touch. He placed his arms around me and we tangoed. He never stopped
> staring into my eyes. We danced circles around trees, flower fields and
> rivers; each measure accompanied by doves that flew from my chest, then
> lit delicately on tree limbs as they watched our pas de deux.
>
> When the song ended many hours later, the man leaned in slowly, placed a
> hand to my hair and kissed me as softly as I'd ever imagined. He
> lingered for a moment, pulled away, smiled deeply, and I watched him
> turn slowly back into the golden retriever.
Someone coming to rescue her -- okay, now this is exploring what the dog
means to her more and she's older here. But it took a long time to get
here.
>
> I arose the next morning to green fields, a gleaming sun, and hunger.
> The food materialised as I wished it, and soon there was enough food for
> ten. I shared with the golden retriever who hadn't left my side all
> night. Above me, I was distracted by the sound of cooing doves. . .
>
> "It is time," said the voice.
>
> "For what?"
>
> "You have much to do before they arrive."
>
> The word "they" blood-boiled.
>
> "Don't be afraid. Here, the sky obeys your commands."
>
> A deep hum came from the forest behind me. As I turned, a soot-black
> swarm of wasps, one mile wide, targeted me and ice-water ran up my
> veins, certain it would drown my heart. I stood motionless as the swarm
> came closer, growing in size and din. I looked for a body of water, but
> remembered I couldn't swim. There were no caves, and no covering to
> protect myself. So I did the only thing I knew to do.
>
> "VOICE! HELP ME! What do I do?"
>
> Silence.
>
> Again, I pleaded as they swarmed closer.
>
> Silence.
>
> I begged once more.
>
> "You have the strength within you. Use it."
>
> "But I don't know ho . . ."
>
> The wasps were upon me and I let out a throat-ripping scream. They flew
> around me, above, between, chilling me to the bone. They dived bombed
> for a relentless two minutes, and as they did, I felt an anger well up
> from within. It felt foreign, as if I had red-hot goo in my belly, and
> it spread to my extremities.
Was it you that mentioned a fear of bees? Having been stung 56 times at
once when I was 8, I can relate. But I'm not sure what this segment adds to
the story other than 'another' fear she conquered giving her encouragement
to combat the Lewis' at the end.
>
> The wasps continued, but this time, I heard them laughing --
> taunt-teasing my fear, and as the queen drew up in front of me, now as
> large as an adult human, her eyes flashed green as she stared me down,
> her wings creating an intimidating tumult.
>
> For a moment, we both stared, neither moving. She advanced on me, her
> stinger raised high and wings outstretched, and I'd had enough.
>
> "STOP! NO MORE! You have no more power over me. Leave!"
>
> She stopped forward-moving, beckoned to the swarm to return, and with a
> final nod of her head to me in defeat, retreated to whence they came.
>
> "Well done. Now."
>
> I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb clues, but I
> waited. At that moment, Mr. Lewis's voice rang over the once serene
> flower-fields. I heard Mrs. Lewis crying. They rounded the corner of
> the church, and were now standing in front of me. For an instant, the
> golden retriever coward behind my legs, but I swallowed hard and
> comforted him, then returned my steel gaze. I was on home turf now, and
> I refused to be afraid.
>
> "What are you doing here?" I said.
>
> "Where in hell are we? Did YOU do this?"
>
> "I did not, but don't think you didn't deserve it." My courage
> continued to rise.
>
> He became so indignant his fat face beeted up. "How DARE you speak to
> me in such a manner." With that he advanced on me and in one stride was
> in front of me, fists raised.
>
> I did not cower. My hand made contact with his face and the knot on his
> forehead sent him backwards. I braced for a second attempt, and he
> delivered. He kicked his leg into what should have been my groin, but I
> side-stepped him and laid my own boot into his crotch.
>
> He folded like origami.
>
> The doves, swallows and forest animals were laughing. So I laughed,
> too.
>
> "Have you had enough?" I said as he gasped.
>
> "Why? After all I've done for you."
>
> "Touché."
>
> Mrs. Lewis spoke up. "I . . .I . . ."
>
> "Can't stand to watch now, can ya?"
>
> Mr. Lewis only coughed and she just stared dumbly.
>
> The golden retriever began to circle me excitedly. The doves cooed even
> louder.
>
> "C'mon, you fat bastard! Bring it on!"
>
> He shot up like a missile and charged me once more, with a force as
> great as a hurricane. Again, I only braced, prepared to use his weight
> against him. But this time I misjudged and he landed with his arms
> locked around my windpipe, squeezing as hard as he could. He continued
> squeezing and I began choking and gagging. He was close enough so that
> I could smell the booze on his breath. I felt the air slip from me and
> as I looked over the fields once more I saw them begin to dim, certain
> my time had run out.
>
> I noticed the golden retriever out of my eye's corner, and he wasn't
> moving to help. As my eyesight drew darker, I pleaded with my eyes for
> help.
>
> He stood on his hind legs and into my ear, whispered, "Love yourself
> enough to fight. You are worth it."
>
> I looked back at the drink-ridden fat-bastard beet in front of me and
> got pissed one more time. Raising my arms above my head, I brought them
> down across his own and turned, loosening his grip on me. With a free
> foot I kicked straight up behind me and into his crotch once more, which
> sent him down a last time, passed out.
>
> I fell to the ground exhausted, and the golden retriever licked my face
> as the sky turned to night.
So I guess we know she hasn't really won the fight physically but won it in
her mind. or she won it but winning it send her off the deep end?
>
> "How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as she tightened the
> restraints.
>
> "Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. Won't talk."
>
> "She have any family?"
>
> "She did, but they came up missing about two years ago and were never
> found."
>
> "It's a nice painting. Van Gogh, isn't it?"
>
> "Starry Night."
>
> Both of the nurses left, and the girl in the bed began to chuckle at the
> painting and its two figures in the field who moved around like bugs in
> a jar.
>
> "You there?" she said.
>
> A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay
> down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping for the last two
> years.
The shift in POV is slightly jarring but I can see it's needed for the
story, so I can live with it. The reference to 2 years the dog is sleeping
seems to contradict the 4 years that she's been in restraints?
Well anyway, these are just some thoughts. I think the story is definitely
worth working at it a little more if you're up to it. I love the imagery.
It's very visual -- written almost like a short film, where you might in
some ways, excuse the missing parts that you expect in a writing. Film can
flash at you and make you tie it together and that's what this reminds me
of.
Nice work, O.
Andrea
Opus
> Very good story! I love the fact that you have us wondering at the end if
> the little girl really is insane or not. The painting with two figures in
> it, her adopted family who abused her missing...them? Her rage as the
> only weapon she has against them in the end, most appropriate.
>
Thanks for reading and commenting. I'm glad you enjoyed it.
Rage? Um, no, but nice guess. All will be revealed soon.
Opus
Opus
peng-uns, yes? I call them Shiny Birds.)
> > Dedicated to Barry.
>
> Uh-oh. I'm not reading any further. Okay, I will, but only peeking from
> behind my fingers.
>
Heh. 's cool. Barry has been, well......almost like a friend to me...
> > The blood gushed river-raging
>
> Hah, appealing to the challenge setter, eh?
>
Nah. Look back over my last three, and you'll see me already
experimenting with that style. It dates back as far as "Freedom's
Mantra" and "White Plague".
> > down my cheek, orchard sweet. Wine I'd
> > tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my juniour prom. We drank it on the
> > way home before he fucked me raw. I never told them .
>
> Junior?
>
Yup.
> That painting really does eye-flirt.
>
I have it on a mouse-pad and it mesmerises me.
> I don't completely understand this one, but I don't think it would be as
> effective if I did. When you're writing from within someone's mind, it
> has to be about their thoughts and visions. There are some wonderful
> images in this story, Opus. I like the way you wrote it with a
> sprinkling of BobWisms. That works well for all us AFOers who know his
> style and appreciate it. Well done.
>
Wow, Sue, thank you SO much for these comments. Coming from the queen
of description, this is truly gold.
Humbled,
Opus
> > "You are doing God's work here, my little maidservant. Get ready for
> > the museum. I'll be back to unlock the door when you're ready."
>
> Inconsistent capitalization of "museum."
>
Crap.
> > He ignored me. "If I ever see you touch that child again, I will have
> > you arrested." He didn't wait for an answer.
>
> Puzzling. Kicking somebody under the table is a time-honored way of
> surrepetitiously getting somebody attention; I'd think Mr. Lewis would
> really have to wallop her to get the manager all incensed like this.
>
No. Ever been in a museum cafeteria? The one I was in while in NYC had
long white table cloths that covered most everything except for the
feet. So Mr. Lewis *thought* he wasn't being seen. And to me, the
manager was quite close anyway, so he happened to be looking just at the
right time.
> > I'd never seen a man's bathroom before. It's not like I imagined. The
> > stalls are big enough for two people.
>
> You're right, you've never seen a man's bathroom before.
>
I've cleaned plenty of 'em.
> > The whispering. "That you may tell your children and grandchildren how
> > I dealt harshly with the Egyptians and how I performed my signs among
> > them, and that you may know that I am the LORD."
>
> What I'm getting so far: foster parent/guardian with a twisted Abraham
> complex is beating/raping his charge; the golden retriever is a mental
> escape device, something that represents happiness/freedom/the way
> childhood ought to be.
>
Almost got it. Not quite.
> "We were an hour outside of Barstow when the mescaline kicked in..."
>
Heh.
> > There, shining above me, was Van Gogh's starry night -- his illumined
> > vision. The very sky I had lost myself in!
>
> I wonder if this is necessary. It seems evident before this that she has
> entered the painting.
>
I think you're right--some others said that, too.
> They dived bombed
> > for a relentless two minutes, and as they did, I felt an anger well up
> > from within.
>
> dive-bombed
>
Yeah. That, cowerd and juniour were 3 in the morning hazards that
slipped by me.
> > She stopped forward-moving, beckoned to the swarm to return, and with a
> > final nod of her head to me in defeat, retreated to whence they came.
>
> I sense a recursion to the protagonist's nodding early in the story, but
> if that's intended it could be more emphatic.
>
Actually, I didn't intend, but what a cool device and missed
opportunity.
> > "It's a nice painting. Van Gogh, isn't it?"
> >
> > "Starry Night."
>
> It was all just a dream...
>
Or, WAs it?
> > Both of the nurses left, and the girl in the bed began to chuckle at the
> > painting and its two figures in the field who moved around like bugs in
> > a jar.
>
> ...Or was it?
>
Heh.
> > A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay
> > down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping for the last two
> > years.
>
> It's a nice magical-realist revenge fantasy, but it loses some of its
> charm when it turns into a chop-socky brawl between abuser and abusee.
> There's some beautiful imagery and symbolism at play here, though -- it
> was a pleasure to read.
>
And I thank you wholly for your comments. You're a tough critic and a
toughie to please, so when you tell me I've nice imagery, I tend to
believe you.
Thank you,
Opus
> Opus wrote:
> >
> > Starting? Um, I guess you've not read too much of my stuff, then. I'm
> > in love with alliteration and language fuck, as it were. And I don't
> > know what everyone else is doing, as I'm severely behind in my reading,
> > so I assure you, it wasn't a mimicry attempt.
>
> Er, sorry. I try to read as much as I can from everybody, but it's not
> easy to keep track of everyone's stylistic traits and when they developed
> them. I have been seeing more of these hyphenated constructions lately,
> though, and in those cases were people are using them when they hadn't
> previously, I suspect it's Bob's influence. No surprise there, and no
> problem, really -- it's natural that a great writer like Bob, with such a
> strong, idiosyncratic voice, should have that affect on people.
Well, until Sue said something about everyone imitating Bob's style this
month because he set the challenge, I hadn't realised that I was being
compared with that intent. I assure you, I wasn't aware others were even
doing this since I'm so far behind on reading. It was just me, writing in
that terse, punch-gut style I've been drawn to since White Plague.
Opus
Wind River wrote:
> Quadpus wrote:
> >
> > Opus wrote:
> > >
> > > Starting? Um, I guess you've not read too much of my stuff, then. I'm
> > > in love with alliteration and language fuck, as it were. And I don't
> > > know what everyone else is doing, as I'm severely behind in my reading,
> > > so I assure you, it wasn't a mimicry attempt.
> >
> > Er, sorry. I try to read as much as I can from everybody, but it's not
> > easy to keep track of everyone's stylistic traits and when they developed
> > them. I have been seeing more of these hyphenated constructions lately,
> > though, and in those cases were people are using them when they hadn't
> > previously, I suspect it's Bob's influence. No surprise there, and no
> > problem, really -- it's natural that a great writer like Bob, with such a
> > strong, idiosyncratic voice, should have that affect on people.
>
> Many of us did it this month to celebrate Bob's challenge. I thought
> that's why you were doing too, Opus. My apologies if my crit was
> offensive in that regard.
>
> Don't worry, Quad, my writing will return to my own style (whatever that
> is) next month.
>
> -Sue
Opus
>
> OK, I'm being set up here. I'm feeling nervous.
>
Always, lambchop.
> > Life is a dance of the grotesque.
>
> Hit me for a home run in the first sentence. Like it.
>
Thanks. I liked it, too.
> >Find the beauty bemused and you've
> > mastered your demons.
>
> Sounds good but what does it mean?
>
This story, on one level, is about the confusing beauty hidden in life
itself. Bemused means confusing. On one level, life's beauty contains
joy and elation. On another level, even though it's beauty, it can evoke
hatred, embitterment, and scars too deep to repair. That's what it
means. This story is, on one level, an allegory for bemused beauty.
I'll elaborate more on that once I spill the x-planation.
> Here's another woman imitating Westy to gain advantage. Slowly but surely,
> we're all going to sound like him. Not that that's a bad thing....
>
Oh shush. I didn't do it on purpose.
> > "Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes flashed red like
> > Satan's scrotum.
>
> You've dated him, too?
>
Dated, hell. Was married to him for 3 years.
> > I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated back to the pillow
> > as another blow locked with my head. I began to dream of far away
> > fields of clover and golden retrievers.
>
> Love it.
>
Thank you.
> Mrs. Lewis gave a thread-bare smile
> > when Mr. Lewis was around.
>
> threadbare
>
K
> > I didn't look him in the eye -- it was still swollen blue from
> > yesterday.
>
> Whose eye? Ambiguous.
>
I saw that way after I posted it.
> > Mrs. Lewis gave me sunglasses and we walked to the Van Goghs. I liked
> > one they called "Starry Night." It swirled and massed and danced and
> > eye-flirted with me. I stared at it so long the colours washed into
> > each other and began to drip.
>
> eye-flirted? You're shameless.
>
Heh.
> > "And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort
> > in its truth and enter in." The lights from the stars began to pulsate
> > and I stared transfixed, the soporific combination of wave-chimes and
> > pulse-particles nearly tipping me over.
>
> ye? (See below)
>
Indeed. It's Keats.
> > For a moment, the voice went quiet and I waited. Instead of soft-water
> > poetry, a wind began to blow the fields beneath the rotary sky, and as
> > the wind became louder, the grasses and trees swayed with such vehemence
> > that they overlapped the entire community below. Everything in the
> > painting increased in concentration: intensity of the starlight,
> > colours of the sky and field and the din of the wind. The painting was
> > coming to life!
>
> Impressive.
>
Thank you!
> > "Welcome home."
> >
> > It was the voice.
> >
> > "Is this my home now? Will you never let me go?"
>
> Strange things to say first up.
>
Couple of others made this comment and I've been mullling it over ever
since. Still not sure what I decide on that.
> Goo? No, not *goo*, it spoils the ambience. Try molten lead, melted wax,
> etc.
>
Another one I've tried to reconcile.
> > I noticed the golden retriever out of my eye's corner, and he wasn't
> > moving to help. As my eyesight drew darker, I pleaded with my eyes for
> > help.
>
> Ambiguity alert on last.
>
Wondered about that.
> > I fell to the ground exhausted, and the golden retriever licked my face
> > as the sky turned to night.
>
> Needs spacer here.
>
Shit, you're right. I should've known better.
> Well, deep and meaningful aplenty, Opie. Lots to chew on here. Some quite
> enchanting use of words.
>
Thank you kindly. You know how few poetic bones I possess in my limbs.
> I think the dog is the girl's own spirit. It is clearly the focus of the
> piece. It alone can do the things she longs to do. It is her alter ego. The
> two fosters? Well, unless we're into a magic session here, I suggest she
> killed them both.
>
Maybe.
> The Van Gogh? Well it ties in with the dog. Animals are symbols of the anima
> and in this case the anima is free, if timid, with the nature of the dog.
> The painting reflects this because the main feature are the moon and stars.
> These, too, are *self* symbols but they are of higher order, free of the
> manipulation of man. It is interesting to recall that Vince painted this not
> in Arles but in the mental institution which reflects the girl's situation.
>
VERY close, and you've incorporated some very deep symbolistic
interpreation. I'm flattered you gathered that from my story.
> Thanks for the dedication. I'm extremely flattered.
>
Barry, I will shamelessly vaunt your support of me anytime. You, and a
few others here, sometimes believe in me when I can no longer believe in
myself, and I love you for that. I don't care if you are a pixel--to
me, several of you will always be incredibly real and special.
> Nicely done, Opie.
>
Again, you are the toughest critic and these words mean so much.
Thank you, Barry.
Opus
Opus
Hey, Patrick-....................er..........Patrick. (Just glad you didn't say
Oopie-poopie.)
> And, yes, I DO have my venom goggles and my toxic suit on, so don't even
> THINK about spitting in my general direction.
>
> Heh.
Hunh? *spit*
> Hey, Opus, this was fantastic. Hardly any nits from me. This is so tight
> that if it was a belt, it would squueze my nuts off.
What? You're kidding, right?
> > Life is a dance of the grotesque. Find the beauty >bemused and you've
> > mastered your demons.
>
> Love this opening paragraph. Bam! And you've hooked me right off the bat.
> I like "bemused" for some reason.
Thanks.
> > The blood gushed river-raging down my cheek, >orchard sweet. Wine I'd
> > tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my juniour
>
> junior
Yeah--I'z a doofus.
> >prom. We drank it on the
> > way home before he fucked me raw. I never told >them . . .
>
> Wow, I hafta tell you, the "fucked me raw" just says everything for me.
> It's hard to encapsulate a sex scene so beautifully(or not so beautifully as
> the case may be lol) in a sentence let alone three words so congratulations
> are in order.
Thank you, so much.
> > "Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes >flashed red like
> > Satan's scrotum.
> >
> > I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated >back to the pillow
> > as another blow locked with my head. I began to >dream of far away
> > fields of clover and golden retrievers.
>
> At first, I didn't realize he had hit her. I thought it was a migraine
> pounding in her skull or something. Not a critique, just an observation.
K.
> > "After breakfast, we are taking you to the Museum. >Wouldn't you like
> > that?" she asked with fear singeing her eyes.
>
> Is "singeing" a word?
Yuppers.
> > "The LORD has kept me from having children. Go, >sleep with my
> > maidservant; perhaps I can build a family through her." >He whispered in
> > my ear and shoved into me until he fell sweat-stained >onto my padded
> > cell bed. He hiked up his pants.
>
> Atrocious.
It was actually the conversation I had with you in a tangential thread that
veered horribly OT about how people can beat and abuse their own charges in the
name of the Lord God and his word, so maybe I should've dedicated this to you.
> > Mrs. Lewis watched from her hole in the wall.
>
> Interesting. I didn't take from the text that she was a prisoner as well,
> but this line makes it sound like she is.
Most of the time, if the abuser is male and in this bad a shape, he will hold
the woman to him through fear tactics. My abusive ex was the same way. It
BEGINS with control and emotional abuse before moving onto the physical.
> > "Is anything wrong?" said the manager, whose head >was twice its normal
> > size. "Did you just kick that child?"
>
> I dunno, Opus, this seems to pre-planned by the author. As if he would be
> watching or come walking along at the same time she gets kicked. I would
> take the manager bit out, since it doesn't seem to have any relevance later
> on. And if it's a device to have her get raped yet again(for that's her
> punishment for making a fool of him), I would make this part more seamless,
> or give the "fat bastard" a different reason.
I will make it more seamless. Thanks.
> > I'd never seen a man's bathroom before. It's not like I >imagined. The
> > stalls are big enough for two people.
>
> Nope, only the handi-capped ones.
>
> > I always got to wear dresses
> > cause they hid things better. This time lasted a long >time, and the
> > hand-gagging kept me from making noise, so as not to >"'mburrass the
> > family."
>
> Jesus Christ. You're doing your job well, Opus. I can't stand him.
Me either. Thanks.
> > "Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
> > Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness >unquell'd."
>
> Oooohhhh......nice.
It should be: it's Keats. That painting is so damn spectacular that I just
couldn't imagine it dripping anything but the best poetry. Certainly none of my
shit would ever be seen coming forth from its canvas...
> >Everything in the
> > painting increased in concentration: intensity of the >starlight,
> > colours of the sky and field and the din of the wind. >The painting was
> > coming to life!
>
> I would delete this last line. It's pretty obvious what's happening.
Yeah, I think I now concur. Had to give it a lot of thought, though.
> > "Welcome home."
> >
> > It was the voice.
> >
> > "Is this my home now? Will you never let me go?"
>
> I would think the first question she would ask is "what just happened to
> me?" or "who are you?"
I think she already knows.
> > "You have much to do before they arrive."
> >
> > The word "they" blood-boiled.
>
> Nice last line.
Thank you. I didn't want it to be too verbose.
> > I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb >clues,
>
> plastic? Maybe something associated with painting since that's where she
> is?
Nah, I like the line so will prolly leave it. If I ever expound this story,
then I will have the voice leave even more clues, but word-limit precluded that
here.
> >They rounded the corner of
> > the church,
>
> This church just comes out of nowhere cause you never mentioned it before.
It's in the painting.
>
> I think it's the word "the" that's doing it, because "the" always assigns
> some sort of importance to an object. Maybe A church?
But that's a great suggestion.
> > He became so indignant his fat face beeted up. "How >DARE you speak to
> > me in such a manner."
>
> Is he speaking calmly, almost in a menacing whisper? Or is he so outraged
> that he's shouting? I wonder if an exclamation mark would work better.
Hmmmn, maybe so!
> >With that
>
> Comma
ERrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. K. I'm trying!
> >he advanced on me and in one stride was
> > in front of me, fists raised.
>
> I thought they were already in front of her.
Immediately in front. Within feet.
> > He folded like origami.
>
> Don't know if I like this simile. A simple "he crumpled" would, I think,
> work better.
I like the poetry of the line, so will keep it.
> > The doves, swallows and forest animals were >laughing. So I laughed,
> > too.
>
> Heh.
Thanks.
> > "Have you had enough?" I said as he gasped.
> >
> > "Why? After all I've done for you."
> >
> > "Touché."
>
> Don't know if I get the "touche." And it seems an awfully calm response
> after what she had just gone through at the hands of this monster.
Not calm at all. He is claiming to have done everything for her. Really, he
DID. He made her grow as a person in spite of the severe abuse.
> > He was close enough so that
> > I could smell the booze on his breath.
>
> Why are all fat bastards alcoholics? :-)
>
> > I looked back at the drink-ridden fat-bastard beet
>
> You keep repeating that he's a fat bastard. I think we get the point.
Maybe I'll take out the first one, then.
> >in front of me and
> > got pissed one more time.
>
> The "got pissed" is awfully telly. Normally, I wouldn't mind, but I was so
> spellbound by your language throughout this story that this telly phrase
> seems out of place.
Good point. Gone. Don't think I like it either, in retrospect.
> >Raising my arms above my head, I brought them
> > down across his own and turned, loosening his grip on >me.
>
> And he turned? he loosened his grip on me? It seems like there's a word or
> two missing.
Oooh, maybe you're right.
> >With a free
> > foot
>
> Comma
K.
> >I kicked straight up behind me and into his crotch once >more, which
> > sent him down a last time, passed out.
> >
> > I fell to the ground exhausted, and the golden retriever >licked my face
> > as the sky turned to night.
> >
> > "How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as >she tightened the
> > restraints.
> >
> > "Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. >Won't talk."
> >
> > "She have any family?"
> >
> > "She did, but they came up missing about two years >ago and were never
> > found."
> >
> > "It's a nice painting. Van Gogh, isn't it?"
> >
> > "Starry Night."
> >
> > Both of the nurses left, and the girl in the bed began to >chuckle at the
> > painting and its two figures in the field who moved >around like bugs in
> > a jar.
> >
> > "You there?" she said.
> >
> > A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the >golden retriever lay
> > down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping >for the last two
> > years.
>
> I've already written my critique, but I just noticed something on a second
> read through. Her parents have been dead for four years. The golden
> retriever has only been there for two years. So, that leaves me to wonder
> if she killed her parents BEFORE she ever saw the painting. And if so, she
> developed her courage long before she met her dog. And if that's the case,
> she is imagining his death over and over again in the painting. Anyway, the
> rest of my critique.
Nice logic.
> I liked this, Opus! Really liked it. My only general comment is that I
> think you explained too much at the end, not leaving it ambiguous enough.
Really? Hmmn. Others haven't thought so, so far, but we'll see.
> That'll probably be my downfall too, but it's easier to spot it in other
> people's works than my own.
True.
> For instance, I might have left it like this:
>
> "How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as she tightened the
> restraints.
>
> "Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. Won't talk."
>
> "She have any family?"
>
> "She did."
I like tying the dog in.
> But that's just me.
>
> What does it mean? Here's my thoughts: she killed her family. That much
> is obvious. I don't think she did it through the painting, though. She
> only used it as a vehicle, an inspirational touch of courage because she
> couldn't find it within herself. The painting, the Starry sky, represents
> freedom, a way to remove her shackles and roam free through the fields
> without worries. Her continuous rape damaged her psychologically, and she
> continues to find hope and companionship(for that's what the golden
> retriever represents-she's never had a friend before) in the painting, even
> though her parents are now dead.
>
> Good one, Opus.
>
> Take care.
Very interesting and intelligent guess at the interpretation. All will be
revealed soon.
Thanks SO much for the reading and comments. I always appreciate your eye.
Opus
> << Life is a dance of the grotesque. Find the beauty bemused and you've
> mastered your demons. >>
>
> You say the lovliest things.
Thank you!
> "Bemused" in the sense of "absorbed?" Without the
> poetry, does this
> mean--become absorbed in beauty? "Find 'the' beauty" makes me think you're
> talking about a specific beauty.
Bemused means confused emotionally.
> << "Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes flashed red like Satan's
> scrotum. >>
>
> Wow. Lurid image! It borders on the comical, Op, in my opinion. Just thought
> I'd mention it.
Even the best dramas have touches of comedy, because that's just how life is, I
guess. I wanted something a little comical there.
> << I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated back to the pillow as
> another blow locked with my head. I began to dream of far away
> fields of clover and golden retrievers. >>
>
> Ugh. Horrible, what's being done to her.
>
> << He sat proselytising to no one. >>
>
> He sat preaching to no one? About what? Sorry.
Proselytising is usually synonymous with Christianity, so I tried to paint that he
was all about the Word and its importance to his life.
> << I didn't look him in the eye -- it was still swollen blue from yesterday. >>
>
> Whose? His or the speakers?
Yeah, I fucked that up. Oh RE-writer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> << "You are doing God's work here, my little maidservant. Get ready for the
> museum. I'll be back to unlock the door when you're ready." >>
>
> He's very evil.
Thank you.
> << Cold marble felt good on my bare feet >>
>
> That is a singular, simply beautiful observation to make. Wonderful, Op.
Thank you again.
> << I always got to wear dresses cause they hid things better. >>
>
> I like the childlike phraseology for this piece (as opposed to big words like
> "proselytize")
I've thought about your comments all week, and am still not sure how I stand on
that. I may need to totally re-work that.
> << Mrs. Lewis gave me sunglasses and we walked to the Van Goghs. I liked one
> they called "Starry Night." It swirled and massed and danced and
> eye-flirted with me. >>
>
> Nice Bob touch there.
Errrrrrrr. But thanks.
> << I resumed my game. Its circles hypnotic and beckoning. Endless. Joyous and
> endless. I followed each brush stroke around the perimeter of each star. I
> couldn't stop myself. Each stroke pushed me into the next and the next and . .
> .
>
> "May I swallow you whole?"
>
> I turned but no one was there. >>
>
> Outstanding! Really! Love the swirling colors of the paragraph above, love the
> whimsical/scary bolt-from-the-blue "may I swallow you whole" that interrupts
> it. Some of the best writing I've seen from you, Op.
Wow, thank you, Harper!!
> << This time it exhaled from the painting, and I walked as close as they would
> allow. I heard a euphony like ocean waves. It so soothed me that
> I wanted to sleep-serene on its shores. >>
>
> I'd lose "This time." "Euphony" is a million-dolllar word--what's wrong with
> "sound"? "Sleep-serene" is another nice Bob W. homage.
Ah, yes, "this time", gone. Sound just didn't paint the image that I saw in my
head; 'sound' lacks the affluence I wanted.
> << "Are you for real?" I sounded like I was in the third grade. >>
>
> Isnt' she, approximately? A child, anyway? We're not doing linear space-time,
> are we? :-)
No. She's in high school, probably around 14; just old enough to be dreaming of a
lover.
> << "Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
> Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d." >>
>
> Who is saying this?
Keats. But it's the painting.
> << My heart leapt for joy and pushed a tear onto my face simultaneously, and as
> I stared transfixed into his trusting eyes, >>
>
> "Simultaneously" is imho extraneous and an breaks your rhythm here.
I wanted to show that they were happening at the same time, though.
> << The colours were so intense and vivid that I felt if I had to look at one
> more, they would cause my insides to ignite. >>
>
> Imho I'd go with vivid _or_ intense. "Insides" might be more colloquial than
> you want, not sure.
K.
> << There, shining above me, was Van Gogh's starry night -- his illumined
> vision. The very sky I had lost myself in! >>
>
> I'd scratch that last line, as well as "his illuminated vision." Imho,
> sometimes less is more.
Gone. Good point.
> << "Is this my home now? Will you never let me go?" >>
>
> The question seems premature.
Hmmmn.
> << I wanted to ask for what, but suddenly I was so tired I couldn't stand. The
> golden retriever lay down at the same time I began to fall, and my
> head softly landed on his side. >>
>
> I understand this is a dreamscape or visionscape, but falling head first onto a
> dog's side still evokes a curious image. Ouchy, for the speaker and for the
> dog. I dunno.
It happened in slow motion. I should've said that, hunh?
> << I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb clues, >>
>
> Um, what? I thought the Voice was a friend?
He is, but she was getting impatient.
> << coward >>
>
> cowered
Thanks. 3 in the morning and too much diet soda.
> << He became so indignant his fat face beeted up. "How DARE you speak to me in
> such a manner." With that he advanced on me and in one stride was
> in front of me, fists raised. >>
>
> Your Mr. Lewis is turning into a parody of a mean bastard maybe a little. You
> know how to intimidate without thundering like a cartoon villian.
Yeah. Didn't want him to come off so buffoonish.
> << I did not cower. My hand made contact with his face and the knot on his
> forehead sent him backwards. I braced for a second attempt, and he
> delivered. He kicked his leg into what should have been my groin, but I
> side-stepped him and laid my own boot into his crotch. >>
>
> If the whole piece were tongue-in-cheek/witty thing a la say, Buffy the Vampire
> slayer or something, I'd say a fight scene would be entirely appropriate, but
> here it just strikes me as, I dunno, a little odd. Just me, maybe.
Another comment I've really chewed on all week. Still not sure whether to
leave/take out and how to reconcile. But you've given me excellent food for
thought.
> << He folded like origami. >>
>
> Oh, cool. Like that.
Me too. Thanks.
> << The doves, swallows and forest animals were laughing. So I laughed, too. >>
>
> I'm not sure it becomes the forest animals or the speaker to laugh at Mr.
> Lewis' pain. Is this a witty twist on revenge fantasy--I mean, are you saying
> that no one can claim the moral high ground? If that's the case, OK, but I
> think then your speaker has to be a bit more sardonic and less the
> straightforward victim throughout.
I did want the animals laughing. They are, after all, in a painting, so it's
surreal to begin with.
> << "Touché." >>
>
> Who says this? The girl? The tone's off, Op. It's starting to sound mighty
> strange.
The girl.
> I looked back at the drink-ridden fat-bastard beet in front of me and got
> pissed one more time. Raising my arms above my head, I brought them down
> across his own and turned, loosening his grip on me. With a free foot I kicked
> straight up behind me and into his crotch once more, which sent him down a last
> time, passed out. >>
>
> Great fight scene. Lots of action. It just feels totally out of place in this
> story--*unless*--I'm missing your entire point, which is entirely possible. Do
> you intend to take the sometimes over-serious sensibilities of
> molestation-survivor stories and give it a ha-ha whalloping?
NO!
> If that's the case, some of this scalding wit might come in a little sooner.
> Otherwise, I
> mean if that's not what you're doing, forgive me Opie, but it just seems very
> strange to me.
That's okay, don't apologise. You're giving me honest feedback as a reader and
this is what it's all about: whether it translated well from my fucked up mental
acuity to your skills as an impartial reader.
> << A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay
> down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping for the last two
> years. >>
>
> It's certainly a tour de force. Lots of good stuff, here, Opus. I'm unclear as
> to your intent, however, and I don't want to assume anything. Looking forward
> to your explication.
>
> Harpsi
Thank you so much for reading Harper. I value your insights, y'know? I'll post
the explanation soon.
Opus
> This was well-written, for the most part.
>
Thank you so much.
> A lot of it I didn't understand,
> of course. The opening lines, for instance, are interesting, but they don't
> seem to relate to each other or to the rest of the story. Maybe that's
> because I can't seem to wrap my mind around the "beauty bemused" sentence.
> I'd drop them and start off with the blood gushing sentence. Just a
> suggestion.
>
It'll make sense in the explanation.
> You also might want to reconsider your "Satan's scrotum" simile. It seems a
> bit too humorous for the tone of this story.
>
I wanted *some* humour there, but maybe it is over the top a bit. Will
think about that.
> I think you did a wonderful job with the Van Gogh sequence. That was some
> very good writing.
>
Thank you again. I'm smiling.
> I wish I could give you some better suggestions, but -- as I feared -- I
> was totally lost by the symbolism. My fault, not yours.
>
It's okay, I appreciate your feedback.
> Nice job, Opus.
>
> doc
>
Treasured words, to be sure.
Thanks for reading.
Opus
> It's dedicated to Barry, this, so it must be REALLY easy to understand,
> right? Er. No. Damn that Westermeyer and his challenge.
Heh.
> So. Opus goes Bob W. River-raging. Eye-flirted. Satan's scrotum, eh? Cool.
Thank you.
> What do I get? Mr. Lewis is child-abusing. Mrs Lewis enjoys watching. But
> she's a muse too? Odd.
In most child victims of abuse, because of our inherent need for protection, we
idolise our abusers. We deify our parents/role models, and will, when pushed,
defend them to the DEATH if needed. I loved my mother dearly in spite of the
mind-fuck she put me through. THAT'S what I wanted to impart in the story with
this. (And, btw: the verb-modifier was muse-touched. It was just a metaphor
for an enjoying point of contact. We all love being touched gently by our
muses, yes?)
And she doesn't so much enjoy watching as she looks to make sure the girl's
alright once it's over. It's her own, private train wreck.
> And Mr. L. does it in public - even in restaurants.
> Why's he so desperate when Mrs L is complicit? I have these questions, and
> interest.
's okay. I'll go into this fully in my explanation, but this child represents
everything to him that he is not. She, much like I was with my own mother, is
competition. She's not something to be gloried in, she is a threat. And in any
insecure person, a threat is something to be greatly feared. He's severely
jealous. Tie that into the scene with the wasps and maybe it'll make a little
more sense.
> But then we go into the painting world, and that's fine initially - but then
> the story goes off the rails. From the psychobabble "Love yourself enough to
> fight" transformed into a single "No" sending the wasps away to the change
> of innocent to foul mouth - "fat bastard" - the characterisation takes
> second place to resolving issues in alternately punitive and soaring manner.
I disagree, but am glad you gained such a visceral reaction to it. To me, this
morphing IS top characterisation, since it's depicting her realising her
strength. Perhaps the word limit made that seem a bit rushed for you, but I
assure you, that's what I was doing.
> A good start lost for me. I'd finish with her entering the painting. I
> certainly wouldn't bring the family in there. I'd just give her happiness
> and not satisfaction. Sorry, Opie. You're an excellent writer, but this
> isn't your best realised piece.
That's okay for you to hold that opinion--I won't fold like origami. I'm
disappointed though, cause I like it when you like my stuff, but that's what
this is all about, right? It sounds like you didn't really get Mulholland
Drive, either, and this story was written the day after I saw that movie. But,
all's well.
I'm so thankful you took the time to read.
Opus
> >Dedicated to Barry.
>
> Want to hear that story :)
>
In the explanation.
> This was a maelstrom of horror and misery.
>
You're just sayin' that.......
> In other words, I liked it
> a great deal.
>
Thank you!
> My take (haven't read a whisper of anyone else's reviews
> YET, or your interp--that comes before judgment day). But my take is
> this: Foster'd child from frying pan into fire. Abused, used,
> completely confined in the sort of childhood hell you only read about
> in....I was going to say "textbooks", but they are always off the mark
> when it comes to this stuff. you only read about them in stories like
> this. For certain not making any suggestions that this is autobio, O,
> but for me, you've presented a ruined person who descends into madness
> and perpetual fantasy to elude her tormentors. I know the painting. I
> know the dog. I know the joy of the tango.
>
And on one level, it is exactly this. But there is much more.
> At first I thought the Karate and judo stuff was hyperbole shit you
> usually get in stories like this UNTIL, I realized it was fantasy.
> Then I took it back.
>
No, it had real meaning.
> ONly nit: the hyphenated nouns and verbs. I know I use them all the
> time, and maybe this is a good opportunity for me to examine my own
> overuse of them, but WAY too many. Some were repeated too.
>
Repeated? Don't remember any, but that's okay.
> I like my powdered condiments delivered through the perforated flap,
> not the pour flap. y'know?
>
Yup.
> Superb. Look forward to reading your brain-guide for this story.
>
> Bob
>
Thanks so much; appreciate the read.
Opus
> > mastered your demons.
>
> Hi Opus,
> I've been looking forward to getting here finally, sorry so late.
I'm late responding, so my apologies, too.
> You've got some exquisite language in this piece. Some of your very best
> writing, IMO.
Wow, thank you!
> As a story, I am not so much troubled by not understanding
> all of it as in the sense that it has shot too broad, has not remained focus
> to narrow enough elements to remain story. I think that's simply a matter
> of needing to decide what are the most important elements to it and honing
> it down. You could probably lose 500 words (though while there are areas to
> hone there are other areas that need more, so maybe not.)
>
> The central story idea is wonderful, I think, if incredibly sad, in this
> little abused girl's tie to the painting that ultimately becomes where she
> stays (mentally) during her coma (or that is how i took it. The painting
> always gave her joy.)
>
> By way of some examples of what I mean about overbroad or honing: The
> opening paragraph sounds more like a philosophy of life, poetically stated,
> than part of the story. It may have inspired the story, but after the
> story's done I would, personally, back it right out.
I think I like it, though. I tend toward stories that begin with that kind of
narrative element. I did it in Blood Alley with the excerpts from his journal,
and in this story, especially, since the story is a metaphor for that very
philosophy, I had to have it in there. But I see what you mean.
> The next opening paragraph is a real 'hook' but also ultimately doesn't seem
> needed for the story unless I'm misinterpreting. With all the abuse of this
> girl by these people, that man, what does Jimmy fucking her raw have to do
> with it (they "didn't know" and don't need any excuse to abuse the hell out
> of her anyway.)
Goes to history and motive, councilor...
> If the "he" in that first paragraph is not intended to be
> Jimmy not that abusive POS, if you're trying to say the abuse started the
> night of her junior prom, and if "they" is for ex, people at the prom and
> not this sadistic couple, then I think you need to make that clearer.
Prolly do; thanks.
> > The blood gushed river-raging down my cheek, orchard sweet. Wine I'd
> > tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my juniour prom. We drank it on the
> > way home before he fucked me raw. I never told them . . .
> >
> > "Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes flashed red like
> > Satan's scrotum.
>
> I join in this being almost a comical image.
Cool. She needs some way to get through the next three minutes.
> > I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated back to the pillow
> > as another blow locked with my head. I began to dream of far away
> > fields of clover and golden retrievers.
> >
> > Sleep, child.
> >
> > "Guess what? Today makes one year since the courts said you could live
> > with us. Isn't that *wonderful*?" Mrs. Lewis gave a thread-bare smile
> > when Mr. Lewis was around.
>
> By this point I'm wanting to know how old she is when she first goes to live
> with them, and why she does. Are these relatives (seems not) or foster care
> parents and if so, where's her family?
Foster.
> > He sat proselytising to no one.
> >
> > "After breakfast, we are taking you to the Museum. Wouldn't you like
> > that?" she asked with fear singeing her eyes.
>
> What is the reason for her fear? Is she afraid of her husband? Afraid that
> their kooky sick life is going to be discovered when there are trips in
> public, that the girl might run off? I like "fear singeing" as a noun-verb
> combo.
All of the above. Because if the dynamic of the family was ever revealed, then
she would be blamed, too, even if it wasn't her fault.
> > Mrs. Lewis watched from her hole in the wall.
> >
> > The golden retriever jumped over the fence.
>
> Thoughts of escape? Or she does escape, by her joy in the museum which lets
> her forget?
Patience, m'dear. All explained soon.
> > The whispering. "That you may tell your children and grandchildren how
> > I dealt harshly with the Egyptians and how I performed my signs among
> > them, and that you may know that I am the LORD."
> >
> > He brushed my cheek.
> >
> > I'll try harder.
>
> This whole section about the (what i am presuming is the cafe' or museum
> bathroom, seems overkill in a sense -- we already know he's sexual abusing
> her -- would he be that risky to do so again in a bathroom stall the same
> day the manager of the place is already "onto" him? or is this a different
> day? Just not sure you need it.
I wanted to depict his lack of serious cognition.
> Also, and maybe I'm not understanding, why
> would that sick guy be talking about the golden retriever? Are these her
> thoughts which are all screwed up imagining what he's saying? If so a
> little overly selfconscious I think, if you step back it works better IMO.
Her thoughts.
> > Mrs. Lewis gave me sunglasses and we walked to the Van Goghs. I liked
> > one they called "Starry Night." It swirled and massed and danced and
> > eye-flirted with me. I stared at it so long the colours washed into
> > each other and began to drip.
>
> That is one of my fav paragraphs.
Thank you.
> > I resumed my star-gazing.
> >
> > "Let me swallow you whole."
> >
> > This time it exhaled from the painting, and I walked as close as they
> > would allow. I heard a euphony like ocean waves. It so soothed me that
> > I wanted to sleep-serene on its shores.
> >
> > "Are you talking to me?" I answered my own question by assuming I was
> > now brain-busted.
>
> This sounds like an older narrator all of the sudden.
She is about 14.
> > I looked for my fosters, but they were still on the other side and
> > didn't notice me for once. Fear welled up and blow-punched every
> > thought in my head, making holes in my logic where meagre wisdom had
> > once resided. My heart began searing strips of pain as my breathing
> > laboured, but I was powerless to stop it.
>
> I love the language of this section, but it seems a shift in age and tone
> for the narrator to all of the sudden more detached and analytical analyses.
> I'm also really not sure the age of the narrator here.
14.
> > When the song ended many hours later, the man leaned in slowly, placed a
> > hand to my hair and kissed me as softly as I'd ever imagined. He
> > lingered for a moment, pulled away, smiled deeply, and I watched him
> > turn slowly back into the golden retriever.
>
> Someone coming to rescue her -- okay, now this is exploring what the dog
> means to her more and she's older here. But it took a long time to get
> here.
Sorry--I will see if I can clarify that more sooner.
> > The wasps were upon me and I let out a throat-ripping scream. They flew
> > around me, above, between, chilling me to the bone. They dived bombed
> > for a relentless two minutes, and as they did, I felt an anger well up
> > from within. It felt foreign, as if I had red-hot goo in my belly, and
> > it spread to my extremities.
>
> Was it you that mentioned a fear of bees? Having been stung 56 times at
> once when I was 8, I can relate. But I'm not sure what this segment adds to
> the story other than 'another' fear she conquered giving her encouragement
> to combat the Lewis' at the end.
Yes. I wear two Medic-Alert tags. Yesterday, for instance, I was standing in
our backyard just looking at some plants, when a wasp lit on a leaf on the
ground. I could NOT move. My heart began racing, my breathing became laboured,
I couldn't remove my eyes from it. By the time I got back in the house I was in
hysterics, and my roommates were not home, so I had to find a way to calm myself
down. It's really awful now, Andrea. I have the Epipen I carry with me in case
I'm stung. I only have 15 minutes to live before the venom and Anaphylaxis kill
me, so once injected, I need to be rushed to the hospital.
This was even tormenting to write and as horrendous to write about in the story.
But they represent something a little deeper than her fear.
> > I fell to the ground exhausted, and the golden retriever licked my face
> > as the sky turned to night.
>
> So I guess we know she hasn't really won the fight physically but won it in
> her mind. or she won it but winning it send her off the deep end?
Hmmmmn........
> > A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay
> > down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping for the last two
> > years.
>
> The shift in POV is slightly jarring but I can see it's needed for the
> story, so I can live with it. The reference to 2 years the dog is sleeping
> seems to contradict the 4 years that she's been in restraints?
Yes, deliberate contradiction.
And Barry's suggestion of spacing will solve that POV jar.
> Well anyway, these are just some thoughts. I think the story is definitely
> worth working at it a little more if you're up to it. I love the imagery.
> It's very visual -- written almost like a short film, where you might in
> some ways, excuse the missing parts that you expect in a writing. Film can
> flash at you and make you tie it together and that's what this reminds me
> of.
>
> Nice work, O.
>
> Andrea
Thank you SO much! I appreciate your eye. Y'know, you're a pretty thorough
critiquer!
doc
>It sounds like you didn't really get
> Mulholland Drive, either, and this story was written the day after I saw
> that movie.
>
If Alaric didn't get "Mulholland Drive," then I'm quite comfortable with
the company I keep, because I didn't get it either. Not that it wasn't
interesting--even compelling--because it was. But I guess I'm just
stupid; I like a denouement I can understand without having to go to
a discussion group or--God forbid!--wait for the author to explain it to
dimwits like me.
I'll watch "Mulholland Drive" again, just to see what it was I missed on
the first go 'round, and because it *was* fascinating; but those kinds of
movies--and stories--are ultimately unsatisfying to me. They can't be
translated; they can only be interpreted.
doc
Opus
didn't get the story here, then I don't see how he could get the film. And
no, I'm not saying this is synonymous with Lynch--god forbid--just that as you
assert, this is open to extreme interpretation, no matter what my own
explanation of it may be.
BTW: I remember you making a comment about Mulholland's atrocious acting. I
paid particular attention to the way Naomi Watts acted the beginning, which
WAS atrocious, and the way she acted the ending, after we learn the first part
we were seeing was her sheer psychosis, and the acting styles were vastly
different, and not just from her, but all of the players who did both
sequences. So, the acting was SUPPOSED to be heightened and even considered
over-done for those beginning segments. But at the end when we finally hit
"real life," it is all back down to where it should be. Sometimes this
overacting technique is used to denote differences in timelines, scenes or
internal/external monologues. Comedies are often heightened in this approach
to acting--it's why some dramatic actors just can't switch back and forth
between drama and comedy, and the best actors are the ones who can
successfully do both.
Thought you may want to know that.
doc wrote:
--
Alaric
> NOT a criticism on Alaric, doc, just a statement to draw a parallel that
if he
> didn't get the story here, then I don't see how he could get the film.
And
> no, I'm not saying this is synonymous with Lynch--god forbid--just that as
you
> assert, this is open to extreme interpretation, no matter what my own
> explanation of it may be.
I'm with doc. My own prejudiced view is that writing isn't like painting, or
even movie making. The reader invests more than a careful study. I think "I"
owe understanding. I love Lynch, BTW (TWin Peaks - best series ever made)
and I haven't watched Mulholland Drive yet - but I expect not to like it. I
don't mind how many different interpretations can be drawn from a story of
mine - but I don't want blank confusion. Bob's challenge this month was
WONDERFUL - but I didn't connect with most of the stories because I simply
didn't understand them. Yours had a clear message - which is maybe why I
came down on it harder than I should have - it was clear what you were
saying, and I think it could have been tiptoed a little - but most of the
others I was in a fog.
R. Westermeyer
Doc.
PLEASE give MD a second viewing. The majority of the movie is a dream
(remember we sort of fall into a pillow at the beginning).
It's a simple tale, really, about a naive girl getting eaten up and
spat out by the hollywood machine. Abandon all rational thinking.
Pretend you are in a dream. The majority of the movie's characters
will be identified in the last ten minutes. It's about a girl named
Diane who wins a jitterbug contest, comes to hollywood with dreams and
uncertain sexual identity in hand, gets hooked with an actress who
satisfies the latter, and is ruined. I think this is Lynch's
masterpiece. The last twenty minutes are not in the correct order, but
they are all "non-dream". After the cowboy says, "time to wake up
pretty girl" you have the beginning of the movie. A psychotically
depressed woman who is so desperate she hires a hit man to kill
Camilia. Remember the fierce masturbation scene? That sums up the
movie for me.
I posted this in the lynch group. I got my ass kicked by I still think
it's the correct sequence:
*****
This seems to me to be the "real time" sequence of the movie. It seems
a quite "simple" tale of a woman searching for fame and identity who
is eaten and spat out who then decompensates, but told with
overwhelming complexity. I think it's Lynch's best yet.
Diane and Camilla making out on couch
"We have to stop this..."
Diane descends into darkness.
Party/wedding announcement
Contract to kill Camilla in Winkie’s. Blue key.
Diane goes to sleep/dream sequence
(beginning and majority of actual film, gives us background story)
She wakes up.
("Time to wake up pretty lady," says the cowboy as she awakens)
Second failed relationship ex-lover (a post-camilla girlfriend) drops
by to pick up her stuff. Diane sees blue key. Realizes the deed has
been done.
Diane is psychotically depressed/hallucinating/masturbates furiously.
Cops pound on door. Diane kills herself.
--Robert
*****
Done is the kissing, now all that remains
Is to sail forever on a stain.
--Nick Cave (Cabin Fever)
Opus
sequence of events were the same as what you got. Why did they kick your ass
over THAT?
O
"R. Westermeyer" wrote:
--
Patrick Null
"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:bdnqnp$8gg$1...@titan.btinternet.com...
> I'm with doc. My own prejudiced view is that writing >isn't like painting,
or
> even movie making. The reader invests more than a >careful study. I think
"I"
> owe understanding. I love Lynch, BTW (TWin Peaks - best series ever made)
> and I haven't watched Mulholland Drive yet - but I >expect not to like it.
I
> don't mind how many different interpretations can be >drawn from a story
of
> mine - but I don't want blank confusion.
Heh. Then, you probably won't like my entry, Alaric. Sorry. I
purposefully made it ambiguous. Though, I will say this-if you read it
really, really carefully, you might find some bread crumbs to understand at
least some of it.
Wind River
>
> Hello, Clarice, <G> (I told you Starlings were my favourite besides
> peng-uns, yes? I call them Shiny Birds.)
They are shiny and beautiful. Did you know their beaks change colors?
They are black in the winter and yellow in the summer -- kind of half
and half in the spring and fall as they change.
> > That painting really does eye-flirt.
> >
> I have it on a mouse-pad and it mesmerises me.
I love Van Gogh. I like his painting of the crows in the field.
> > I don't completely understand this one, but I don't think it would be as
> > effective if I did. When you're writing from within someone's mind, it
> > has to be about their thoughts and visions. There are some wonderful
> > images in this story, Opus. I like the way you wrote it with a
> > sprinkling of BobWisms. That works well for all us AFOers who know his
> > style and appreciate it. Well done.
> >
> Wow, Sue, thank you SO much for these comments. Coming from the queen
> of description, this is truly gold.
Uh-oh, I have a title? I have a reputation to uphold? Yikes! See ya later!
doc
> Thought you may want to know that.
Well, okay, if you say so.
I'm one of the Great Unwashed, though, and I thought the acting was
terrible.
doc
Opus
> terrible.
>
Opus
Harper
<< I'm one of the Great Unwashed, though, and I thought the acting was
terrible. >>
WHAT are we going to do with these overly cerebral, rational-minded, brilliant
men, Opus? It's very rich, textured acting, doc. The first hour or so is
stylized to recall the "golden age" of cinema when actors did seem stiff and,
oh, I don't know, all implausibly Mary Sunshine. It's such a treat, Mulholland
Dr., but it's funny, I do notice my eggheady/rational-minded friends walking
away annoyed; feeling gypped. Oh well. To each his own (my S. O. has your
sentiments exactly), but I loved it so much I hate to see anyone missing out.
See it again someday, maybe? Quiet your formidable brain for a couple of hours
and let its dream images hit you where they will. Space out. Let it hypnotize
you. Oh, I have an idea: see it when you're really too sleepy to be seeing a
movie.
Harpsi
--
"I'll hello, tweet, damn, chirp Clarice."
Sue's literate pet starling
doc
> > I'm one of the Great Unwashed, though, and I thought the acting was
> > terrible.
> >
> It was supposed to be. And that was my point.
>
Lousy acting is an artistic triumph. Got it.
doc