(story) Flowers for Sarah (1850w)
day for night
Michael
He knocked on the door and waited. Soggy morning rain drizzled behind him,
and he considered trying his luck elsewhere. The duplex he had chosen was
run-down, but no more than any of the other rental properties in he had
passed again and again. The door opened.
"Hello?" an old woman asked, peering through a hole in the screen door.
"Uh, hi. I'm not really sure if you can help me. I'm looking for 32
Brownstone and I've been up and down this street, it's just that I'm not
familiar with the area and ." he trailed off. He studied her carefully,
already deciding that he had picked the wrong house. What was left of her
comically white hair hung in tangled knots like cobwebs on her sunken
cheeks, and even the roses on her dirty housedress looked wilted.
"Go to the end of the block and take a right, it'll be past the grocery and
probably unmarked, but the grocery is 28 Brownstone. You can count up from
there. None of them houses have numbers."
He turned to study the path she suggested.
"I believe you're right, ma'am. Thank you," he said, his words suddenly
trapped in his mouth after tasting the air escaping her screen door. It
smelled of urine and old newspaper.
"You're welcome young man," she smiled, her dentures flashing.
"Rick," he said, "and your name?"
"Sarah. Lovely weather for a walk, Rich."
"It's Rick. I'm actually looking for this guy who works at the convenience
store over on Oak that was robbed a week ago. You wouldn't happen to know
him, would you?"
"Are you a cop?" She looked at him suspiciously.
"No, ma'am, I'm a reporter."
"For the Daily or the Sun?"
"The Daily," he said. She nodded her approval.
"Don't know about robberies. So much crime. But wait right here. I have
something that'll help you," she said, disappearing into the source of the
smell which Rick did his best not to think about. A few minutes passed. He
checked his watch. It would be terribly rude of me to leave, he thought,
especially since we introduced ourselves (even if she hasn't gotten my name
correct yet).
"Here." The woman opened the screen door and handed Rick a blue umbrella.
"Oh, no. I can't take this."
"I don't go out much, you can have it, it'll save the half of that suit
that isn't soaked."
He started to thank her again, but she politely closed the door. Umbrella
in hand, Rick set off to find 32 Brownstone.
***
A man with a blue umbrella walked quickly down the street. He walked up the
steps to the porch of one of the duplexes, shutting the umbrella as he
knocked on the door.
"Have trouble finding the house?" Sarah asked as she opened the door.
"No, I found it, but he wasn't home. I came to return your umbrella."
"Thank you," she said, one of her frail hands reaching out of a hole in the
door to retrieve the umbrella. "Have a nice day now."
"Wait, I, uh."
"Yes?"
"Do you play the lottery?" he asked.
"Oh," she began to laugh. "I haven't played in years. Don't get out much,
you know."
"Well, it's at sixty-four mil. I bought you a ticket from the grocer, was
getting some for me anyway," he said, offering it to her through the screen
door.
"Is this some kind of trick?" She didn't take the ticket.
"No, I thought as long I was there, though."
Taking the ticket cautiously, she asked, "What if I win?"
"Well, then you'll have to let me write the feature story on you. It would
boost my career." He grinned.
"What channel are the numbers on?"
"Channel 18 at seven. I gotta get back to the office now. Good luck,
Sarah," said Rick.
"Goodbye Rich."
"Rick," he said as she closed the door.
White people, she thought. She hobbled across the room and sank into her
old, worn green recliner. Turning on a lamp, she studied her numbers: 02 10
17 25 31 49. The clock on the wall chimed three times, five hours until the
drawing. Sarah looked around the room, bored. She saw a landscape painting
she had bought at the dollar store, the brown rug and the lamps. It was
modest, but it was hers. She leaned back in her chair and fell asleep.
***
Sarah dreamed of West Virginia, of age twenty-three. The lottery drawings
had just started being televised then. The room was largely barren, but well
kept. Two twin mattresses with homemade comforters extended towards the
center of the room, and on a kitchen table was their most prized possession:
an old, black and white television struggling with the aid of two coat
hangers wrapped in tin foil to receive all of two channels.
Sarah and her sister, Lucy, sat at the table and faced the television,
dressed in their finest dresses (which would still attract more than a few
pitying glances from white women on the street). They smoked cigarettes.
They talked faster and faster about what to do when they won the jackpot.
"Of course I would buy the finest dresses," Lucy said excitedly.
"Of course."
"And jewelry. Diamonds. And I would buy a nice house away from the city, no
more duplexes. And I would have my hair done like Mrs. Baldwin. Lordy. What
about you? What you gonna do when you win this time?"
"I think," Sarah said softly, "I would go to one of those fancy
Universities. Become something. Become someone."
It was the same conversation every week, Lucy the extravagant, Sarah the
practical. They had a pact though: if one of them won, they would split the
money.
"Thank you for joining us tonight," the announcer began.
"Turn it up, turn it up!" Lucy said. Sarah turned the volume dial as high
as it would go.
"Here are tonight's winning numbers: seven, ten, fifteen, twenty-one,
twenty-three, and thirty-six. Congratulations if you are tonight's winner!
Be sure to buy your tickets and tune in to next week's program!"
Sarah and Lucy studied their tickets. A look of shock appeared on Lucy's
face.
"I won! I won! I won!" She slapped her ticket on the table. Sarah embraced
her. It was as if they were at church. They screamed and cried, nearly
fainting. That night they went out to eat at a nice restaurant and even
ordered desert. They continued to talk about what they would do with the
money. The waitress, now clearing the table, gave them a dirty look as they
left.
The excitement of the evening over, they returned to the apartment. Sarah
cleared the coffee cups and plates from lunch from the table. Lucy crumpled
the tickets and threw them away.
***
Sarah yawned and looked at the clock. The drawing was almost on. She
grabbed the remote control from the end table and squinted her eyes, finding
Channel 18 just in time for the big drawing.
"Tonight's Super Jackpot Lottery numbers are," a handsome man in a suit said
to Sarah as little white numbered ping-pong balls were sucked to the top of
a hectic box of luck, "three, eight, seventeen, twenty-two, thirty-seven,
and forty-one."
Sarah didn't hear the rest of the broadcast. She stared at her ticket and
gasped.
"God," she said under her breath. "Yes!" She shook with excitement.
She grabbed the blue umbrella next to her chair and made her way to the
door. Taking a breath, she stepped out into the fresh air. It had stopped
raining, but clouds darkened in the sky above the street. The umbrella would
hurt my arm anyway, she thought, leaving it on the porch. Sarah made her way
slowly down the steep cement stairs that lead to her house. The grocery
around the corner was a fifteen-minute walk for her, but she made it,
slightly out of breath.
Sarah paused before the doors, remembering that now they opened
automatically. She waited until a man carrying two paper sacks exited the
store, but the doors shut right away. She tried to hold on to the excitement
she felt back at home, but a second-glance from a bagboy tugged at her
spirits. Another shopper left the store, and Sarah slipped in. She enjoyed
the smell of fresh food, but she flinched at the beeping of the registers
she passed. Carefully avoiding the inevitable looks from the people in line,
she walked slowly to the flower stand that was, thankfully, near the door of
the store.
"Mrs. Thomas, how are you today? It's been so long!"
"Why hello Brian. I didn't recognize you. New hair huh?"
"It's Brandon. Yeah, I dyed it blond."
"Oh, you're so cute. I like it."
"Want some of the flowers we were gonna pitch? Still like daisies?" the
young man asked, already starting to turn away from her.
"Not today. I would like roses. Red roses. One dozen."
Brandon hesitated. "They're $18.99," he said.
"I didn't ask you the price sweetie, just wrap them for me?"
Sarah watched him disappear into the backroom. He returned carrying a dozen
beautiful long-stemmed red roses.
"You know," he said as she reached for her small black purse, "these are
kind of old. You'd be doing us a big favor if you just took them."
"I will pay the money," she said firmly. He frowned, reaching for the
single twenty-dollar bill she offered from her purse. He handed her
ninety-four cents in change.
"I thought they were $18.99?"
"Tax," he explained. She saw the regret in his expression and nodded slowly
after counting her change twice.
Clutching the flowers close to her chest, Sarah waited for someone to enter
the store so she could leave without having to worry about the door. Walking
down the block and taking a left, she made her way as quickly as she could
up the sidewalk and to her door. Entering the house, she carefully unwrapped
the roses from the green tissue paper the young man had wrapped them in and
smiled. Beautiful, she thought.
She set them on her chair and went to the kitchen. She frowned, examining
her cupboard. This will have to do, she thought, taking one of her nicer
glasses from the bottom shelf (she put everything on the bottom shelf).
Filling the glass with tap water, she returned to her chair and placed the
roses in the glass, minding the thorns. Setting them on the end table, she
sank into her chair and sighed. Her feet ached.
It all came back to her, West Virginia, her sister, the dream, and the
dream within the dream. She admired the roses on the table. Sarah looked
around the room, bored. Again she saw the painting, the dirty frame, and the
peeling mountains. She kicked off her shoes onto the brown rug, and frowned
at the stains. She pulled the chord on the grimy lamp, admiring the roses on
last time before she drifted off to sleep. The red folds of the petals
deepened in the darkness, and a sweet aroma filled the air. Sarah began to
cry.
Alaric P. McDermott
day for night <mm15...@ohiou.edu> wrote in message
news:9ist2l$rhi$0...@192.153.35.101...
> Gouge away.
>
As if I would.
Michael, I like the idea, and the presentation. Do you think the two POVs
are necessary? We could start with Sarah. But yes, it's arguable. We do
learn a lot about Sarah from Rick's experience. Some essential things,
actually. The downside is that it makes Rick a disposable character, and we
don't expect that to happen when the story starts. I actually foresaw a
three segment story, where Rick returns for some reason at the end. It
surprised me when that didn't happen.
I'm not sure whether the incident in West Virginia, which I think you refer
to as "the dream within the dream", actually happened or not. I've now come
to the conclusion that it didn't. If it did, then I'm getting the wrong
message. I'm reading Sarah as having done a similar thing to something that
she dreamed her sister did, rather than something she remembered her sister
doing.
I also interpret from the end that the sister is dead, and that the roses
have some significance in that regard. Just to say that it isn't entirely
clear.
I think that lack of clarity is what leaves me slightly less taken with this
than I'd like (and than I have been with your other recent stories). I'm sad
for Sarah's loneliness, but what more there may be is something I can't pin
down. And I'm not sure that the motivation for pretending to have won the
lottery is open to the reader in the mental, or even the emotional sense.
Just my thoughts. Sorry not to be 100% behind this one.
A couple of punctuation observations. I say observations, because I don't
know that I'm right. Other group members may have a view. So I'm certainly
not saying you should make changes (pending other comment.) You may be
correct and I may be wrong.
The first contains the use of commas as a way to run together rushed or
nervous speech. Rick says:-
"I'm looking for 32 Brownstone and I've been up and down this street, it's
just that I'm not familiar with the area and."
I would write, ""I'm looking for 32 Brownstone and I've been up and down
this street. It's just that I'm not familiar with the area and."
Similarly:-
"Go to the end of the block and take a right, it'll be past the grocery and
probably unmarked, but the grocery is 28 Brownstone."
I would write, "Go to the end of the block and take a right. It'll be past
the grocery and probably unmarked, but the grocery is 28 Brownstone."
In speech, ideas rush together in a way that, usually, they don't in text.
Maybe a comma conveys that. But I've always needed a conjoining word, "and",
"which", "because" etc. to take a sentence on, even in speech. Thoughts?
The other issue is similar, in that again it concerns speech. You write:-
"Don't know about robberies. So much crime. But wait right here. I have
something that'll help you," she said, disappearing into the source of the
smell which Rick did his best not to think about.
I would have gone for, ""Don't know about robberies", she said. "So much
crime. But wait right here. I have something that'll help you." Then she
disappeared into the source of the smell which Rick did his best not to
think about.
The way I picked up writing speech (mainly from reading, I suppose) included
the presumption that once you've passed your first full sentence ("Don't
know about robberies"), and moved on to your second, your opportunity to
identify the person speaking by the simplest method ("X said") has passed.
Am I right, or is this not hard and fast? I think I'm probably a bit stiff
on such things.
Rick
Flowers for Sarah
A real nice piece, Michael. Thought provoking, and packed with subtleties
that demanded a reread. You're beyond general nits, so I'll point out things
I liked.
> "Uh, hi. I'm not really sure if you can help me. I'm looking for 32
> Brownstone and I've been up and down this street, it's just that I'm not
> familiar with the area and ." he trailed off. He studied her carefully,
> already deciding that he had picked the wrong house.
Arrogance is subtle, but there.
> He turned to study the path she suggested.
> "I believe you're right, ma'am.
What a jerk.
> "Are you a cop?" She looked at him suspiciously.
Force of habit?
> "Here." The woman opened the screen door and handed Rick a blue umbrella.
> "Oh, no. I can't take this."
Of course not. It's all about pride.
***
I stumbled on the viewpoint change, but then realized how much it worked.
> "Thank you," she said, one of her frail hands reaching out of a hole in
the
> door to retrieve the umbrella. "Have a nice day now."
Her paranoia is transparent.
> "Well, it's at sixty-four mil. I bought you a ticket from the grocer, was
> getting some for me anyway," he said, offering it to her through the
screen
> door.
Such a tokenism; could be worthless, could be worth a fortune. But of
course, something in it for him.
> "Well, then you'll have to let me write the feature story on you. It
would
> boost my career." He grinned.
LOL. What a clod.
> Sarah dreamed of West Virginia, of age twenty-three. The lottery drawings
> had just started being televised then. The room was largely barren, but
well
> kept. Two twin mattresses with homemade comforters extended towards the
> centre of the room, and on a kitchen table was their most prized
possession:
> an old, black and white television struggling with the aid of two coat
> hangers wrapped in tin foil to receive all of two channels.
>
> Sarah and her sister, Lucy, sat at the table and faced the television,
> dressed in their finest dresses (which would still attract more than a few
> pitying glances from white women on the street). They smoked cigarettes.
> They talked faster and faster about what to do when they won the jackpot.
>
> "Of course I would buy the finest dresses," Lucy said excitedly.
>
> "Of course."
>
> "And jewelry. Diamonds. And I would buy a nice house away from the city,
no
> more duplexes. And I would have my hair done like Mrs. Baldwin. Lordy.
What
> about you? What you gonna do when you win this time?"
>
> "I think," Sarah said softly, "I would go to one of those fancy
> Universities. Become something. Become someone."
This so nicely details her shallow life.
> Sarah and Lucy studied their tickets. A look of shock appeared on Lucy's
> face.
>
> "I won! I won! I won!" She slapped her ticket on the table. Sarah
embraced
> her. It was as if they were at church. They screamed and cried, nearly
> fainting. That night they went out to eat at a nice restaurant and even
> ordered desert. They continued to talk about what they would do with the
> money. The waitress, now clearing the table, gave them a dirty look as
they
> left.
>
> The excitement of the evening over, they returned to the apartment. Sarah
> cleared the coffee cups and plates from lunch from the table. Lucy
crumpled
> the tickets and threw them away.
Poignantly pathetic. Wish in one hand, crap in the other, and you'll never
be empty-handed. :)
> Sarah paused before the doors, remembering that now they opened
> automatically. She waited until a man carrying two paper sacks exited the
> store, but the doors shut right away.
She is a hopeless soul, yet she knows it.
She tried to hold on to the excitement
> she felt back at home, but a second-glance from a bagboy tugged at her
> spirits. Another shopper left the store, and Sarah slipped in. She enjoyed
> the smell of fresh food, but she flinched at the beeping of the registers
> she passed. Carefully avoiding the inevitable looks from the people in
line,
> she walked slowly to the flower stand that was, thankfully, near the door
of
> the store.
>
> "Mrs. Thomas, how are you today? It's been so long!"
>
> "Why hello Brian. I didn't recognize you. New hair huh?"
>
> "It's Brandon. Yeah, I dyed it blond."
>
> "Oh, you're so cute. I like it."
>
> "Want some of the flowers we were gonna pitch? Still like daisies?" the
> young man asked, already starting to turn away from her.
>
> "Not today. I would like roses. Red roses. One dozen."
>
> Brandon hesitated. "They're $18.99," he said.
>
> "I didn't ask you the price sweetie, just wrap them for me?"
>
> Sarah watched him disappear into the backroom. He returned carrying a
dozen
> beautiful long-stemmed red roses.
>
> "You know," he said as she reached for her small black purse, "these are
> kind of old. You'd be doing us a big favor if you just took them."
Ugly patronization masked by a kind face. Don't you just see it everyday?
> "I will pay the money," she said firmly.
Surprising conceit, but under the circumstances . . ..
> It all came back to her, West Virginia, her sister, the dream, and the
> dream within the dream. She admired the roses on the table. Sarah looked
> around the room, bored. Again she saw the painting, the dirty frame, and
the
> peeling mountains. She kicked off her shoes onto the brown rug, and
frowned
> at the stains. She pulled the chord on the grimy lamp, admiring the roses
on
> last time before she drifted off to sleep. The red folds of the petals
> deepened in the darkness, and a sweet aroma filled the air. Sarah began to
> cry.
Ah, bitter reality. I had trouble feeling sorry for any of these
characters -- such an sad portrayal, cutting and real. I'm sure I missed
other points.
Wonderful. I really enjoyed it.
Rick
Jane MacDonald
wrote:
> Flowers for Sarah (1850w)
> Michael
Hi, Michael--
I really liked this story. It's well written and poignant. The
youth and inexperience of the reporter, who isn't at all used to
dealing with dirty old ladies, came through nicely--his
awkwardness, mixed with superiority, fits him to a T. Brian
was a dear--I've known a few clerks who would act just that
way. And Sarah was lifelike.
Nothing's perfect, however, and two things bothered me.
I'm wondering whether introducing the race difference wasn't
a needless complication. Does it matter to the story that she's
black? I don't think so. Rick doesn't treat her any differently
from the way he'd treat a white woman in the same
circumstances, does he? If it does matter, I think you have to do
more with it.
One serious structural problem exists: nobody will remember
the numbers of the ticket she was given, which means that
when she gasps, the reader doesn't know whether she actually
won or not. Even at the end, I wasn't sure whether she was
crying because she won after her sister was long dead, or
because she didn't win and was sad about her foolishness, plus
the old-time memories. Then I had to go back and compare to
resolve the problem. Some people might find this okay; I didn't.
I think the problem can be solved some way; since you're the
writer, you get to solve it. I realize this is terribly important to
the story. My reaction is mine; maybe nobody else will find this
unsatisfactory.
Seven million nits below the sig, but I still think this is a very
good story. All I want you to do is make it just a little better. :-)
Jane
Jane MacDonald
jane...@excite.com
He knocked on the door and waited. Soggy morning rain
drizzled behind him, and he considered trying his luck
elsewhere. The duplex he had chosen was run-down,** no
hyphen ** but no more than any of the other rental properties
in** del 'in' ** he had passed again and again. The door
opened.
"Hello?" an old woman asked, peering through a hole in the
screen door.***
**This is just a pet peeve of mine, but I don't like long dialogue
tags, so I ask you to consider it. You'd get the same result with
this:
**"Hello?" An old woman peered through ahole in thye screen
door.***
***"Said" is always nearly invisible; anything else tends to
wreck the rhythm.***
"Uh, hi. I'm not really sure if you can help me. I'm looking for
32 Brownstone and I've been up and down this street, it's just
that I'm not familiar with the area and ."***
***Handle interruptions this way:
*** ". . . I'm not familiar with the area and--" ***
he trailed off. He studied her carefully, already deciding that
he had picked the wrong house. What was left of her comically
white hair hung in tangled knots like cobwebs on her sunken
cheeks, and even the roses on her dirty housedress looked
wilted.
"Go to the end of the block and take a right, it'll be past the
grocery and probably unmarked, but the grocery is 28
Brownstone. You can count up from there. None of them
houses have numbers."**
***Run-on sentences, separated by commas, are fine in
dialoghue to indicate hurried speech, but in this case I think
you don't need it, and it might jar a reader. Put a period after
"right' and start a new sentence. ***
He turned to study the path she suggested.
"I believe you're right, ma'am. Thank you," he said, his words
suddenly trapped in his mouth after tasting the air escaping
her screen door.***
***This time no option; rephrase; this way, the words are
tasting the air. I won't mention long dialogue tags again--just
take it as read that I think they should be short unless there's a
good reason for a long one.***
It smelled of urine and old newspaper.
"You're welcome young man," she smiled, her dentures
flashing.**
**I was wrong about not commenting. Nobody can "smile" a
sentence. ***
"Rick," he said, "and your name?"
"Sarah. Lovely weather for a walk, Rich."
"It's Rick. I'm actually looking for this guy who works at the
convenience store over on Oak that was robbed a week ago.
You wouldn't happen to know him, would you?"
"Are you a cop?" She looked at him suspiciously.
"No, ma'am, I'm a reporter."
"For the Daily or the Sun?"
"The Daily," he said. She nodded her approval.
"Don't know about robberies. So much crime. But wait right
here. I have something that'll help you," she said, disappearing
into the source of the smell which Rick did his best not to think
about. A few minutes passed. He checked his watch. It would
be terribly rude of me to leave, he thought, especially since we
introduced ourselves (even if she hasn't gotten my name
correct yet).***
***Some people use parentheses in fiction; most don't,
nowadays. No need here. ***
"Here." The woman opened the screen door and handed Rick
a blue umbrella.
"Oh, no. I can't take this."
"I don't go out much, you can have it, it'll save the half of that
suit that isn't soaked."***
**Again, one too many commas. Period after "it," new
sentence. ** This is because even in hurried speech there are
slight pauses. ****
He started to thank her again, but she politely closed the door.
Umbrella in hand, Rick set off to find 32 Brownstone.
***
A man with a blue umbrella walked quickly down the
street.***
***This is something along the lines of cute--too artificial, in
the sense that it's an artifice, clearly a writer showing he can
do something fancy. Just say Rick walked, carrying the
umbrella. Cute is bad. **
He walked up the steps to the porch of one of the duplexes,
shutting the umbrella as he knocked on the door.
"Have trouble finding the house?" Sarah asked as she opened
the door.
"No, I found it, but he wasn't home. I came to return your
umbrella."
"Thank you," she said, one of her frail hands reaching out of a
hole in the door to retrieve the umbrella. "Have a nice day
now."
"Wait, I, uh."** interruption**
"Yes?"
"Goodbye Rich."
***race comment above. ***
***
Sarah dreamed of West Virginia, of age twenty-three. The
lottery drawings had just started being televised then. The
room was largely barren,***
***"barren" gives me a picture of a vast expanse; how about
just 'bare'? **
but well kept. Two twin mattresses with homemade comforters
extended towards the center of the room, and on a kitchen table
was their most prized possession: an old, black and white
television struggling with the aid of two coat hangers wrapped
in tin foil to receive all of two channels.
Sarah and her sister, Lucy, sat at the table and faced the
television, dressed in their finest dresses (which would still
attract more than a few pitying glances from white women on
the street). **no paren **They smoked cigarettes. They talked
faster and faster about what to do when they won the jackpot.
"Of course I would buy the finest dresses," Lucy said
excitedly.***
**Adverbs after "said" almost always sound yucky to me. **
"Of course."
"And jewelry. Diamonds. And I would buy a nice house away
from the city, no more duplexes. And I would have my hair
done like Mrs. Baldwin. Lordy. What about you? What you
gonna do when you win this time?"
"I think," Sarah said softly, "I would go to one of those fancy
Universities. Become something. Become someone."***
**Well, sometimes adverbs after said aren't so bad. Okay here,
I think, with "softly."***
***
eight, seventeen, twenty-two, thirty-seven, and forty-one."**
**there's a dialogue tag thst would choke a bear.**
Sarah didn't hear the rest of the broadcast. She stared at her
ticket and gasped.
"God," she said under her breath. "Yes!" She shook with
excitement.
She grabbed the blue umbrella next to her chair and made her
way to the door. Taking a breath, she stepped out into the fresh
air. It had stopped raining, but clouds darkened in the sky***
**"Darkened" implies they were darkening as she stepped out,
which is difficult, since the step is one second and darkening is
a comparatively slowish process. Why not avoid the problem by
making it "still darkened the sky."***
above the street. The umbrella would hurt my arm anyway,
she thought, leaving it on the porch. Sarah made her way
slowly down the steep cement stairs that lead** led ** to her
house.***
***Awk; if she goes down, the stairs led out of her house. ***
The grocery around the corner was a fifteen-minute walk for
her, but she made it, slightly out of breath.
Sarah paused before the doors, remembering that now they
opened automatically. She waited until a man carrying two
paper sacks exited**
**iI see this a lot lately, and I don't like it. "Exited' is for legal
documents and police reports. "Left" is good.**
the store, but the doors shut right away. She tried to hold on to
the excitement she felt back at home, but a second-glance from
a bagboy tugged at her spirits. Another shopper left the store,
and Sarah slipped in. She enjoyed the smell of fresh food, but
she flinched at the beeping of the registers she passed.
Carefully avoiding***
**She can't avoid them; she can ignore them. ***
the inevitable looks from the people in line, she walked slowly
to the flower stand that was, thankfully, near the door of the
store.
"Mrs. Thomas, how are you today? It's been so long!"
"Why** , ** hello** , ** Brian. I didn't recognize you. New
hair** , ** huh?"
"It's Brandon. Yeah, I dyed it blond."
"Oh, you're so cute. I like it."
"Want some of the flowers we were gonna pitch? Still like
daisies?" the young man asked, already starting to turn away
from her.
"Not today. I would like roses. Red roses. One dozen."
Brandon hesitated. "They're $18.99," he said.
"I didn't ask you the price** , ** sweetie, just wrap them for
me?"
Sarah watched him disappear into the backroom. He returned
carrying a dozen beautiful long-stemmed red roses.
"You know," he said as she reached for her small black purse,
"these are kind of old. You'd be doing us a big favor if you just
took them."
"I will pay the money," she said firmly. He frowned, reaching
for the single twenty-dollar bill she offered from her purse. He
handed her ninety-four cents in change.
"I thought they were $18.99?"
"Tax," he explained. She saw the regret in his expression and
nodded slowly after counting her change twice.
Clutching the flowers close to her chest, Sarah waited for
someone to enter the store so she could leave without having to
worry about the door. Walking down the block and taking a
left, she made her way as quickly as she could up the sidewalk
and to her door. Entering the house, she carefully unwrapped
the roses from the green tissue paper the young man had
wrapped them in and smiled.***
**Rephrase; this way, she's unwrapping as she entered, which
wouldn't fit "carefully." ***
Beautiful, she thought.
She set them on her chair and went to the kitchen. She
frowned, examining her cupboard. This will have to do, she
thought, taking one of her nicer glasses from the bottom shelf
(she put everything on the bottom shelf). **paren obtrude
**Filling the glass with tap water, she returned to her chair
and placed the roses in the glass, minding the thorns. Setting
them on the end table, she sank into her chair and sighed. Her
feet ached.
It all came back to her, West Virginia, her sister, the dream,
and the dream within the dream. She admired the roses on the
table. Sarah looked around the room, bored.***
**"Bored" doesn't ring true here so soon after she admires the
flowers. ***
Again she saw the painting, the dirty frame, and the peeling
mountains. She kicked off her shoes onto the brown rug, and
frowned at the stains. She pulled the chord **cord **on the
day for night
things, I wasn't clear.
Sarah didn't win. She didn't win in the present, she didn't win in her
memory/dream. What I was trying to show was that in the past, she and her
sister would *pretend* to win the lottery to fill good about themselves and
have one night worry free. The waitress gives them a dirty look as she
clears the table -- no tip. I start with Rick's POV because Sarah is not
aware of her state of poverty ("I don't get out much"). Rick is a jerk, and
I was surprised at how hard it was to make him a jerk. Im still getting over
making all of my characters neat and clean cookie cutter people who are so
dull they couldn't offend anyone. Sarah obviously never won the lottery or
went to school and Rick brings back her big dream in a rather cruel way. She
tries to relive her past (pretending to win the lottery to feel good and
attain some sense of hope) but the grocery experience is sobering. She
starts to lose the fantasy. When the roses are added to her dismal
surroundings, she sees them as Rick saw them and cries.
This is all practice, I am going to kick ass one day. :)
MIchael
Jane MacDonald
wrote:
>This is the second short story I have written. Ever. You didn't misinterpret
>things, I wasn't clear.
>
Hey, Michael--
You've got it backwards--a few people didn't understand, but
some did. That's grounds for joy, not self-flagellation. No
matter what you write, you won't please everybody, or even get
through to everybody.
I don't think you had to make Rick a bad guy--the good guys do
most of the damage to hearts. The good women, too, I hasten to
add. Stories about bad guys of either sex doing bad things are
ho-hum; it's much more interesting when the good guys hurt
each other. Stories about wife-beaters do nothing for me, while
stories about guys doing their best and not understanding why
that's not what the women want, and vice versa, can have meat
on them.
The story had structural problems; okay, fix the next one so it
doesn't.
>This is all practice, I am going to kick ass one day. :)
Of course you are. You're well on your way.
Jane
Jane MacDonald
jane...@excite.com
Brooke Sheldon
I have one thing;
> last time before she drifted off to sleep. The red folds of the petals
> deepened in the darkness, and a sweet aroma filled the air. Sarah began to
> cry.
What happens next.
Brooke
day for night
can stop them -- or so she thinks. Unbeknownst to her, she is actually the
daughter of the famed psychic Madam DuPair, and as her powers grow with age,
she needs every ounce of strength left in her body to harness her power
while fending off the masculine wiles of French actor/fireman Georges. See
the web of legality, telekinesis, and lust unfold in my next installment
tentatively titled: FOR WHOM THE TAROT-THEMED CONDOM TOLLS.
Michael
"Brooke Sheldon" <brooke_...@optusnet.com.au> wrote in message
news:3b553ad7$0$20952$7f31...@news01.syd.optusnet.com.au...
Too Cool Daddy
> Gouge away.
>
> Michael
>
>
> He knocked on the door and waited. Soggy morning rain drizzled behind him,
> and he considered trying his luck elsewhere.
I would like for you to reconsider your choice of this word "soggy",
in terms of logic. Is rain "soggy", or in point of fact, is it
strictly those things which the rain makes wet that become "soggy"?
It is the latter, and therefore "rain" is never "soggy". So, "Morning
rain drizzled" is good enough, unless some editor might quibble to
say, "Either it's rain or it's drizzle."
> familiar with the area and ." he trailed off. He studied her
carefully,
> already deciding that he had picked the wrong house. What was left of her
> comically white hair hung in tangled knots like cobwebs on her sunken
> cheeks, and even the roses on her dirty housedress looked wilted.
One fails to see the purpose for "comically white hair". In this
context, "comically" is being used as an adverb to modify the
adjective "white", and logically speaking there is never anything
"comical" about "white." This is a narrative intrusion which makes a
judgment about the woman's appearance, a matter which ought to be left
to the sensibilities of the reader based on the visual data you
present, whether one shall see the appearance of the woman as comical,
sad, dissheveled, poor, whatever.
>
> "Go to the end of the block and take a right, it'll be past the grocery and
> probably unmarked, but the grocery is 28 Brownstone. You can count up from
> there. None of them houses have numbers."
>
> He turned to study the path she suggested.
>
> "I believe you're right, ma'am. Thank you," he said . . .
Conceited bit of a putz, isn't he? Like, *he* believes she is
"right"? He knows from nothing, she is the source of information and
he "believes" she is right.
> his words suddenly
> trapped in his mouth after tasting the air escaping her screen door. It
> smelled of urine and old newspaper.
>
> "You're welcome young man," she smiled, her dentures flashing.
>
> "Rick," he said, "and your name?"
So, he will not suffer being called "young man" by her? In the same
way that his conceit "believes she is right" (about those things which
she most certainly is right about) he must correct this
above-her-station affront of referring to him as "young man" by
offering his own stupid who-gives-a-shit-anyway name, "Rick". So now
this putz, this complete stranger "Rick" demands to know *her* name?
He thinks because he has blathered his name there all over her
doorstep, that now she *owes* him hers, like it was so much common
dirt. I call that doorstep robbery and mugging.The name of this
comical old piss-smelling woman is none of his damn business.
Look Michael, it is clear from the direction your story soon takes,
that your intentions are, if not golden at least guilded, and yet all
the while your narrator's class conceits are showing. I want to help
you with that. For reasons of my own, I need to help you with that.
:-)
>
> "Sarah. Lovely weather for a walk, Rich."
>
> "It's Rick.
That ought to put her in her place, twice over. Because it matters so
much, that a complete, comical, smelly stranger should know his
stinking name, precisely and correctly.
> I'm actually looking for this guy who works at the convenience
> store over on Oak that was robbed a week ago. You wouldn't happen to know
> him, would you?"
>
> "Are you a cop?" She looked at him suspiciously.
>
> "No, ma'am, I'm a reporter."
Ah! That explains everything, one of those absurd gumshoe newspaper
hacks. I should have known.
>
> "For the Daily or the Sun?"
>
> "The Daily," he said. She nodded her approval.
>
> "Don't know about robberies. So much crime. But wait right here. I have
> something that'll help you," she said, disappearing into the source of the
> smell which Rick did his best not to think about. A few minutes passed. He
> checked his watch. It would be terribly rude of me to leave, he thought,
> especially since we introduced ourselves (even if she hasn't gotten my name
> correct yet).
Something about this is absurd. Where is this person's presence of
mind? What is he doing here? He came to ask a stranger for
directions, he got them, yet here he remains waiting upon somebody
whose appearance and living condition is either rudely comical or
disgusting to his sensibilities -- so for what should he worry about
"rude"? He has been rude by his prideful retorts, and now he has all
this time for what he's now perceiving as the nicey-nicey that may
flow from this extorsion of name exchange, and that with the sort of
person whose acquaintence he would never culture to any purpose
whatsoever? He worries about "rude".
In fact, by his conceit, he has forced the exact opposite of what he
should want to come into play, a familiarity that may be violated by
"rudeness". While I see this as a perfectly just punishment for
conceit, while it shows the weakness at the knees of conceit, even so,
as a reader I should have far more respect for this fellow's rudeness
than his condescension of 'kindness', this chivalrous charity by which
he gives . . . himself . . . his high class presence, to this poor,
smelly stranger.
She should come back with a shotgun to blow him right off that porch.
>
> "Here." The woman opened the screen door and handed Rick a blue umbrella.
>
> "Oh, no. I can't take this."
>
> "I don't go out much, you can have it, it'll save the half of that suit
> that isn't soaked."
Note that she does not say "borrow", she says, "you can have it" and
"have" does not mean "use", it means to possess, to own, to keep.
Therefore one must ask, what in the world is the matter with this
shmuck? He sees the poverty of the woman and takes her umbrella -- as
a gift? His charity is commendable that he condescends to receive the
gift. He was not too good to take it from the poor woman. Too bad it
wasn't the shotgun. Then she'd still have an umbrella.
Why its damn near downright Freudian the way she keeps calling him,
"Rich". Even her unconscious mind is trying to inform her better as to
how she ought to regard this person, and the whole absurdity of the
poor giving to the rich, even to her increase of poverty and misery
and lack. God damn!! That's what God says, not me. I am only here to
agree. I shall endeavor to use "God damn" all the more sparingly and
only for those situations in which I am assured that such a thing is
God condemned, or which is to say "damned" and thereby remain
uncondemned myself for sin of taking such a pronouncement "in vain".
Only if it is stated "in vain" is it a sin, but when you know God
damns a thing, it is not "in vain" and so there you are; you have what
St. James has called, "The perfect law of liberty" which should not be
left to the interpretation of dogmatic hacks of priests, preachers and
superstition ridden parishoners.
>
> He started to thank her again . . .
When he ought to have been handing it back to her . . .
> but she politely closed the door. Umbrella
> in hand, Rick set off to find 32 Brownstone.
SOME GENERAL OBSERVATIONS ON THE FOREGOING
I don't understand it, a poor woman giving something (anything) to any
person better off than she, let alone to some condescending rich snot
of a journalist on her doorstep; as she makes herself all the more
bereft by handing over one of her few piss-smelling possessions,
especially one that she will certainly need and use, no matter what
she says about not going out much. She'll go out, it will rain, and
she will need that umbrella, of all things.
If there's one thing in which the poor are rich, it is knowledge of
the conceits of the rich, and the way those conceits serve to insult
the sensibilities of the poor to the point of lasting resentment. Me,
if I were that woman, I wouldn't give that journalist on my doorstep
the spit to lick a stamp, let alone my only damn umbrella. Are you
kidding? Poverty teaches a person better than that. By that teaching
the poor even become rich.
I think, Michael, it is your duty as a writer to make the demand upon
yourself that your writing be guided not only by a logic of word
choices but by the logic of social realities in order that your
characters will be true to life, and in that way carry the verities of
social justice that are prosecuted from person to person every day in
this life as a social documentary.
So long as you continue to push your characters around your page to
suit *your* purposes of plot development, you'll never get a plot
worth writing. There is a logic that dwells in every creative
possibility which will lead to writing that truly mimics life and
truth so long as you are willing to take the "Issac" of your own
conceptions of character and whip those preconceptions--whether of
plot or character--up to the altar, as you remain fully prepared to
make sacrifice of them. But as Abraham was saved by the ram in the
bush that he could never have envisioned as being there, so, a writer
may be saved from killing his own characters and notions of plot, so
long as his mind remains open to all the possibilities that might
serve to make that original conception work. Maybe the original
conception will have to die in order for the better one to be
revealed, just like Abrahams' Ram. The main thing to gather from this
is that in order for a story to live and run well, it's author must
keep a gentle, even an open hand to the reins. Let the story tell you
where it must go, don't horse it around, because that's just horsing
around: logic and reality always have something to teach by the
process. Writing, if it is not a process of discovery, if it does
reveal new things to you by the process, it will reveal nothing new to
anyone else.
Social Logic strongly suggests that this woman would not have been so
quick as to offer this complete stranger one of her few precious
possessions, her name, especially after the fashion that it is being
demanded from her by means of forced exchange which she is under *no*
obligation to honor; if he's been fool enough to blither his name, she
is not under any constraint to be likewise such a fool, in that
neighborhood, in this world of crime. But secondly, you rob this woman
of her dignity by having her succumb to his demand even in spite of
the fact that the offer of his name was merely a put-down, his way of
saying "Don't call me 'young man', you old bag, don't condescend to me
in any fashion you comical, pee-smelling, ragged old thing'." The
point is, Rick...er Michael, *she* would know, any poor woman would
know the affront. As I know the poor, I know that. And I would not
give that conceited stranger on my doorstep, in that neighborhood,
anything, let alone my name. It is none of his business. Sarah's
generation knows that.
Sarah would be extremely loath to answer any question beyond the
simple logistics of giving him the directions he needed. She would
not stand for the affronts of this young upstart, no matter what his
class pretentions and perceptions in honor to himself. Her perception
is hers, and his is his. In his view she may be "comical", but how
surprised he would be to see himself through the true eyes of a true
woman of her generation, background, and sensibility: "comical" would
hardly cover it.
No, we're off to a bad start here. The perception of the narrator is
jaundiced and condescending, and as he chooses words like "comical",
it favors the status of the one character over the other. So the logic
becomes one of loss and weakness leading to umbrella robbery. And
what is a person's good name, if it is not her umbrella? Don't ask me
for the meaning of that. It is a koan from my very Zen Muse, Gladys in
the Sky with Glasses, to meditate upon.
Your logic demanded that if she'd give her name to a stranger, she
would also give him her only umbrella; it only made sense according to
that logic. It is a logic borne of your narrator's unconscious class
conceit which leads to something deep and perturbing about what that
conceit expects of the poor, which according to the irony of that
great revolutionary of old, Jesus of Nzareth, is "everything", and
would you believe that as I turned to my ancient old dog-eared copy of
the King James for the specific reference that the book opened
directly to it at Matthew 13:12?
I can't believe that. How does that happen? Don't hand me none of this
"coincidence" horsecrap! In order to believe what has just happened
here, I would have to believe that all which is written in those pages
must be true, that miracles do happen. You have only my word, but
that's cool; it's me who needs convincing -- what do I care about you
or anybody else? I can only lose my own conceits and immorality and
immortality, I can't help anybody else. What does it say?
"For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more
abundance: but whoseover hath not, from him shall be taken away even
what he hath."
Your story so exquisitely demonstrates the truth of this High Irony.
She has nothing, he has everything, including what little she has,
even her crumby umbrella. He should be sent straight to hell for
that.
Despite the early disappearance of the original protagonist, we are
yet left with his POV on she who takes his place, and that makes for
jaundiced perception; you might as well be writing in first person for
all the difference it makes.
As to the rest of the story, I don't get it. I don't see what happens,
did she win, was it a dream? If the latter, then all I can say is
Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz, this is not.
Hope this helps. :-)
P.S. These have been my views, just as they are stated. I will not
debate them with you, not because it wouldn't be fun, but because I
have work to do and a serious consideration of how to best invest my
time, whether in loss or profit.
--
John http://jpdavid.topcities.com/index.html
Amador Green: http://www.xanga.com/home.asp?user=JPDavid
Amador Green, The Beginning: http://hi-there.blogspot.com/
Hollywood Lullaby: http://jpdavid.blogspot.com/
"We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,
But I know we'll meet again some sunny day."
--Ross Parker, Hughie Charles
Fedallah
wrote:
>This is the second short story I have written. Ever. You didn't misinterpret
>things, I wasn't clear.
Just wanted to say that I'll be reading this story and commenting
as soon as I figure out my new newsreader (I'm fighting going
back to ggogle right now.) One of the reasons I want to read it
is because I enjoyed "Red Red Red" so much.
Rick H.
P.S. I haven't read your answers ;) and won't until I've read
the story.
Fedallah
I've read a story normally, to get a more "innocent" view of a piece.
My aplogies if anything here repeats what others said.
> He knocked on the door and waited. Soggy morning rain drizzled behind him,
> and he considered trying his luck elsewhere. The duplex he had chosen was
> run-down, but no more than any of the other rental properties in he had
> passed again and again. The door opened.
Truly a nit (and a pedantic one at that), but it was enough to snag my
attention, so thought I'd mention it. "Soggy rain" doesn't work for
me. Considering that rain is constituted by water, it can't really be
"soggy"... i.e. wetter than its normal condition.
> "Hello?" an old woman asked, peering through a hole in the screen door.
>
> "Uh, hi. I'm not really sure if you can help me. I'm looking for 32
> Brownstone and I've been up and down this street, it's just that I'm not
> familiar with the area and ." he trailed off. He studied her carefully,
> already deciding that he had picked the wrong house. What was left of her
> comically white hair hung in tangled knots like cobwebs on her sunken
> cheeks, and even the roses on her dirty housedress looked wilted.
Okay, I like his unsureness in the dialogue here. I assumed at the
first paragraph he was some form of salesman, and his dialogue here
tells me either he's not or his unsureness is self-concious and
intended, in which case I'm imagining someone with ulterior motives.
Two things don't quite work for me though... "comically white": I've
never seen a shade of white that was in itself funny... and "Hair...
like cobwebs": it just feels like I've heard that comparison too many
times in my life. I really liked "even the roses on her dirty
housedress looked wilted."
>
> "I believe you're right, ma'am. Thank you," he said, his words suddenly
> trapped in his mouth after tasting the air escaping her screen door. It
> smelled of urine and old newspaper.
urine and old newspaper... really evocative, nice. Made me my nose
want to curl just reading it *G*
>
> "You're welcome young man," she smiled, her dentures flashing.
>
> "Rick," he said, "and your name?"
>
> "Sarah. Lovely weather for a walk, Rich."
>
> "It's Rick. I'm actually looking for this guy who works at the convenience
> store over on Oak that was robbed a week ago. You wouldn't happen to know
> him, would you?"
The change in confidence of him speaking here is giving me the
"ulterior motives" impression mentioned earlier. Not sure if that's
intended... if so, well done. If not, either make him less unsure
earlier or more unsure now.
> Sarah dreamed of West Virginia, of age twenty-three. The lottery drawings
> had just started being televised then. The room was largely barren, but well
> kept. Two twin mattresses with homemade comforters extended towards the
> center of the room, and on a kitchen table was their most prized possession:
> an old, black and white television struggling with the aid of two coat
> hangers wrapped in tin foil to receive all of two channels.
"...of age twenty three" seems awkward.
> The excitement of the evening over, they returned to the apartment. Sarah
> cleared the coffee cups and plates from lunch from the table. Lucy crumpled
> the tickets and threw them away.
"...from lunch from the table..." could be worded a bit better, I
think. (nitting because otherwise the writing is fluid, so little
things stand out.)
I like this bit at the end, with Lucy throwing the tickets away.
Catches the reader by surprise and puts all that happened previously
in a new light. You used it well.
[...]
Okay, the last part is smoothly written. I'm getting that the bit
with her sister was a game, one that they sort of "sweetly tortured"
themselves with, and obviously niether ever one (Like starving men who
regale each other with tales of the meals they's like.) She dozes off
after Rick gives her the ticket while thinking of that, and dreams
that she really did win. This highlights her present "poverty" and
thus the tears at the end.
I like the concept, and the writing is well done. But the story
didn't work for me... laregly because of the opening. If Rick is
basically a device to highlight certain things about Sarah or her
situation, then I think using his perspective _can_ work well. But I
don't think it can work with his perspective as the opening if it's
elaborate at all. After all the wondering about him, he becomes
completely unecessary for the story, really. I think opening with her
perspective, then perhaps inserting his as a contrast then returning
to hers would work better.
Hope that helped.
Rick H.
Bradley E. Robertson
> Michael wrote *Flowers for Sarah*, a character study of an apparently
disadvantaged old woman who lived with life's little pleasures even if they
were made up of fantasies. This story had me twisted around a couple of
times, as a good short can. All and all, a good job.
A few comments in the text.
Regards,
Brad
***What was left of her comically white hair hung in tangled knots like
cobwebs on her sunken cheeks, and even the roses on her dirty housedress
looked wilted.***
[I liked this discription, especially the wilted roses.]
>
> "Here are tonight's winning numbers: seven, ten, fifteen, twenty-one,
> twenty-three, and thirty-six. Congratulations if you are tonight's winner!
> Be sure to buy your tickets and tune in to next week's program!"
>
> Sarah and Lucy studied their tickets. A look of shock appeared on Lucy's
> face.
>
> "I won! I won! I won!"
***Lucy crumpled the tickets and threw them away.***
[This is where it started to dawn on me they didn't win, but I also thought
she maybe was making a terrible mistake destroying the winning ticket. I'm
twisting]
> ***
>
> Sarah didn't hear the rest of the broadcast. She stared at her ticket and
> gasped.
>
> *** "God," she said under her breath. "Yes!" She shook with excitement.***
[You had me here. I thought the gods had come through for Sarah. I slide
over the numbers, you see.]
>
The red folds of the petals deepened in the darkness, and a sweet aroma
filled the air. ***Sarah began to cry.***
[Life just isn't fair.]
Fedallah
> "Uh, hi. I'm not really sure if you can help me. I'm looking for 32
> Brownstone and I've been up and down this street, it's just that I'm not
> familiar with the area and ." he trailed off. He studied her carefully,
> already deciding that he had picked the wrong house. What was left of her
> comically white hair hung in tangled knots like cobwebs on her sunken
> cheeks, and even the roses on her dirty housedress looked wilted.
It looks like my comments on this haven't gotten posted from
Deja/Google yet, hope they do show.... Anyway, I wanted to
make a correction to my own comments re: "comically white."
I think it _does_ work in showing what a jerk this guy is.
If I'm reading it right: for him, the hair is comically
white because it's in contrast to her dark skin. If the
reader were made explicitly aware that she's black before
this line, I think it would serve admirably well. As it is,
this statement and the revelation of her being a black woman
are too far distant, and this line is too subtle on its own
to indicate her "race."
Rick H.