You’re lying in bed. It’s 2:30 a.m. and you close your eyes. You try to fall asleep but your subconscious plagues your blackened vision with a plethora of neon signs that aren’t really there. A Bugs Bunny hour’s worth of premonitions of “Eat at Joe’s” “24 Hour Eats” and “Kwik-Stop Shop.” You open your eyelids abruptly so as to assure your weary mind of the non-existence of these haunting, ghostly signs. But just for a second you see every single sign; every mocking and terrorizing vision that represents your futility in sleep; but they vanish just as quickly as they appeared. You finally close your eyes again at 2:42 a.m., afraid of what your mind will do next. Your breath grows heavy and deep. On the verge of sleep, suddenly it returns. Not the signs, no, something much worse; that golf ball in your throat that has teased your stretched body for years. It is lodged in your throat and you hack and cough and spit to try and get it out, but it doesn’t move an inch. You head to the bathroom to try and gargle it out, but you can’t. You swallow your mouthwash and start to gag on the chemicals that immediately begin to corrode your bronchial tube. You cough, hard and deep, and it stings the back of your throat like a cold, hard ***** slap. Blood comes up from your lungs, a testament to the asthma that has been with you since birth. Suddenly, something unexpected, you vomit. Last night’s steak and more of your own blood are splattered all over your medicine cabinet mirror, Jackson Pollock style.
Ever since you were a little kid you were never able to eat a food after you have thrown it up once. Doritos, barbecue ribs, honey buns, and now steaks are added on to that long list of yours. You think to yourself, “That’s a pity, I really did love steak.” Maybe one day down the road you will try to eat it again, but you know that your mind will tell you that it is bad and you’ll just start to gag right there at the table. Your eyes will bug out, and breath will go short as you cough up nothing time and time again as a ‘Grade A’ sirloin stares back from your plate. The thought of throwing up, makes you throw up even more, almost like a reflex. It isn’t understandable. You can watch other people throw up but once you throw up you wont stop until your stomach is empty and start to bleed from the mouth. Luckily your mouth is already bleeding from your cruddy lungs and their inability to hold anything but blood. You regret becoming a cigarette smoker at 14, denying it at 16, and pretending to be the perfect picture of mental and physical health at 17.
You will never admit it to anyone but you have been in therapy for the past eleven years now. Compulsive lying has plagued you since you were eight. You’ve told your best friends that you have had every disease, from polio to hypertension, and they believed you. And they believed you when you told them it was cured. The problem is; you actually have a condition; it is called hypernervosensitivity. It is the polar opposite of CIPA. To you, a paper cut feels like a knife in the arm. For this disease there is no cure. No treatment, no miracle pill, no antibiotic. Your blood has turned to Sterno from all the aspirin you’ve taken to dull the pain you feel from almost every poke and prod. But you can never tell anyone about this. You would much rather pretend to have Cancer in every orifice than tell everyone the truth about yourself. It really starts to bother you. “If I can’t trust in myself to trust my friends, do I even trust myself?” This paradox keeps you up every night until you get so tired you just pass out. Even then you toss and turn in nightmares.
You never dream of anything traditionally scary; it is always people; nothing like Soylent Green, “It’s People!” just regular people; nameless faces and loved ones. Existing in your mind only; only in effigy. They cry. Not in mourning or in sadness. In madness they scream and cry and wail, like Edward Munch dreamed up one night long ago. You feel guilt and accusations build up behind you like a monster, ready to run after you. You run and run and run and run and run and nothing ever changes. It is always right behind you, gaining ground, and taking the lives of those nameless faces and love ones you can bring yourself to be honest with; ever.
You stagger down the darkened hallway, emulating many a Lugosi and Karlov movie. Except at the end of this tunnel, there is no vampire or werewolf or monster, there is nothingness. Jus more dark, undiscovered world that you are too afraid to see. The fluorescent lights of your kitchen have always give you a headache, but they are cheaper and more energy efficient than regular light bulbs. You take the cover off of the lights and smash them over your chest, breathing deep the carcinogens. A thousand cigarettes worth in a few seconds, all for the world they say, all for the betterment of mankind and keeping the world safe. But you can’t help but wonder, “If the whole word is trying to keep the world safe, why are we exposed?”
It’s dark in your kitchen. You can’t see, but you know exactly where you are going, for the first time in your life you know. You hate dramatics, so you laugh at the irony of what is about to take place. You tear with your laughter. You know that you have seen the final resting place of truth and life and love and liberty and that there is only one thing to do. You say your final prayer to God and it goes something like this. “Dear God, I hope you love what you have done to this world. Why were you never there when we needed you. You are a lazy and undeserving god. So I choose not to give myself unto you. Thank you.” It suddenly grows dark. A dark dark.
2/5 Adherence to Prompt: I wasn't convinced that the use of 2nd person in this story fulfilled the prompt. Besides creating a strange tension between the reader and the story, I felt the 2nd person was just an alternative way of writing traditional narrative. In other words, I never got the sense that the details in the story were outlining steps of a how-to, or providing general enough conditions that steps could be extracted. I couldn't help but think to myself whenever I read the word 'you', "he's not talking about me, is he? I don't do that."
5/5 Spelling and Grammar: Not much to say here. Nothing really jumped out at me.
7/10 Characterization: An interesting approach to characterization, however, I felt that it could have gone further detailing a richer portrait of the character. Also, the details and the focus involved in the characterization were muddled. The character wasn't grounded in any scene, so the sequence of details and what is said becomes very important to keep clear.
4/10 Plot and Structure: There were some scene descriptions, but there wasn't a strong link between the character and the scene. Also, there wasn't a strong connection with the character and time. So when the character isn't completely and solidly fleshed out in clear details, the story suffers. I either felt myself scrambling to make sense of everything, or simply letting it go. With a story this short, that is detrimental.
5/10 Style: The style has a stream-of-conscious touch. The allusions and details contribute to the style. This includes when the story decides to mention the elements in the scene or time. Ultimately, what I think you were going for was a very dream like story where thinking, remembering, and dreaming are all upfront instead of being pushing deep into the unconscious. This is very difficult to write and read for that very reason. There's a reason why dreams are generally very abnormal and crazy. There's a reason why dreams motifs and images need to be interpreted. Dreams are very densely compacted chunks of human existence.
5/10 Creativity: I really like the creativity in this story. When I read it, it was fresh for many separate reasons. Unfortunately the big picture never came together, which leaves the creative parts disconnected. I wanted to give more points in this category, but even the best creativity in the wrong place is bad or even worse than not having it there at all.
Closing Comments: I would like to discuss what's behind the story, and lock it into a more traditional solid structure. I used to write stories like this. Over the years, I learned the craft of controlling one's ideas so that they fall into place like puzzle pieces. I feel that there is so much more in your head, it just needs to be pulled out in one way or another. Think and dream in the meantime (cause it's all the same).
A note on my grading: I mark these as if I was doing a professional critique. I will be pretty harsh and I don't give out top marks unless I think the manuscript is publishable. Imagine I am the editor who holds the ability to publish your material or toss it into the circular file. Most slush pile submissions get tossed. You have lots of competition out there, so your story has to be damn near perfect to get published.
Tighten. Tighten. Tighten. Long paragraphs with long, convoluted sentences and an over-reliance on movie names as metaphors. I also didn't like that the story was written in second person. This was not all happening to me, and yet the constant use of the pronoun "you" makes it sound like it is.
This also keeps us from really getting to know or care about this character. And what we do find out doesn't make him appealing at all. Yes. I realize the title of the story should tell me that this is not a likeable character. But if you want people to read your stories, you have to make the characters at least a little bit sympathetic. If readers find nothing to like in a character, they won't really care if he lives or dies.
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Ever since you were a little kid you were never able to eat a food after you have thrown it up once. Doritos, barbecue ribs, honey buns, and now steaks are added on to that long list of yours. You think to yourself, “That’s a pity, I really did love steak.” Maybe one day down the road you will try to eat it again, but you know that your mind will tell you that it is bad and you’ll just start to gag right there at the table. Your eyes will bug out, and breath will go short as you cough up nothing time and time again as a ‘Grade A’ sirloin stares back from your plate. The thought of throwing up, makes you throw up even more, almost like a reflex. It isn’t understandable. You can watch other people throw up but once you throw up you wont stop until your stomach is empty and start to bleed from the mouth. Luckily your mouth is already bleeding from your cruddy lungs and their inability to hold anything but blood. You regret becoming a cigarette smoker at 14, denying it at 16, and pretending to be the perfect picture of mental and physical health at 17.
You will never admit it to anyone but you have been in therapy for the past eleven years now. Compulsive lying has plagued you since you were eight. You’ve told your best friends that you have had every disease, from polio to hypertension, and they believed you. And they believed you when you told them it was cured. The problem is; you actually have a condition; it is called hypernervosensitivity. It is the polar opposite of CIPA. To you, a paper cut feels like a knife in the arm. For this disease there is no cure. No treatment, no miracle pill, no antibiotic. Your blood has turned to Sterno from all the aspirin you’ve taken to dull the pain you feel from almost every poke and prod. But you can never tell anyone about this. You would much rather pretend to have Cancer in every orifice than tell everyone the truth about yourself. It really starts to bother you. “If I can’t trust in myself to trust my friends, do I even trust myself?” This paradox keeps you up every night until you get so tired you just pass out. Even then you toss and turn in nightmares.
You never dream of anything traditionally scary; it is always people; nothing like Soylent Green, “It’s People!” just regular people; nameless faces and loved ones. Existing in your mind only; only in effigy. They cry. Not in mourning or in sadness. In madness they scream and cry and wail, like Edward Munch dreamed up one night long ago. You feel guilt and accusations build up behind you like a monster, ready to run after you. You run and run and run and run and run and nothing ever changes. It is always right behind you, gaining ground, and taking the lives of those nameless faces and love ones you can bring yourself to be honest with; ever.
You stagger down the darkened hallway, emulating many a Lugosi and Karlov movie. Except at the end of this tunnel, there is no vampire or werewolf or monster, there is nothingness. Jus more dark, undiscovered world that you are too afraid to see. The fluorescent lights of your kitchen have always give you a headache, but they are cheaper and more energy efficient than regular light bulbs. You take the cover off of the lights and smash them over your chest, breathing deep the carcinogens. A thousand cigarettes worth in a few seconds, all for the world they say, all for the betterment of mankind and keeping the world safe. But you can’t help but wonder, “If the whole word is trying to keep the world safe, why are we exposed?”
It’s dark in your kitchen. You can’t see, but you know exactly where you are going, for the first time in your life you know. You hate dramatics, so you laugh at the irony of what is about to take place. You tear with your laughter. You know that you have seen the final resting place of truth and life and love and liberty and that there is only one thing to do. You say your final prayer to God and it goes something like this. “Dear God, I hope you love what you have done to this world. Why were you never there when we needed you. You are a lazy and undeserving god. So I choose not to give myself unto you. Thank you.” It suddenly grows dark. A dark dark.
……………………WAKE UP!
5/5 Spelling and Grammar: Not much to say here. Nothing really jumped out at me.
7/10 Characterization: An interesting approach to characterization, however, I felt that it could have gone further detailing a richer portrait of the character. Also, the details and the focus involved in the characterization were muddled. The character wasn't grounded in any scene, so the sequence of details and what is said becomes very important to keep clear.
4/10 Plot and Structure: There were some scene descriptions, but there wasn't a strong link between the character and the scene. Also, there wasn't a strong connection with the character and time. So when the character isn't completely and solidly fleshed out in clear details, the story suffers. I either felt myself scrambling to make sense of everything, or simply letting it go. With a story this short, that is detrimental.
5/10 Style: The style has a stream-of-conscious touch. The allusions and details contribute to the style. This includes when the story decides to mention the elements in the scene or time. Ultimately, what I think you were going for was a very dream like story where thinking, remembering, and dreaming are all upfront instead of being pushing deep into the unconscious. This is very difficult to write and read for that very reason. There's a reason why dreams are generally very abnormal and crazy. There's a reason why dreams motifs and images need to be interpreted. Dreams are very densely compacted chunks of human existence.
5/10 Creativity: I really like the creativity in this story. When I read it, it was fresh for many separate reasons. Unfortunately the big picture never came together, which leaves the creative parts disconnected. I wanted to give more points in this category, but even the best creativity in the wrong place is bad or even worse than not having it there at all.
Closing Comments: I would like to discuss what's behind the story, and lock it into a more traditional solid structure. I used to write stories like this. Over the years, I learned the craft of controlling one's ideas so that they fall into place like puzzle pieces. I feel that there is so much more in your head, it just needs to be pulled out in one way or another. Think and dream in the meantime (cause it's all the same).
28/50
Spelling/Grammar: 3
Characterization: 5
Plot and Structure: 4
Style: 4
Creativity: 5
A note on my grading: I mark these as if I was doing a professional critique. I will be pretty harsh and I don't give out top marks unless I think the manuscript is publishable. Imagine I am the editor who holds the ability to publish your material or toss it into the circular file. Most slush pile submissions get tossed. You have lots of competition out there, so your story has to be damn near perfect to get published.
Tighten. Tighten. Tighten. Long paragraphs with long, convoluted sentences and an over-reliance on movie names as metaphors. I also didn't like that the story was written in second person. This was not all happening to me, and yet the constant use of the pronoun "you" makes it sound like it is.
This also keeps us from really getting to know or care about this character. And what we do find out doesn't make him appealing at all. Yes. I realize the title of the story should tell me that this is not a likeable character. But if you want people to read your stories, you have to make the characters at least a little bit sympathetic. If readers find nothing to like in a character, they won't really care if he lives or dies.