Table of Contents You may submit any of your writing to be critiqued by a panel of peer critics by emailing it to littleal87@aol.com with "To Critique" in the subject line. Critiques provided by a panel of peer editors: To learn more about John Irving: Even if you have previously done so, please send your DOB/gender/location to littleal87@aol.com because the file containing the birthdays was wiped clear. This helps to create a picture of the demographics of the club and your birthday will be featured in the newsletter! Thank you very much for participating.
The Write Stories
The Write Poetry
Critique of the Month
Learn From the Masters
The Write "Stuff"
THE WRITE STORIES
After Jude
Christopher Martinez
The infant cooed and laughed as he kicked wildly at the small blue animals that dangled just out of his reach. He was eager to set them into motion as his mother so often did. He continued to reach for the toy until his mother’s smiling face eclipsed his view. She gently tickled him, and he rewarded her with a wide smile. The child’s mother turned the dial of the musical plaything, and the soft music filled the room.
The baby was happy, and as he slowly slipped into sleep, he dreamed:
The sky over the earth was a dark red, and black smoke rose in pillars from the charred land. Scattered, like a garden, were burning fires, twisted metal, ruined buildings, and a blanket of human remains. Each inch of this landscape was touched by destruction.
Walking among the carnage was an old man.
He was very handsome. His solid jaw was set as he stepped past burning buildings and lifeless bodies, but was otherwise unaffected. His skin, which seemed to glow from beneath the flesh was tight, and would have been flawless, if not for the wrinkles around his eyes. He had deep laugh lines and a soft edge to his features. He also had long, silver-white hair that drifted down his shoulders. His pale blue eyes were soft, and held in them a deep serenity. He walked past the City Limits, until he reached a river. This man stopped, and watched, as blood flowed past him along the bank.
He stood there almost motionless, only moving to run powerful hands through his hair, setting it away from his face. His eyes closed for a long moment, and he sighed, and then opened them to greet a small boy who had been running toward him, also unaffected by the horrors that surrounded them.
“There is no one left.” The boy stated, stopping on his heels. He gave a fleeting glance at the river, then back at the man. The child’s deep eyes were round and glassy, and his dark brown skin had a similar glow from beneath the flesh. His young body was lean and wiry, and despite his youth, he too had deep wrinkles from frequent laughter.
“I know, Little One. Now go tell the others. We shall prepare a feast.”
The man ran a hand over the boy’s curly black hair, and smiled. The boy nodded, and smiled, and quickly ran off, excited. The old man turned to the river and watched it. In the corner of his eye he could see a figure walking toward him, walking among the dead, shaking his head in horror and disbelief.
The man kneeled by the edge of the river. He dipped a hand into the streaming blood. The water around his hand instantly ran pristine and cool, and the Old Man brought a handful to his lips and drank of it, refreshed. As he rose, the other man was standing behind him.
The man was almost identical to him, except that he appeared to be a much younger version of himself. Where the Old Man had a full head of sliver-white hair, the younger man’s head was a river of black. The younger man also lacked the pale blue eyes of this older man. His eyes were like onyx.
The younger man inhaled deeply, preparing to speak, but only exhaled.
“I know,” was all the old man said, turning to face him.
The young man wiped a tear from his face. “Father…I had no idea.”
A distant thunder clapped, and the earth seemed to shift under the weight of the chaos that it held. The Father turned to his son and sighed, then smiled lightly. “I know you didn’t, First Child. I know you would not have known even if I tried to tell you.”
The First Child shook his head, and tried to speak. But only tears came in the place of words.
“We have witnessed the Apocalypse,” the old man began. "Man has turned against himself and brought an end to his existence.” The Old Man looked out at the endless field of death that surrounded them. He looked at his son, who was trying hard to make sense of it all.
“I created for them perfection. And you tried to correct what was already flawless.”
“Father, I tried to give to them the gift that you had given me. I wanted to bestow upon them the Inquisitive Mind. I felt it was their right, as your Most Perfect Creation, to have that as well. I only wanted to please you.”
The Father began to walk back across the scarred earth. Where he stepped, there grew a patch of grass. “I know that you were only trying to help, First Child, but you meddled where you could not understand. You were blessed with the desire to question, that is true, but not Divine Understanding.”
The young man eagerly followed in his father’s footsteps, crushing the grass that was growing without realizing it.
“But Father, I do understand. I understand more than any of your other creations ever could. I watched as your perfect universe came to be. I know every nuance, every mechanism, and every orchestra of this Perfect System. I stood at your side as you set this clockwork into motion. Father, I remind you, I was there.” The Son was desperate to see where he had gone wrong.
Without words, The Father continued to survey the world as it had become.
“Father, in the Garden, I remember. I did not tell the children to betray you. I taught them only to seek knowledge. I simply taught them the Nature of Curiosity. I set out to teach them as you had taught me. It was they, Father, who came to abandon you. Their arrogance lead them to seek a truth outside of your Kingdom.”
The old man turned and looked at his beloved son. “You speak as if you seek exoneration…you are not on trial. And you need not blame them for their actions. They, like you, did not know better.”
The man remained quiet, and looked at the carnage. He could not escape the guilt he felt, but knew, just the same, that he had meant well. And now all that his father had created was gone. The sky that had once gave flight to countless birds was now thick with ash, heat, and the stench of a million dead.
“Father, I deserve your wrath, I know. I expect it and crave it, in fact. But I feel you were too harsh with them. How did you allow them to meet this end? Why did you sit back as these men destroyed each other?” He pointed to a small child who had died clutching his dead mother. The look of total fear was engraved in his face. “What had that child done to warrant your anger?”
“I did not set my anger upon them. They chose this fate. They chose it when they began to seek answers that did not exist. They would go to any ends in order to quench that unquenchable desire. That was the curse of the Inquisitive Mind.
The young man stopped. “Father, you are mistaken. That child did not choose this. He was not able to make that decision. He is a child, Father.”
The Old Man looked at the dead human. “He may not have had the chance to begin that pursuit of knowledge, but he would have, I assure you. Why, he and that soldier are no different.” The Father pointed to a dead soldier who had clung to his rifle as the child had clutched his mother.
“I am very troubled to hear you say that the child and that soldier are equally guilty for this destruction.” The young man searched his father’s face for a sign of reprieve.
“I do not say that are both guilty, but that they are equally without blame. They are simple in their motives. These humans are not able to exist outside of their nature. Just as a stone cannot suspend itself against gravity, nor can a river flow uphill. They were simply setting out to quench their desire that the Inquisitive Mind cursed them with.”
“So why is the blessing you set upon me a torment unto them?” He asked, hoping to finally put to rest his many questions.
“You did not know their torment because you had the knowledge. As you said yourself, you were by my side as I set this Creation into motion. You never knew that torment…until now.”
The First Child paused, and was beginning to feel the weight of those words.
As the two men spoke, another man was coming over the horizon. This one was younger, and just as the First Son had been, was saddened by the death that had enveloped the earth. His sandy hair cascaded over his eyes, and he constantly blew it from his face. He also smiled unconsciously, and his light brown eyes twinkled as he spoke. The skin held a deep tan, and his hands were calloused from years of earthly labor. As the two elder men came into view, he laughed and hurried toward them.
“Brother! Father!” He hurdled over a fallen tree, and rushed to where the two men stood. The old man smiled deeply, as his son did, and the resemblance was clear.
The Father embraced his younger child.
The First Son stood back, unsure of how to approach his sibling. He finally stepped away, as the two exchanged smiles and laughter. He saw the fires burning around him, and another flood of tears came to him. He knew that he did not deserve the patience he was shown, and he certainly did not understand it.
As he walked away, he thought about his own fate. He knew that he was a large part of this senseless decay. As he walked, he could hear his brother calling to him. But could not dare face him.
“Light-Bearer! My Brother, please don’t walk away.” The Second Son was athletic by nature, and caught up quickly. “Where are you going?”
The man looked at the bright eyes of his brother. They were so full of patience and harmony. Despite everything, he was comforted by the resemblance.
“I have caused all of this destruction. I am responsible for this!”
The Son of Adam smiled, telling his brother that he knew better. “I think there is far more to this than just you trying to give them the gift that you were given.” There was sincerity to the man’s words, and the First Son was ready to listen, hoping to better understand.
“I watched with sadness as you gave Man his first taste of curiosity. I questioned it, I cursed it, and I resented it, but when I felt the sand under my feet for the first time, I understood it. You were simply trying to add to Father’s Creation in the best way you knew how. But you made one simple oversight. You sensed the potential they had, but didn’t realized that they did not have the knowledge to just be.”
The younger sibling half-shrugged, then allowed a moment of mourning to pass. He led his brother through the streets, and they spoke like they had so many eons ago.
“I walked among them, Brother. I felt the ache of hunger. I knew the sting of an instinct. I heard the beat of great music pound in my heart. That was something that goes beyond just knowledge, wisdom, and understanding. These creatures were so full of potential. They were created in Father’s image down to the molecule and didn’t even realize it. They questioned it, they challenged it, and they romanticized it into metaphor and allegory.”
“That was my doing. I see that now.”
“You gave them the Inquisitive Mind. You could not know what that would have lead to. You had to see it. In fact, you made them more like you after all was said and done.” The Second Son stopped by a small pile of books, plucking two from the pile. Holding them up, he chuckled.
“The Holy Bible and Stephan Hawkins’ A Brief History of Time”, he read.
The older sibling caught the joke. “They tried so hard to quench that thirst, didn’t they?”
His brother nodded, “If only they realized that they were each saying the same thing in different ways, huh?” With that, he tossed them both into a burning fire.
“I’m sorry…for everything,” said the Morning Star, and searched his brother’s eyes for forgiveness.
“I am, too, Brother. I really miss the way things were.” The young man smiled brightly, his eyes sparkling like the first rays of the sun.
“Do you remember the last time we spoke? When you had entered the wilderness.”
The Fisher of Men smiled, and chuckled. “You were so proud of me. You told me so, I remember. You were still trying to undo what you had created, and I understood that. Do you remember what you had said?”
“I told you to take your place as king among men. I asked you to let me set things right.” He sighed. “They were not your responsibility. Why did you take up the burden?”
His brother smiled. “Because they were our father’s Sacred Creation. I felt it was my duty to show them that they were his children. I tried to teach them the balance between what our father had blessed them with, and that which you taught them.”
The First Son sighed. “I am sorry they did not listen.”
His brother smiled, “Many did. And many did not. But either way, they would do as their nature dictated. They were beautiful when they chose to be. But beauty was a bad pacifier to them. It saddens me to know that you and I knew a better way, while they did not. ”
At that moment, the father called to them, and they walked toward him.
“Brother, for all that I have done, for all that I have failed in, I am deeply sorry. I am sorry for my arrogance, I am sorry for my rebellion, I am sorry for the pain I have caused.” It pained him to not be able to set things right.
Without saying a word, the Second Son set his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“We’re going home, Brother. We have prepared a feast for you.”
Wiping the tears from his eyes, the First Son of God saw that he stood amid an endless sea of light. There was no more charred flesh, no more acrid smell of fire and decay, no more twisted metal or crumbled stone. He turned where he stood and saw nothing. And in the distance, he saw a proud father welcoming home his sons.
Confused and overwhelmed with joy, the Light-Bearer embraced his father. “I thank you, Father, but do not understand…after all that I had destroyed. How can I be accepted into your kingdom? How can this be?”
The old man smiled and held the man tightly. “Tell me, My Son, what have I given My Most Perfect Creation that I would deny you?”
With those words, the First Child felt the burden of Man’s Fall lifted. He embraced his father.
Walking among the thick vegetation of the garden, the Light-Bearer enjoyed the warmth of the sun, and the explosion of colors in his blue eyes. His platinum hair fluttered into his face and he smiled, tickled by the grass that ran along his calves. He walked to a clear pond and kneeled by it, taking a large handful and drinking. In the water he saw the reflection of a man peering over his shoulder. A perfect man with skin the color of oak and eyes that were wide with contentment.
The First Child turned and looked at the man who was greedily chewing on a piece of fruit, the nectar running down his arms and chin.
“Greetings, Young One.”
The man smiled at him and reached out a sticky hand to touch the hair flowing over Lucifer’s face.
The Morning Star laughed and greeted him.
Looking around, he saw that all was set right again. He was glad, and was proud to have been able to witness the Perfect Garden.
“This garden is beautiful. I cannot imagine a world without hunger, death, the chill of night, or want…” He watched the man’s head cock to the side and realized that he had spoken an alien language.
“Death? What is that? Is that like a fruit?” The man asked.
He chuckled, “No, it isn’t. But you would never understand it even if I tried.”
The simple man looked at him for a long while. “I know all there is to know of this garden…there is nothing I cannot learn.”
Satan smirked, “Yeah, well-- let’s take a walk...”
The baby opened his eyes from the dream and saw the blue animals had stopped. The room was dark, but he saw them. He kicked at them, and then turned to see his mother coming in with a warm bottle. He smiled at her, and she rewarded him with a warm meal and a gentle kiss on the forehead. Then, he allowed sleep to embrace him once again.
THE WRITE POETRY
Unnoticed
[Googolfog]
The pain of loneliness hurt worse than before
As I ran outside without shutting the door
And the snow blew in and onto the floor,
But I didn't notice
And then the traffic light turned green
The snow blew hard so I couldn't be seen
And no one heard when I let out that scream
And so I wasn't noticed
And as I lay bleeding in the snow
I couldn't speak so they didn't know
Just who I was, so I let go
But they didn't notice.
'red'
[straightrazor99]
and she died trying to hold on
to something less perfect
but more like herself.
When skin failed her,
She blamed the sun.
When thoughts escaped her,
She relied on feeling.
When he touched her,
She let him in.
Currents of breath,
torrents of wine,
and horizons of gentle lies
gave way to her crucifixion.
It seems so hard
to see the truth
When lies are so pretty.
Every Night
Heartbreak has visited you
One too many times,
You’re lost in the debts
You have for all your crimes.
Unlimited holes
In your heart to mend,
Doubting the world
And hope in every friend.
Just as society
Has dropped you on your feet,
Fate has come
To help you with defeat.
A breath of fresh air
Heading your way,
A personal lift
Heightening every day.
Seeing the world
In a whole new light,
Thanking love for coming
Every single night.
[punkrockerkc333@comcast.net]
CRITIQUE OF THE MONTH
Christopher The Red, 23
Therissa
Allison, high school senior
Short story: Behind the Black and White
[a_cherry_flavored_brynn@yahoo.com]
What life is this? Where a woman can only find comfort within the realm of her own imagination. I say this because I seem to only be able to find my consoles within these white pages dotted about with the small black letterings (lettering) of my graphite pencil. ["dotted about..." Is that ever how you'd speak? The "about" makes it sound pretentious.] I look out my window and though the sun is bright and laughter rings out from the park down the street in joyous tones, I feel nothing. I see nothing. (I like this here) But I look at this print, each descriptive word, and feel each emotion someone of the norm [very strange phrase. Easy on the creative grammer] would feel as they heard those small children playing or felt the warmth from the sun delicately touch their face. But should the life of a novelist be so? [What are you talking about?]
As a woman I have needs. I have desires that must be fulfilled. My own heart aches with yearning for a thing which I may call love[omit, it's redundant. Be cool about the gymnast-style phrasing]. Love, it seems to be the glue by which this society remains together. (seems to be a little cliched here) But I remain untouched by such effects. [Oh, look, stoicism. It's okay to be intense when I know what you're talking about, but since I don't know yet, this seems really melodramatic.] I can remember once, a time when I had fallen in love. His name was Marcel. His voice could reach out and caress the deepest reaches of your soul. [My soul? I thought it was your soul! ;)] Heavy with a French accent, you would find yourself staring in awe even if he only spoke of the weather. Though his features were truly the sight of masculinity, they held in them a boyish affliction. [This whole ultra-passive voice thing is really drawing away from the strength of this piece. I wish you would just spit it out. Say "the cat is black" if that's what you mean, not "the thing some may call a cat has a black quality to her."] He always wore his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, pulled (another word than pulled here perhaps) tight into little curls as they flowed down to his shoulders where they would stop for a rest. How I longed for those arms to wrap about me and hold me in a moment of purest rapture. [better. this is a little more grounded.]
I came to find that [redundant, clip it away.] my every fantasy was held in those arms of his. But he was so far out of my reach. And even if he wasn’t, he would be much to good for a poor novelist such as myself. But why shouldn’t he be perfect in every way? He was a creation of my own imagination. Brought forth by the very scribbling of my graphite pencil. My true life’s blood. (I like the ending here)
Notes: Read the book "Narrative Design" by Madison Smarte-Bell. (I butchered the last name, but that's basically it.) Pay attention to what they do. You need a plot for a short story, to understate things.
So here's the thing. I like the idea, I like the notion of your being in love with a character you made up. Now cut to the chase. Just because it's not such a traditional plot doesn't mean that it can't have a beginning, middle and end. Being ever so slightly untraditional doesn't mean that you need to go overboard on the artsy side. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Bring this imaginary character to life more, tell me about what you two have done together, make me think he's real. As it stands, the language is so flowery that even if he weren't made up by your pen he'd still seem make-believe. Give me a feel for who he is and who you are. Stop being vague and give me something to grab onto.
The whole existetialist/artist dilemna is a rich one. It sits in the very core of who we are, and why we do what we do. There are so many questions to be asked, and so many answers that just begin to scratch the surface of what is true. And it is for that reason that this tiny reflection felt so flat. You opened pandora's box, and all we got was a dust bunny. This esssay/reflection/journal could have reached much further than you took it. And your goal may not have been to enter the realm of philosophical rhetoric, but you flirted with it. So don't tease something you can't bring to a peak, ya know?
On a more direct note, as far as your effort goes, I was with you in theory, but the language made it hard to stay with you for any period of time. This was a rather personal piece, so why did you flip on the lyrical phrasing and flowery grammer? Just keep the language simple. I want to feel like we're getting a peek at your inner thoughts. So hearing you 'pretty up' the language makes me feel cheated. I want to see you vulnerable, not all dolled-up. I mean, isn't that what you were offering?
This was an interesting read. It had good insight and liked the descriptions used. I also liked the imagery used. There is a lot of feeling in this piece as well. I love how they are so into their writing….The character comes to life for the author.
LEARN FROM THE MASTERS
The world according to John Irving
By JEFF GUINN - Fort Worth Star-Telegram
Date: 07/29/01 00:01
He greets you wearing a University of Nebraska wrestling T-shirt and shorts. At age 59, there's not a trace of jiggly, middle-aged flesh on him anywhere. He beckons his visitor into the kitchen.
"I'm cooking," he says. "We'll talk in here."
Welcome to John Irving's house.
Irving, in fact, has had many things cooking of late. In 1999, the film version of The Cider House Rules (for which he won an Academy Award for best adapted screenplay) presented Irving's already celebrated fiction to an even wider audience. His latest novel, The Fourth Hand, is receiving rapturous reviews. Irving is already writing his next book, as well as an original screenplay. And he then will work on the film version of The Fourth Hand, with Lasse Hallstrom and Richard Gladstein, the same director/producer team that Irving loved working with on "The Cider House Rules."
Irving, his wife, Janet, and their elementary-school-age son live on the side of a mountain outside a small Vermont town. Their home is light and spacious and offers spectacular views of a valley and surrounding terrain.
Sipping iced tea, Irving casually molds meatballs, grinds breadcrumbs, concocts a complicated sauce and simmers everything together while still managing to focus on the conversation...
http://movies.yahoo.com/shop?d=hc&id=1800025333&cf=biog&intl=us
http://www.corpus-delicti.com/barb/keeppassing.html
http://www.nytimes.com/library/books/042898irving-novel.html
http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/06/15/lifetimes/18325.html
SPECIAL BIRTHDAY ANNOUNCEMENT
April 20th, 1987 Corn4201
Happy Birthday!
