The Write Stories
The Write Poetry
Critique of the Month
Learn From the Masters
The Write "Stuff"
Because of its length, the following story is appearing in The Write Stories section instead of the Critique of the Month. You may submit poetry or stories to be critiqued by emailing them to littleal87@aol.com with "To Critique" as the subject. You may also submit stories for this section without having them critiqued.
Ascension of the Leper
Part One
C. Martinez [straightrazor99]
Craig Simmons cursed under his breath. The puddle he had run through was doing terrible things to the wax he had just applied to his new car. He bought the car a few weeks ago, right out of the dealer's garage. It was a cherry red 83'
The sun was setting fast, and he wanted to get to the nightclub before the line got unbearable. He knew the bouncer, and was more than willing to part with a few twenties, if needed. His name alone opened locked doors, and turned every packed restaurant into his own private dining room. He was a twenty-four year old golden boy and knew it. Craig leaned over and turned the dial on his stereo way up. Banging his steering wheel in time with the music, he pumped the pedal on his new cherry ((New cherry? That's kind of funny)), and ripped across two lanes, ready for another night of his life that he would barely remember the morning after.
Pulling up to The Spa Lounge and Night Club, Craig hopped from his car. The bouncer smiled at him, and pushed open the door. Craig smiled to himself, and tossed his keys at the wide-eyed valet that stood transfixed on the shining red car and the kaleidoscope of lights that shone off of it.
As Craig slipped through the doors of the large nightclub, the music enveloped him. The smell of sweat, perfume, liquor and lust pulled him in, and he embraced the energy. A parade of eager woman ((women)) filed past Craig, and when he placed his hand on the shoulders of the busty brunette with the tiny Gucci dress, she giggled and melted in his arms. She smiled at him, eyes twinkling, lips shimmering with lipstick and intent. She slipped her hand under his jacket, massaging his chest through the thin material of his shirt. Finally, after a wonderful exploration, she slipped the foil-wrapped gram of cocaine from an inside pocket and lead ((led)) him to the Private Party room.
Craig woke up the next morning with a hangover, a lingering buzz, and a snoring girl wrapped around him. He looked at her naked form, and the wrapped condom on the dresser. He laughed at himself, remembering the animal she had become the night before.
" Damn, I hope she isn't knocked up", He ((he)) thought, then shrugged it off and fell back to sleep.
The room was dark. Although it was a bright day, and still early outside, the shades were drawn tightly. The only light visible was a small lamp on the night table, and the flickering television at the foot of the bed. The cavernous room was empty save for a hospital bed, a television, and a row of IV pumps, air purifiers, and other medical equipment lined against a far wall. As Michael Jackson giggled into the camera, the patient rolled over in his bed and a series of painful coughs racked his body.
The door opened, and a stream of light spilled into the dark room. A tall, well-dressed woman entered, followed by a maid pulling in a cart of new equipment. The woman allowed the maid to exit before walking to the television, turning it off. She then, without speaking, pulled open the large window shades, and more intrusive light flooded in. She turned and looked at the man lying in the bed, and fought hard to keep her discomfort from him. He coughed and she jumped at the sound. She forced a smile and walked to the food tray lying near the television table. She looked at the full plates and looked at him again. She had fought with him many times about his eating habits, and decided to spare him, and herself, the futile exchange.
Patricia Simmons smoothed out the front of her dress, and inhaled a shallow breath before speaking.
" Craig? Craig, your nurse is here", ((comma inside the quotes)) the woman said, keeping her distance.
The man said nothing. His only sign of acknowledgement was the loud, wet cough that rose from his chest.
" Craig, I found a nurse to care for you", she repeated.
" Send her away. I don't need anyone. You are wasting your time and mine even bringing it up." He hadn't spoken for days, and it hurt. His phlegm-lined throat made his voice crack.
" Now, Craig, we've had this argument in the past. I am far too busy to attend to you myself; and frankly, I wouldn't know how to do it. The Helpwell, Craig, they were hired to wash windows and sweep floors. They are brutally opposed to relining bed pans or cleaning up after you when you have a sour stomach." She fought hard to be firm, but her constitution was fleeting as she caught sight of his pale skin and ashy lips.
" Mother, ((make it clear that this Patricia is his mom. By this point I had forgotten his last name.)) I do not want to be treated like an invalid. In fact, I want you to just leave me alone. If you never entered this room ever again, I would hardly mind. I don't think I'll be here much longer anyway."
His words chilled her, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She pleaded with him to listen.
" Craig! You are going to stop speaking that way right now! You hear me? I refuse to listen to that. Dr. Murphy told me to keep you comfortable and to keep your spirits up until they can figure out what is to be done with you."
" Dr. Murphy spent three minutes in this room, Mother. He was too afraid to get any closer. Don't you think I realized that? I'm sick, not stupid." Craig looked at his mother, and she took a step back. A blood vessel had erupted in his sclera from constant vomiting, and a small red stain colored the right side of his left eye, making the light blue of his iris seem alien and violent. "Even you, Mothereven you are afraid of me. I see it even now. You have wiped your hands on your dress at least five times since entering and you haven't even touched anything but the window shade." A proud ((why's he proud?)) chuckle escaped, quickly becoming a chest-banging cough.
Patricia thought to defend herself, but her own embarrassment stopped her. She tightened her jaw and then spoke. " Craig, this nurse has made the decision to work with you. Not many will right now. I am grateful for that. Now you will let her do her job. I ask that you simply humor me. You are in no position to negotiate."
Craig closed his eyes, a wave of nausea distracting him from his argument.
" Now she is a very fine nurse from Bellevue. Her name is Dorothy Isley, and she is from The ((the)) Caribbean. I think Jamaica, or St. CroixI don't really know. Anyway, she was willing to start today, but I think I will send her home. You need time to get used to the idea. But I promise you, she will be back early in the morning and you will treat her with respect."
Craig pulled the sheets tight against his chin, and turned his back to her, ending the discussion. Patricia wiped away the tear that she had hoped he didn't see, and exited the room, ordering her maid to dispose of the food tray and all of the utensils on it. She would have to remember to buy paper plates and plastic forks when she sent out to the market.
Craig opened his eyes, and could hear a soft stream of music entering his room. Sitting up slightly, he could hear the distinct cords of "Sleepwalk" coming from a small radio in a far corner. He rolled his head on the pillow and looked at the blurry figure working in the corner. Unable to focus at first, he only saw a stark white blur shifting around, with shadowy appendages jutting from the pristine sleeves.
" Excuse me, but who are you?" He asked, still groggy from sleep and medicine.
" Oh, Mr. Simmons, you finally decided to join the waking world." The woman spoke with a heavy West Indian accent, smudging the pauses between certain words. She smiled heartily, and her thick face lit up as she spoke.
Craig stayed silent, knowing who she was.
She continued speaking. " I think a nice glass of juice will make you feel fully awake. Or would you prefer something like tea, Sir?"
Craig waved her off, turning his head to look at the window, and the early day sun spilling in.
" Close the curtains." He said, deciding to get some use from her before asking her to go away.
" Now why would you want to do that? It's a wonderful day." She said as she folded a sheet, ignoring his request.
" Listen, I want the shade closed. You either do it or you can leave." He grew instantly impatient with her.
" Fine. I will close the shade. But I would appreciate a bit more manners when asked to do something. I take requests, not demands, Mr. Simmons."
The woman pulled shut the blinds then returned to the sheets she was folding.
" Now, if you don't feel too imposed upon, I think you are due for a bath, and clean, fresh sheets will feel a lot better than those." She laid a towel and some washcloths at the foot of the bed, and smiled at him.
Craig stared at her, his face tight with anger. " I want you to take those sheets, that radio, and that stupid grin and leave. I don't need you, and I honestly don't like you so far. It would be best if you had not returned."
Dorothy cleared her throat and spoke calmly.
" Mr. Simmons, I am not here because I enjoy your company. Truth be told, I think you have a great deal to learn about social interaction. However, I am here to attend to your comfort. Now your cooperation would make things easier for me, but it is not required."
Having said that, she walked over to the radio, clicking it off, and pulled the curtains closed tightly. Then, without giving him a second look, she poured a cup of orange juice, and placed it next to him on the night table.
He watched her sweeping across the room and felt his blood pounding in his ears. He threw his hand back, knocking away the Styrofoam cup, splashing the liquid across the floor. She turned and looked at him.
" Mr. Simmons, now aren't you a bit too old to have these temper tantrums?" She took a towel from a closet, and dropped it onto the orange puddle, then mopped it up with her foot.
After the mess was cleaned up, she simply dropped the towel into a hamper and looked at him. " Are you ready for that bath?"
Craig turned over, and ended the conversation.
((Wait, so what exactly happened? Where's the transition? What's he sick with? Is it from drinking too much? What happened to his girl from the first section? What's going on here?))
To be continued in future issues of The Write Stuff's newsletter...
THE WRITE POETRY
Symbiosis
StraightRazor99
I flip an old Polaroid in my fingers
Remembering what the feelings held
I was empty
You were frightened
Smiles tearing at the seams
I called your old number again
Knowing it was changed weeks ago
Futility has its rewards
The familiarity of my hands rehearsed movements soothe me
They show me that you are not forgotten
The Tin-can female voice tells me you are gone
She tells me to check the number and try again
She does not know that it is impossible to ever try again
It aches to feel so empty
And scares me to remember feeling so complete
Stars collided when you pressed your skin against mine
And my galaxy fell apart
To feel your touch is to know my fault lines
I fold, I bend, I rust, I break
You pushed, you cried, I shattered, you left
You held on until the last moment
You refused to drown by my side
I refuse to hate you for being strong
Tears and anger never made valentines
But I recognize desperation
You were the thing that kept me alive
Now it is memories of stars colliding
That pushes me to face the day
I find it hard to feel so empty
When regret fills my every pore
This paradox of love and need of you
Ignites sulfuric flashes behind my eyes
Peace is not a consolation
Surrender will no longer suffice
I slip away and dream of symbiosis
I open my eyes you are gone
Kings of Peace
By: Norma Oropeza [verbalartistjr]
They are risking their lives
Who knows whether they'll return to their wives
They all lend a hand
To free a land
Where a woman can't show her face
Or go to a place
Without getting beaten for the part of her visage
That peeks through her veil
Where children can't get an education
But are forced to join the military
They are kings of peace
And justice
They are Dads
Brothers and Sons
They are heroes
They are American Soldiers
Lost Love
[mhernan27@yahoo.com]
I wish that I could somehow tell you, how I truly feel
What really lies beneath my cover, beneath my daily
mask?
That to hide what is so dear to me
Is such a gruesome task
I wish that I could be up front with you, to tell you
so you'd know
That all these years that I've been pining over you, I
just kept putting on a show
Pretending that I didn't care and that I had moved on,
but really,
the feelings that I shared for you, they kept me going
on
I love you, miss you, and want you
Always have and always will
I'd give up anything I got, just so I can hold you
If only that would be G-d's sacred will
It's been so long since I've last kissed you
And felt your sweet and tender touch
And, while recalling all the times you held me near
you
A tear starts rolling down my eyes
Just think of it, two years ago
I was your sweetheart; the one you cared for, loved,
and dreamed of
And, now I see you kissing someone else
My heart just breaks in two at that same glance
Will you come back to me someday?
I just can't stop to question
I hope that you'll return one day
Make a brand new start and let go of all the pain and
all the tension
I pray that someday I shall have the strength
to tell how I really feel, to show you that my heart
is true
and that all my feelings are completely real
But, until thenI'll dream of you, while I keep
building up my strength
I pray that you still think of me in more than just a
friendly way
That maybe somewhere deep inside you, you share the
same feelings for me too
Maybe someday, sometime, I'll be standing right beside
you
and finally hear you say those sweet words "I love you
too..."
CRITIQUE OF THE MONTH
Scat
[dkpunklegend2]
she has weak excuses (line break) and i ((Be cool, capitalize "I." And think about capitalization of the beginnings of your sentences, too.)) (capitalize I) have unjustified anger (l. break) but in space and time it's perfectly called for
(space and time?) ((Why is it called for? Space and time, do you mean that considering the context it's called for? Tell me what you're talking about)) (what do you mean with space and time?)
and why can't the rest figure it out? ((Rest of what? Figure out what?))
when the answers are in the stars
and rains down as truth most of the time
(making poeticness out of vagueness) ((Answers rain down? Only most of the time?))
the elixir (what does this elixir represent? Be more clear)swelled in the valley and rushed over the levees of friendship, respect, and morality and (omit/revise) swept away a thousand idiots
(this would do good as a nonsense poem, though.) ((What the ---- are you trying to say?))
but the core was still there
rotting as we played ((If this poem were to make sense, I'd like the way that you use core in two different ways. But from what I can see, it doesn't make sense.))
and no one did anything about it.. (apple core? basically, just get more specific, include more concrete images, less "no one understands" stuff. Or just label it "nonsense poem" and it'll be fine.)
((I...don't...get...it...))
I was confused by the poem. Where are you going with it? What are you trying to say? It doesnt seem to flow well.
I'll just cut to the chase. Your arrogance is a put-off. And I must assume it's arrogance because the alternative is ignorance. Even if you are aiming for a Samuel Beckett-like absurdity, you really must bring together the whole of the poem into a general statement. I'll give you an example:
"Broken glass on a bed of dead leaves reflect
Children watching with held breath
The manic dancing of a madman
Speaking in tongues of a dead God."
Now I basically just threw together a stream of seemingly unrelated, but powerful images. But by adding tiny connectors, I am making a statement. That was not a great poem, but it serves to illustrate my point. You cannot just ramble and expect brilliance to find you. Writing poetry is an active, and work-intensive process. It's arrogant of you just toss out these random statements and expect the reader to feel emotions. So as one artist to another, I suggest that you really think about what it is that you're trying to say, and find a stronger way to say it. Because this scavanger hunt method only serves to alienate and disembody your reader from the work. So unless that was the point, I would say that this poem was a failed experiment that can lead you toward a more effective track.
LEARN FROM THE MASTERS
"Jack Kerouac (1922-1969):
The American writer Jack Kerouac, b. Jean Louis Kerouac, Lowell, Mass., Mar. 12, 1922, d. Oct. 21, 1969, became the leading chronicler of the beat generation, a term that he coined to label a social and literary movement in the 1950s. After studying briefly at Columbia University, he achieved fame with his spontaneous and unconventional prose, particularly the novel On the Road (1957). After the success of this work Kerouac produced a series of thematically and structurally similar novels, including The Dharma Bums and The Subterraneans (both 1958), Doctor Sax (1959), Lonesome Traveler (1960), and Big Sur (1962). His loosely structured, autobiographical works reflect a peripatetic life, with warm but stormy relationships and a deep social disillusionment assuaged by drugs, alcohol, mysticism, and biting humor."
Text Copyright 1996 Grolier Incorporated
~http://www.levity.com/corduroy/kerouac.htm
To learn more about Kerouac:
http://www.cmgww.com/historic/kerouac/
http://www-hsc.usc.edu/~gallaher/k_speaks/kerouacspeaks.html
http://www.theatlantic.com/issues/98nov/kerouac.htm
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