This short story by Daniel Alarcon is difficult for me to write about. It was well written, true, but that's about all I can say in favor of it. It lacked imagery, except for one particular scene when the three actors were on a dark stage lit only by the headlamps of their audience of miners. The story also does not really go anywhere. It meanders around for a little bit, telling us about Diciembre, a theater group in South America (I think, the Andes are briefly mentioned but it's hard to say as there is no actual location ever given except for a city that I couldn't find on a map), and the main character is trying to get into California where his brother already is. For much of the story the main character is sick, due to the constant traveling and possibly the cold weather in the mountains. After this two-month tour, he feels that he should not do anymore traveling and tries to find steady work, but can not seem to, and he also can not seem to get approval to migrate to the States.
The story has some tension, but there is really no resolution to it. The man never finds work, and he never gets to America. He does get better, but it's at the cost of the only job he could have had. So after a great deal of meandering, backstory, a small amount of actual story telling, it just ends. It reads more like a biography than a piece of fiction. That's all I really have to say about this piece.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Cracked
Alright. Here's an original short story of mine, entitled Cracked.
This is version 2.5 of the short story. The original had almost no conflict whatsoever, and two unnecessary characters. It was also about 1150 words when it was supposed to be 1000 words, I cut it down to 1015 words, and added some conflict. I think the conflict still needs to be more apparent, and perhaps I could describe a few more of the tools of the trade that are used by the characters, but doing so in 1000 words is difficult. Anyways, here it is, Cracked:
Clack. CRACK! Clack-click. The sounds of metal striking metal filled the high-ceilinged room, with an occasional bell-like ting! echoing off the glossy wooden floor. The metal clacking was accompanied by an occasional aggressive, but wordless, shout and the shuffling of quick feet. Once, a foot came down with a great whomp, as the owner slammed it with great purpose against the dark, gleaming wood. Suddenly the commotion that filled the room was cut off by a sterile bzzzzzzz as a box on one of the walls lit up green. A deep, resonant “Halt!” cracked out, freezing all motion and sound within the room.
Two figures were facing each other, both clad in white, bulky cotton jackets and tight-fitting, polyester pants, with masks of black-enameled steel protecting their faces. The masks were a mesh of metal, so that the wearer could easily see out, and shaped much like an egg with a great crease down the center. Each held a steel practice foil, one of which was bent in a beautiful arch with the point embedded in the breast of the fencer directly opposite the holder.
The fencers held their respectful poses for a brief moment. The victor was crouched down, sitting almost on their heels, with arm extended upward, spearing the loser with the foil. The loser’s face was not visible to an observer, but their body language spoke of shock and anger. Shock at being stabbed in such a manner and anger for being fooled by such a simple movement.
The voice which had frozen many hundreds of fencers in its time, spoke again and released the latest two victims from their spell and they simultaneously backed up to a respectful distance, careful to not turn their back to their opponent.
“Point: Left. Score is Left: 3, Right: 2. Bout.” The voice belonged to a man also dressed in white, though he wore a light wind-breaker as opposed to the heavy cotton armor the two fencers wore. The man’s hair was several inches long and dark grey, his eyes were a deep grey as well, almost blue, and had a twinkle behind them, despite the sternness of his face and posture. He was not tall, barely reaching five-foot six, and had many of the common afflictions of someone who describes themselves as short.
The fencers left their relaxed combat stance and stood straight, both showing themselves to be taller than the short man, the Maestro who presided over both the bout and the salle. They removed their helmets, revealing themselves to both be teenage girls, and immediately saluted the Maestro, and then each other. Then, placing their helmets under their fencing arms moved forward and shook hands respectfully. Having dispensed with formalities the victor did a short victory dance.
The fencers began removing their sweat-soaked fencing gear. This consisted of a light grey leather glove, a thick denim jacket, a thin Kevlar underarm protector on their blade-arm, and a plastic breast-plate. They wore t-shirts tucked into their pants, and were now sticking to their bodies with sweat. Three blades sheathed in PVC clung to their duffel bags stuffed with all the other paraphernalia of the trade. Despite the skill displayed by the fencers, they both knew they would be worked to distraction on Tuesday. David, their Maestro, coached winners, and he would not waste his time on the two girls if they did not stand a chance in competition. The two girls waved good-bye to the old man and left through a back door.
David went to a closet in a corner and began to sweep the room. It was long, rectangular, perhaps forty feet from end to end, and there was a row of mirrors along one of the shorter walls. Two doors lead out, one to a back alley where a few cars could park, and the other to a store-front area where fencing equipment was sold. Despite the size of the room, it normally did not take long to sweep. Today, however, David found himself lost in thought, moving back and forth slowly across the large room. After sweeping, David quickly polished a few of the scuffs the girls had made on the marked out strip, and then went back to the closet. Hanging on the door, crisp and clean, hung a solid black version of what the girls had worn during their bout, but there was one additional item. A metal knee brace, for his left knee.
David had bought the instructor’s fencing gear almost thirty years ago and now, like every time before, he carefully equipped himself, and pulled his pistol-grip épée from a rack inside the closet.
David faced himself in the mirror, saluted and settled easily into en garde. Suddenly he sprung into action, his feet flashing and blade whirling as he practiced like he did after every instruction, no matter how late the hour or how old he was. A terrible injury may have kept him from competing, but he refused to slouch around, teaching others what he could not, himself, perform. The agility and grace with which he moved would make any ballerina envious, and it certainly did not seem possible for a man of his age. Or for a man with the injuries he kept secret. Abruptly, he stopped his dancing, and moved methodically, but quickly, through parries, circles, advances, retreats, ripostes, displacements and many other moves. He finished with such enthusiasm that he launched himself into a move he had sworn he would not ever attempt again. He surprised himself by flying through the air in a perfect ballestra, his blade-tip leveled at his reflection’s heart. He struck directly on target, but with far more force than he should have. A loud crack resounded just before his feet struck the floor, followed by a muttered “dammit!” As he cradled the knee he had over-exerted, he looked up for the source of the cracking noise. His blade had struck the mirror much more fiercely than he had intended and there was now a spider webbed fracture right where his heart would have been.
This is version 2.5 of the short story. The original had almost no conflict whatsoever, and two unnecessary characters. It was also about 1150 words when it was supposed to be 1000 words, I cut it down to 1015 words, and added some conflict. I think the conflict still needs to be more apparent, and perhaps I could describe a few more of the tools of the trade that are used by the characters, but doing so in 1000 words is difficult. Anyways, here it is, Cracked:
Clack. CRACK! Clack-click. The sounds of metal striking metal filled the high-ceilinged room, with an occasional bell-like ting! echoing off the glossy wooden floor. The metal clacking was accompanied by an occasional aggressive, but wordless, shout and the shuffling of quick feet. Once, a foot came down with a great whomp, as the owner slammed it with great purpose against the dark, gleaming wood. Suddenly the commotion that filled the room was cut off by a sterile bzzzzzzz as a box on one of the walls lit up green. A deep, resonant “Halt!” cracked out, freezing all motion and sound within the room.
Two figures were facing each other, both clad in white, bulky cotton jackets and tight-fitting, polyester pants, with masks of black-enameled steel protecting their faces. The masks were a mesh of metal, so that the wearer could easily see out, and shaped much like an egg with a great crease down the center. Each held a steel practice foil, one of which was bent in a beautiful arch with the point embedded in the breast of the fencer directly opposite the holder.
The fencers held their respectful poses for a brief moment. The victor was crouched down, sitting almost on their heels, with arm extended upward, spearing the loser with the foil. The loser’s face was not visible to an observer, but their body language spoke of shock and anger. Shock at being stabbed in such a manner and anger for being fooled by such a simple movement.
The voice which had frozen many hundreds of fencers in its time, spoke again and released the latest two victims from their spell and they simultaneously backed up to a respectful distance, careful to not turn their back to their opponent.
“Point: Left. Score is Left: 3, Right: 2. Bout.” The voice belonged to a man also dressed in white, though he wore a light wind-breaker as opposed to the heavy cotton armor the two fencers wore. The man’s hair was several inches long and dark grey, his eyes were a deep grey as well, almost blue, and had a twinkle behind them, despite the sternness of his face and posture. He was not tall, barely reaching five-foot six, and had many of the common afflictions of someone who describes themselves as short.
The fencers left their relaxed combat stance and stood straight, both showing themselves to be taller than the short man, the Maestro who presided over both the bout and the salle. They removed their helmets, revealing themselves to both be teenage girls, and immediately saluted the Maestro, and then each other. Then, placing their helmets under their fencing arms moved forward and shook hands respectfully. Having dispensed with formalities the victor did a short victory dance.
The fencers began removing their sweat-soaked fencing gear. This consisted of a light grey leather glove, a thick denim jacket, a thin Kevlar underarm protector on their blade-arm, and a plastic breast-plate. They wore t-shirts tucked into their pants, and were now sticking to their bodies with sweat. Three blades sheathed in PVC clung to their duffel bags stuffed with all the other paraphernalia of the trade. Despite the skill displayed by the fencers, they both knew they would be worked to distraction on Tuesday. David, their Maestro, coached winners, and he would not waste his time on the two girls if they did not stand a chance in competition. The two girls waved good-bye to the old man and left through a back door.
David went to a closet in a corner and began to sweep the room. It was long, rectangular, perhaps forty feet from end to end, and there was a row of mirrors along one of the shorter walls. Two doors lead out, one to a back alley where a few cars could park, and the other to a store-front area where fencing equipment was sold. Despite the size of the room, it normally did not take long to sweep. Today, however, David found himself lost in thought, moving back and forth slowly across the large room. After sweeping, David quickly polished a few of the scuffs the girls had made on the marked out strip, and then went back to the closet. Hanging on the door, crisp and clean, hung a solid black version of what the girls had worn during their bout, but there was one additional item. A metal knee brace, for his left knee.
David had bought the instructor’s fencing gear almost thirty years ago and now, like every time before, he carefully equipped himself, and pulled his pistol-grip épée from a rack inside the closet.
David faced himself in the mirror, saluted and settled easily into en garde. Suddenly he sprung into action, his feet flashing and blade whirling as he practiced like he did after every instruction, no matter how late the hour or how old he was. A terrible injury may have kept him from competing, but he refused to slouch around, teaching others what he could not, himself, perform. The agility and grace with which he moved would make any ballerina envious, and it certainly did not seem possible for a man of his age. Or for a man with the injuries he kept secret. Abruptly, he stopped his dancing, and moved methodically, but quickly, through parries, circles, advances, retreats, ripostes, displacements and many other moves. He finished with such enthusiasm that he launched himself into a move he had sworn he would not ever attempt again. He surprised himself by flying through the air in a perfect ballestra, his blade-tip leveled at his reflection’s heart. He struck directly on target, but with far more force than he should have. A loud crack resounded just before his feet struck the floor, followed by a muttered “dammit!” As he cradled the knee he had over-exerted, he looked up for the source of the cracking noise. His blade had struck the mirror much more fiercely than he had intended and there was now a spider webbed fracture right where his heart would have been.
Hurricanes Anonymous
This not-really-short story by Adam Johnson follows "Nonc" who is a UPS driver in post Katrina Louisiana. His ex-girlfriend has just dropped his son onto his lap, but he doesn't know where she is. Nonc is currently homeless, living out of his UPS van and is taking advantage of the charity organizations like FEMA, though he had been homeless a year before Katrina. The story is about him: finding his ex-girlfriend, who ends up being in prison; deciding he is going to change his situation; stick with his current girlfriend and be more than just a person in her life; and, most importantly, choose to be an actual father to his son.
Pros:
The language. It's matter of fact and real without losing anything. Definitely a 3rd Limited POV and everything is described through his eyes in a candid manner.
The people. Nonc sounds just like some indifferent vagrant. Relle (Noncs current girlfriend) is straightforward, sometimes ice-cold, but goal oriented. And his ex-girlfriend, Marnie, is exactly that type of "I'm way too good for this shit" bitch.
The ending. It's an open ended sort of ending with the characters driving off into the sunset with a whole new set of goals in front of them. It leaves things uncertain, but the future is supposed to be uncertain.
The names. They are mostly fluid. Nonc's name is not actually Nonc, Relle's name is short for Cherelle, and the kid's name is Geronimo, but they are not certain if that is his birth name, and they rarely call him by that name. What's interesting is that Nonc was only recently called Nonc, but even when thinking about the past, he is referred to as Nonc by the narrator.
Also, on a note: the kid has a bunch of words that mean something else. One of them is 'Eyeball' which I think probably actually means 'Eightball' which is what Marnie and her new boyfriend were using to transport drugs. Marnie denies being involved, but the kid says eyeball far too often, and even Nonc picks up on it and realizes that he is going to have that kid for quite a while.
Cons:
It's a little sluggish. It's mostly in the tempo, I don't think there's anything that really needs to be cut, but it could definitely move a little faster.
Pros:
The language. It's matter of fact and real without losing anything. Definitely a 3rd Limited POV and everything is described through his eyes in a candid manner.
The people. Nonc sounds just like some indifferent vagrant. Relle (Noncs current girlfriend) is straightforward, sometimes ice-cold, but goal oriented. And his ex-girlfriend, Marnie, is exactly that type of "I'm way too good for this shit" bitch.
The ending. It's an open ended sort of ending with the characters driving off into the sunset with a whole new set of goals in front of them. It leaves things uncertain, but the future is supposed to be uncertain.
The names. They are mostly fluid. Nonc's name is not actually Nonc, Relle's name is short for Cherelle, and the kid's name is Geronimo, but they are not certain if that is his birth name, and they rarely call him by that name. What's interesting is that Nonc was only recently called Nonc, but even when thinking about the past, he is referred to as Nonc by the narrator.
Also, on a note: the kid has a bunch of words that mean something else. One of them is 'Eyeball' which I think probably actually means 'Eightball' which is what Marnie and her new boyfriend were using to transport drugs. Marnie denies being involved, but the kid says eyeball far too often, and even Nonc picks up on it and realizes that he is going to have that kid for quite a while.
Cons:
It's a little sluggish. It's mostly in the tempo, I don't think there's anything that really needs to be cut, but it could definitely move a little faster.
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