McMillan Bridge Pt One

[This is part one of four parts of my short story. It is a tragedy, but some might consider the ending to have at least some happiness to it. Please, critique away and don't be shy]


MOTHER-- Barking. And then panting. Barking again, but far in the distance. She let the satin sheets slide from her body as she moved sluggishly out of bed and into the bathroom. The silence of the morning had enveloped her, she could hear nothing but the steaming flow of the shower she had set. She undressed, and as she pulled back the curtain and entered, she felt the hot liquid pour from the showerhead onto her body.

It had always been therapeutic for her to have the water scalding. It made her feel more alive somehow, to feel something, even if it was the burn of her morning shower. She let the moment fade slowly. The shampoo was out, bad luck. She would have to go without washing her hair.

Life always seemed to reappear once the scalding stopped and the drain emptied. She hated the biting chill that came once she stepped onto the mat.

She spotted her hospital uniform, but quickly dismissed it. She would not be going into work this morning. She had a more important task this day. She had received a letter not more than a month ago. In large letters it had said, SUMMONS FOR JURY SERVICE. At first the summons had seemed no more than an inconvenience, some more bad luck as it would seem, but she had thought about serving on a jury and how it might be good for her to get out of the dreary hospital corridors. She was a registered nurse, so she could have easily escaped her civic duty. But she felt a calling-- something made her change her mind and now she was going to the courthouse to become a member of the jury pool.

She reached the kitchen; another sound broke the silence. A television was airing a morning talk show. Her husband’s balding head peaked above a recliner chair and behind him was the blurry motion of the television. Had he slept? She heard the familiar voices of the newscasters, the same voices she had heard day after day. A different voice broke their gleeful broadcast.

“You going to work?” her husband asked from the recliner.

“Not today. I have jury duty.”

He rose. “Jury duty? You kidding? Try to get out of it?”

“Yeah.” He grabbed her arm.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“You can’t just not show up. You have to go.”

“Oh yeah?” His grip became more fierce. “A buddy of mine got out of his jury duty by telling them his old man was sick and in the hospital and he had to take care of him.”

“Well he went to the courtroom to tell them, didn’t he?”

“Suppose so.” He snorted and then cleared his throat with a hacking sound. “You hurry back now.” He let go of her arm and went back to the recliner.

The smell of coffee. It was done. She grabbed the coffeepot and poured it into her faithful thermal mug. The sun poured a soft light through the curtains. A small strip snuck through and warmed her face. It went behind a cloud. She felt cold once again.

He had left a small bruise this time. It was only her wrist. He was controlling, that’s all. She could handle it. She had handled all these years.

She put on her coat. It warmed her while she went back to the table to grab the car keys. She stepped outside and heard another dog bark. Was it the same one? The morning frost gave her a shiver. She hugged the coat tighter.

She started the broken-down station wagon. She usually drove it to the hospital, but today it would take her to the courthouse. The heater didn‘t work, but heat burned too much gas anyway. She looked at the gas gauge-- it was low. She had enough to get to the courthouse, but she needed to fill it on the way back. There goes another twenty dollars.

She pulled out of the driveway. The courthouse was only a few miles away, but she wanted to get there early. She was always getting somewhere early.

She came upon a red light. She pulled to halt. A mother and daughter hiked the crosswalk. The girl was laughing as they swung their hands back and forth and high into the air. They were singing a nursery rhyme, surely something only little girls and mothers know.

She had almost had a child once. Twice, actually, but each time the Lord had seen fit to give her miscarriages. Perhaps she had another purpose in life. She was a nurse, after all, she helped give life every day.

She wanted nothing better than to give her husband a son, but
all she had given him was disappointment. He had given her gifts of her own though. A black eye, a purple bruise, the occasional broken finger-- they had all been suffered, but also tolerated. She had denied him his sons. She could never make up for that.

A car horn sounded behind her. The light had turned green. She stepped on the gas and sped off. The car behind her approached and changed into the other lane. It quickly sped past her and took its place in front of her. It didn’t bother her. This car is not exactly fit for street racing.

The sun peered back out from behind the clouds and its rays found her eyes. She blinked and put down the visor. The welcome feeling of the sun upon her face was soothing compared the chill of the car, but it was too bright for her to see while driving.

She came upon McMillan Bridge where the four-lane highway merged into a small two-way. There was silence except for the sound of her small station wagon rolling over the bumps of the patched road.

Another car approached from behind and insisted on tailgating her. She tried to stay calm and looked in the rearview mirror. It was a brown van driving much too close for her comfort. She hit the gas a bit, maybe that would make them happy.

Nope. She took a glimpse in the mirror every few seconds. They’re not allowed to pass on the bridge.

They were driving much too close.

She looked forward. A parked sedan.

She stomped on the brake and blasted her horn. Too late, she knew. She swerved into the other lane, a last ditch effort.

Bad luck. Another car headed for her. And then it all went so slow. The first impact. A booming crunch, then the sound of metal on metal. A bone-crunching jar, a second impact. The same had happened to her rear. They had driven too close.

The van was now pushing her and the sedan towards the bridge railing. The sedan was pushed over, a rag doll. A third impact. Then she was falling. McMillan was an old bridge, its railings not meant to stand that much force. Bad luck indeed. She was still falling, slowly falling, weightlessly
falling.

A final impact. Water filled her car. She was pinned. Her adrenaline rushed, panic set in. She was warm. Why am I so warm?

The chill set in as the rushing water reached her chest. She was frightened, but somehow the cold didn’t seem quite so bad.

She saw a man floating in the water outside her car . A sudden dread overcame her as she had the split second notion her husband had come to see her die. No, that would be impossible.

The water reached her chin. It would be over soon. She had seen much death as a nurse. It would be the same.

She took a deep breath. The water was over her head now. Bad luck is all.

She would see her children now, and her husband never again. Bad luck? She let her breath go and the icy water filled her lungs.

trident -

This was really well written. Your style is very well developed, and it flows brilliantly. The story is also interesting, and the characters are very three-dimensional. It was a pleasure to read this, and I look forward to part 2.

Here are some small things I found that you should fix:

'She was always getting somewhere early'

I know what you mean, but it sounds like you're talking about the courtroom, and not her general habits. Maybe it could be - 'She always arrived at places early', or something like that.

'The girl was laughing as they swung their hands back and forth ...'

For this case just take out 'was' and make 'laughing' 'laughed'. You change tenses here, and aren't using an active voice.

These are just small things to make it even better than it already is. Otherwise it's really good.

yeah i agree with green_river i loved this

Part II

RELIC-- The sun shined through the window onto her face. The morning tired her old bones, yet she rose day after day. It took a great deal of time, but it was necessary or she would have to stay in bed. She patiently waddled over to her bedroom door. It creaked as she opened it. The creaking reminded her of her dear husband, recently deceased.

She waddled once again to the kitchen where she put on a kettle of tea and then sat at the rickety kitchen table. She had completed this ritual for over forty years, as long as she could remember, as long as her and her husband had been married. But this morning, she heard no voice but her own. He was gone… again.

She always awoke with some small shred of hope, a grain of uncertainty, that maybe, perhaps just maybe, she had imagined it all; his death, her despair, the loneliness she felt. And then the truth shrouded her and she continued on with her day.

The kettle screamed and whistled and she rose from her chair to remove it from the burner. She poured the hot steaming liquid into her cup at the table. Another sat at its place across from her. It was his cup.

As the first African-American couple in the suburbs of this town, they had been treated fairly well. Looking back, it seemed different though. Her husband had commanded respect only because he was a doctor at the local hospital. Now that he was gone, she was largely ignored.

She started a new ritual, one that she had to now that her husband was gone. She read the mail. Usually she had knitted while he looked at the bills. She had to do his part now, or they would never get paid and she would have to leave her home. She would never do that. So she read the mail.

She didn’t receive any letters from her children, their lives much too busy for her now. It had been nice to see them during the funeral, but they had their own families to worry about. She had more bills, she saw, more than she might be able to handle this time. Her children didn’t know, and they wouldn’t ever. She would not dare tell them.

She looked at the envelope from a month ago still sitting on the table. SUMMONS FOR JURY SERVICE.

This was what she was meant for, she knew as soon as she saw it. She would sit on a jury. It would occupy her mind for some time instead of mulling about at home. She could finally put the thoughts about her husband to rest and do something for the greater good.

The telephone rang. She had trouble getting up to answer it, but she overcame the pains of her age. She always seemed to be overcoming pain.

“Hello,” she said in a sweet elderly tone.

“Hello, I’m from The Daily Times Newspaper, and I’m offering subscriptions to former customers at seventy-five percent off the newsstand price. I see you have been a customer in the past and I was wondering if perhaps you were once again interested in purchasing our newspaper.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she offered, “but I don’t read the newspaper. My husband used to, but he passed away last year.”

“Oh,” the telemarketer replied, “I’m quite sorry, ma’am. So, you’re not interested then?”

“No.” She hung up the receiver.

It had not been one of her children then. It didn’t surprise her all that much, but at times it was nice to know she was not forgotten.

She grabbed the envelope that sat on the table and headed for the door. The keys were in her coat pocket, they never left that spot. She didn’t drive often, as her husband had done that for most of her life. They say it’s like riding a bike, that you never forget. But there were several things she had forgotten. She didn’t like to do it, but she had to if she wanted food, or if she wanted to get to the courthouse this morning.

She drove heedlessly.

With the heat blasting and her coat tightly secured around her, she was pleasantly within comfort in her sedan. The sun peeked over the clouds and onto the passenger seat. Normally she would be sitting there while her husband drove. But he was gone.

“No,” she told herself. This trip was to forget about him, to move on so that she need not suffer any longer. But would it really help? Or would it only stir up old memories? What if it was a murder and the victim was someone who reminded her of her husband? She certainly wouldn’t be able to handle that.

She shoved those thoughts from her mind. They wouldn’t help her now. They wouldn’t help her get any closer to him or to give her what she needed to move on.

She approached McMillan Bridge. Oh, McMillan Bridge, the memories she had there. Her husband and her always watched the town light up from that bridge. Everything she saw reminded her of him. Then she realized that serving on a jury would never really relieve her suffering. She would always see a little of her husband in everything.

She saw a man strolling down the bridge’s walkway. He walked with a peculiar limp to the left, just like her husband did. She stepped on the brakes. Was it him?

A horn sounded behind her and she saw a ramshackle station wagon change into the lane next to her. She knew what was going to happen before it did.

She heard a horrible screeching as the two tried to slow down. The impact caused her to start. Another thunderous crash, and a van collided into the back of the station wagon.

Then she was moving. The two cars were pushing on her and she could do nothing to stop them. She looked to see if she could catch a glimpse of her husband on the walkway before she hit the railing, but she saw nothing. The car slammed into the rusted bridge railings and fell to the waters below.

She was knocked out for several seconds, but woke to the sound of water rushing into her car. She let out a small short laugh.

Here I come, sugar. Here I come.

It's me again,

I still completely agree with what I said the first time. This is a very, very, well written story, and I'm really liking where it's headed.

One small thing though -

'...a grain of uncertainty, that maybe, perhaps just maybe, she had imagined it all...'

Just take out 'perhaps' and it'll work fine.

Again, I hope there are more parts to this!

Parts III & IV

VICTIM-- A harsh shrieking. He slammed his fist into the alarm clock. Nine minutes passed. A harsh shrieking. He threw the damn thing across the room. It was his third alarm clock this month. He would have to buy another.

The mornings were the hardest. It meant he had to confront reality. It meant he had to face what had happened to him.

He kept his eyes closed while he showered. It was the only way he found he could get himself up in the morning. He saw the face of the man who had done it to him. He saw it all the time.

Today was not worth getting up, he thought. A month ago he had received a notice. SUMMONS FOR JURY SERVICE. He had almost discarded it right there if were not for his mother. She made him keep it. She made him get up this morning and go. She was always making him do things he didn‘t want to.

He went downstairs in a baggy shirt and shorts. He saw the table full of food. She always made breakfast. He always passed by it.

“Hold on, there, mister. You need to eat this morning.”

“I never eat.” He didn’t have much of an appetite after what had happened to him all these years.

“Well, you should today. You have a big day in front of you.”

“I never eat.”

“Are you going out there in those?”

He looked down at his shorts. “Yeah.”

“It’s freezing outside.”

“Yeah?”

“Never mind. Be back soon, dear.” He walked toward the door.

“I love you,” she called out.

“Yeah.”

He went over to the bulky brown van he drove around this god-forsaken town. He looked at all the insignia he had collected over the years and had placed on it. It was really the only thing in his life that he had anymore, the only thing he could claim as his own.

Not even his body had been his own for several years, he shuddered. The face appeared in his mind again. That repulsive countenance. He saw him laughing. Why did the man always laugh?

He started up his reliable behemoth. The tape player blasted his favorite metal song as he sped out of the driveway. Smoke poured from his tailpipe. He regretted wearing the shorts in the cold, but the heater quickly dismantled any more though about it.

He thought about a reason to skip out of doing jury duty. He was clinically depressed, perhaps that was a good excuse. The more he thought about it, the better it sounded.

He slowed down as he went by the house. He hated looking at it, but he always did. He couldn’t help it. He shuddered again as the face appeared in his mind. He hated that face.

Memories of the terror came back to him in a rush. He felt despair tugging at him. He recalled each horrific moment with ease. Why was it so easy to remember?

The house was gone now. He used to spend many days there when he was young. The man was so friendly and his mother knew him well. She had even gone to college with him. Then one day, after he was done raking his lawn, the man brought out some tapes. They were obscene tapes. He had been thirteen at the time, so he thought they had been cool. And his mom’s friend had been even cooler for showing them to him. But after the tapes, everything had gone so quickly. The man had taken advantage of him and then threatened to kill him if he ever told anyone.

The next week, his mother offered to drive him over there to patch his driveway. He was much too afraid to go, but his mother insisted. He would be paid after all.

The wretched face came into his mind. The man had done it again that time. He had done it many times after that. Each time, he threatened to kill him if he told. Each time he got away with it.

Then one day, his mother became suspicious. The boy was unfazed when he had to go to other houses to do yard work, but when he went to her friend’s house, the boy resisted. She questioned her son relentlessly until the truth came out. The case went to trial, and his mother made him appear to testify. But the case had been dismissed. Insufficient evidence, they had said.

He focused elsewhere. A unbelievably slow station wagon was driving in front of him. Come on, come on.

He was stuck behind the stupid car and McMillan Bridge was just ahead. Wonderful. He merged into the two-way, keeping a close tail on the car in front of him.

The face came into his mind again. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. He shut his eyes to escape it.

He opened them to see a small sedan parked in front of him. The station wagon was trying to pass it. He quickly pulled into the other lane to avoid hitting it.

Brake lights. He hit his own, but it was too late. He prepared for a collision. His body tensed and he took one last look at the brake lights in front of him. He saw the man’s face. He saw the man’s ugly laughing face.

Then he was pushing the cars in front of him. He hadn’t even felt the crash. The sedan broke the railing and fell over, the station wagon followed it. Then he was near the edge. He felt his van jar and had the suspicious feeling he had hit someone. The front tires of his van cleared the ledge, but the rest of his vehicle remained steady. Blood streamed down his face and he saw fire erupt all around him. The face lingered, laughing. He willed it away taxingly. The flames around him seemed to flicker and burn at the face as the blood washed it away. He was finally rid of it. He had one last thought as he forever passed away into unconsciousness. I love you too, mom.




WITNESS-- It was cold today, but he would be home shortly. McMillan Bridge was just ahead so he slowed down a bit. He was not too eager to get a speeding ticket today.

He saw a sedan parked in the middle of the other lane. Odd, he thought. A man jogged on the sidewalk. He looked at him. He recognized the man. He was that child molester that lived on his street. He cursed under his breath at the horrible decision the courts had made.

Then a station wagon was careening toward him. He hit the brake. It did no good.

The two cars slammed into each other and he was pushed backward. The van behind the station wagon smashed into its rear and pushed it toward the sedan. The three were connected as they went toward the railing. It creaked shortly before it burst, but the railing gave out easily. The sedan fell over, the station wagon following it. The van stopped right at the edge after hitting the man who had been jogging. The evil man fell to the river. The van was ablaze and he could hear the screams of someone trapped inside. Then the screaming stopped. He waited in a daze as the ambulance arrived. My wife will never believe what happened.

Part Three-

This was as equally done as the other three parts (and all those parts were well done!). Your charaterization is especially brilliant in this part. I really got a sense of who he was, and I felt that he could have been a real person.

Just a question:

He kept his eyes closed while he showered. It was the only way he found he could get himself up in the morning. He saw the face of the man who had done it to him. He saw it all the time.

This doesn't make sense to me. If he kept seeing his face, wouldn't he want to keep his eyes open? When I have an image stuck in my head, if I close my eyes I see it - I leave them open to get it out of my head.


Part Four -

I absolutely loved this. It brings the whole story together flawlessly. I don't have any suggestions for this, it seems to work quite well just as it is.


I thoroughly enjoyed this story. It was a pleasure to read.

I really enjoyed this. One suggestion: I found the section refering to the mans abuse was rushed in light of its profound effect on him.

But after the tapes, everything had gone so quickly. The man had taken advantage of him and then threatened to kill him if he ever told anyone.

Perhaps elaborate on that slightly? Cheers,

Cameron

MOTHER

I like how she loves warmth. At first, in the shower, it didn't register, but since she liked the warm coffee too, it makes her a more believable and complex character.

“You going to work?” her husband asked from the recliner.

I don't really think the tag is necessary. It's pretty obvious that he's not going to work so it has to be him talking. Also, I know he's in the recliner, I don't have to be reminded.

I also like how you showed her age without forcing it upon the reader. Her age is in the little clues like her husband's balding head and that she's handled her husband's abuse 'all these years.' It's more fun to read when it isn't painfully obvious (like if you'd "She was 45".)

She had enough to get to the courthouse, but she needed to fill it on the way back. There goes another twenty dollars.

I like her reflection. It's subtle.

She pulled out of the driveway. The courthouse was only a few miles away, but she wanted to get there early. She was always getting somewhere early.
She came upon a red light. She pulled to halt.

At this point the she's start to get a little painful. Maybe you could give her a name? Or at least change the format of some of your sentences so they're less 'she did this, she did that.'

This car is not exactly fit for street racing.

The one about the gas money was obviously a reflection, but this one seems kind of like a tense change. Maybe you could add a tag or something?

Because of the way you're describing everything that happens as she drives, I can tell something significant is going to happen.

She let her breath go and the icy water filled her lungs.

This is just a nit-pick, really, but the throat seals itself when water starts to fill the esophagus. It's instinctual. Then they pass out from lack of oxygen, then a. the seal goes away, or b. the seal doesn't and they die of suffocation: that's called a dry drowning, from which people are occasionally revived. But in your story, probably nobody will care about that. I'm just a nerd.

I really like how you tell this in a quiet, unemotional way. Good job! I'll come back and critique the rest in a few minutes. (The phone is needed. )

Rated PG, since there is some stuff like death and car crashes.

When in doubt, rate above what it is.

Of course you could just rate your own stuff.

RELIC

The creaking reminded her of her dear husband, recently deceased.

It would be funny if you said it reminded her of his bones. Hah, sorry.

She had completed this ritual for over forty years, as long as she could remember, as long as her and her husband had been married.

'She' and her husband had been married, I think, not 'her'.

This one moved so much faster than the last one! I love it. It really sucked me in. Maybe it was your vocabulary, or the fact that you didn't spend several paragraphs leading up to the accident, it just happened suddenly.

The excessive she's don't bother me in this one. Maybe there are less or something.

I love this character's reaction to finding herself underwater. The last line of all is going to stick with me, I just know it.

But why's it called Relic?

VICTIM

The alarm clock bit is pretty cool. I did that once.

Blood streamed down his face and he saw fire erupt all around him. The face lingered, laughing.

It's confusing whose face you're talking about here. I think you should clarify whose face is whose. Also, when did the main character (if that's the one who is bleeding) get cut?

I love you too, mom.

Is this sarcastic? You hardly mentioned the mom at all, nothing she did for the main character except make his life a Hell by forcing him to do yard work for the man who raped him. If this is going to be his last thought, I think you should lead up to it, talk about how he'd been growing apart from his mother for the last few years, etc. Or something.

WITNESS

Appropriate title. This is your creepiest part, I think.

In your middle paragraph all of the sentences have a repetitive feel to them. It's active, but not really enthralling or exciting. I like how the cars all joined before they fell into the river.

I think Witness should come before Relic, because then the reader has to think to connect the child molester mentioned to the one in Victim. This way, it's just too obvious.

Who was screaming?

Anyway, I loved these. You have an amazing writing style, and this tragedy has such a cool plot. I wonder what the court would think when they found out three of their jury just died in the same accident. Thanks for posting!

Trident:


This is well-above the level of fiction posted here. I am afraid we are simply inadequate to give your piece the kind of treatment it deserves.

A suggestion for improvement might include exculpating the vague wording of the piece from moving the story along. For instance, you used "hot liquid" several times when "hot water" or "hot tea" or whatever would have been more interesting and sufficient. As a piece involving death/sterility, you probably want this kind of indifferent language, but I, for one, have always found people considering death to usually be astute observers of their surroundings (though not other people).


Best,
Brad

Thanks a ton all.

Green: You read it from the first and continued on. Thanks for your perseverance.

Cameron: Thank you as well for your comments.

Jenna: I really appreciate the in depth nature of your critique. You have several valid points that I shall look at. And I named her 'relic' because she is old and somewhat forgotten.

Incan: Thank you for your kind comments. Although I do believe that many here are very well suited to give me their input. There are several I give my utmost respect to.

I'm not quite sure what I'll do with this piece, but I am glad it got such positive feedback.