Desmond Carter

This is for Clo's contest that I can't remember the name of. It's about good things becoming not good. I've always found funerals to be solemn, exciting, wonderful--but this one is none of those things. And therefore it has been transformed... etc.

OR

Saving people is glorious and wonderful, but this particular "saving people" has become mechanical and monotonous. And then it dies. Either way.


________



Desmond Carter had a knack for saving people. Sometimes he would run towards a parked car, thinking it would look funny, and then find out that someone was about to steal the car and kill the kid sleeping in the back--and that his running towards it stupidly had saved the world. Because everyone has the world in their head. You can't save the world without saving someone's head, of course.

This knack, after too many examples to count, became a religion in Carter’s mind. He began doing nothing but saving people, until, one day, he died. Everyone he had ever saved came to his funeral. But none of them knew him, or how he had died, or even if he was certainly the person who had walked into their garage one day and stolen their car to prevent them from using it commit suicide.

Out of all the hundreds of people crowded around his closed casket, only one of them knew how he had died. Or, to be more precise, only one of them had killed him.

"I have blood in my stomach," muttered Carter’s murderer, rubbing his eyes. His name was Carter too, but he allowed people to call him Desmond, just for kicks. There was a bright, cruelly sharp shaft of light that was lighting up Desmond's pinched face, and it was cutting right through Jesus' halo that seemed to sit too high above his head. Almost like it wasn't his halo at all. But it must have been.

"Pardon me?" asked the small girl standing beside Desmond. She must have overheard his short soliloquy involving blood and stomachs.

"I wasn't talking to you," sighed Desmond, his voice echoing in an unholy manner. The few people who were crying stopped suddenly to stare at him. "But if you must know why I said I have blood in my stomach, it's because I do."

The girl didn't giggle like he was hoping. Her pig-tails were tied up with black ribbon, and she wore a frown of deepest discontent. "Pardon me?" she repeated. But this time she didn't sound inquisitive, she just sounded irritated.

"I said I have--" began Desmond, but the man on his right shushed him loudly and lectured him in a different language on the importance of reverence. Desmond ignored him and leaned down close to the little girl’s ear. "I have blood in my stomach because my mouth has been bleeding all day. And I swallow it. That's why. Because I swallow it."

The little girl gasped and slapped him in the face. She actually wasn't all that little, she just gave off a 'little' ambience that caused people to wonder why she looked to be thirteen or fourteen in a way that they couldn't understand. Desmond wasn't particularly interested in her age, though, so he just slapped her right back. By this time half the people had forgotten about Carter and were now watching Desmond's ridiculous lack of chivalry in absolute horror. Oddly, no one said anything, and no one stepped in to defend the girl in pig-tails.

"How dare--"

"How dare you," insisted Desmond, wagging his finger at her. "You just assaulted a three-quarters innocent man at Carter’s funeral. How dare you," he repeated for good measure.

"You are by far the most despicable--"

"That I am, my dear girl," said Desmond. "You don't even know." And with that, he patted Carter’s casket affectionately, picturing the bloody mess that resided inside, and then strolled from the church, taking his whistling insubordination with him.

Unfortunately for all three parties--the dead party included and also effected--the girl in pig-tails followed Desmond from the church, apologizing to all of Carter’s fans as she went.

"You're actually mildly attractive," said the girl when she met up with Desmond on the front steps. Cars went by slowly, almost like their drivers knew what was occurring and understood the gravity of it all. Although it's more likely that they just found almost everything on the planet more intriguing than driving their car. Both are valid possibilities.

"Another solid truth," muttered Desmond, lighting up a cigarette and then dropping it at his feet, stomping on it thoughtfully. He didn’t feel like smoking, apparently.

"But I didn't follow you out here to--"

"Hit on me? Funny, that's usually why people follow me."

"It's not," said the girl.

"Absolutely true," admitted Desmond, "I rarely get hit on. Very rarely."

“Neither do I."

"But you're a kid," he said, glancing over at her with little interest, "so it doesn't count."

"I'm actually not," she said resignedly.

"You actually are."

But she ignored him. "The reason I followed you, however distasteful it might have been to me, was solely to discover what causes your atrocious attitude. After all, Carter is--was a hero, and should be treated as such. You're only here because he saved your head, right? And that means--"

"No. No, no," said Desmond, shaking his head solemnly; "it was his head that I didn't save. There's the distinction you missed."

There was a short silence. Desmond lit another cigarette and repeated the previous process of stomping it out the moment it was ready for use. "Oh, so you're the one who offed him. Is that why you're mouth has been bleeding?"

"I don't," he said, "know."

"Well, regardless, I think you should come to the police station with me. It's the only way."

"It's the only way to what?" he asked, severely bemused.

"The only way for you to escape justice," she said haughtily. "Well, perhaps not the only, only way, but maybe the mostly only way."

"Already done. Justice has escaped me, little girl, it always does. And so allow me to take my leave of you. Our conversation has been nothing but enlightening." Laughing, he moved to skip down the stairs, but she caught his wrist and dragged him back. He was startled enough that it worked. "Uh, let go," he said.

"But I wanted to be the person to confess, and they'll never believe me unless you turn me in. Please, mister, take me to the police station and send me to prison for life."

Desmond was momentarily shocked. He lived in a strange world, with quite a few strange purposes, and even more strange events, but this type of event he was not even remotely familiar with. He was actually reaching a point of unfamiliarity that was close to perpetuating a disaster.

"Sorry?" was all he could say. And he never said sorry. Especially when such a thing was asked for.

"Ha, like you didn't hear me. Don't ask me to repeat it." Her face was deliciously mocking, and at first he wanted to eat it. But that was only because he had missed breakfast.

"Right, right. Well, little girls can't be convicted the same way. It won't work," he added, pulling out of her grasp easily.

"Must I say it again? I'm not a little girl. I'm eighteen years old, and I don't even go to school."

The sky was a horribly strange color. As the sun fell, it sent drying rays of harsh orange that seemed to stick to the scattered clouds; its purple was of an indistinct nature, and could be blue or red at any moment. But more importantly, the tall apartment building across the street had blocked out the actual sun, and was giggling quite insistently about it. Desmond was neither upset nor indifferent towards this, he just had to wait until later to think about it . Because he couldn't possibly think about it when a thirteen year old eighteen year old was asking him to send her to prison for life. It was simply not possible.

"I'm busy," he said dumbly, his gaze flicking to the doors of the church. It looked like they were opening, but he couldn't tell.

"More heroes to chop up?" she asked, a lazy sort of diffidence in her words.

"Not precisely," he muttered in the same dumb tone.

"Well, if you won't turn me in, I suppose I'll have no choice but to turn you in."

This made him laugh, the light checking back into his eyes and everything seeming a little more even. "Turn me in for what, little girl?"

"Murder, arson, perjury, fraud," she said, her eyes a clear gold as the light before them began to vanish altogether. "Those kind of things, of course."

"Of course," repeated Desmond, now certain that the doors were opening. "It was very nice meeting you, though." And he turned and raced down the steps, catching his heel on the last one and smashing his face on a parked car. Blood, definitely, but nothing else in his mind.

Because this is so short it’s definitely hard to give a very detailed opinion on this. But that first line definitely had me pulled in, even if it doesn’t completely make sense. I still like it however.

The fence was a pale yellow; now it’s smeared white

.

Now, I have to say, I don't understand this part. It just has me...confused.

An ancient, bent-backed, wide-shouldered oak tree has stretched its long arms over the roof of the two-story establishment, its dowdy leaves creating turrets of incongruous proportions.

I just wanted to make the suggestion of finding a different word for "bent-backed." It’s not bad, it’s just not great.

I see you. You are leaning on the fence, a dandelion in your mouth and leaves in your ragged hair. Your jeans are held up by red-striped suspenders and your shirt is stained, most of the buttons buried in the least likely places imaginable, as Bilbo might say. There is something warm in the color of your skin, and so I don’t mind that I’m too far off to touch it. I don’t mind that your eyes aren’t green or that the sun sometimes doesn’t tell the truth about your smile.

I love this. It's a creative and amazing way of bringing someone into perspective. Really, this is unlike any description of an individual that I've read in a long time.

Other then that, there is nothing wrong with this. Then ending leaves me thinking and holds me in curiosity. I love it. Especially that line "I love him, I guess." It sounds so simple but it has a lot of implication.

Computers don’t breath at intervals.

This sentence doesn't have anything to do with the rest of the story.

I see a slate-grey house

Grey is spelled gray.

a dandelion in your mouth and leaves in your ragged hair.

There should be a comma after mouth.

And I want you to remember those words

What words?

Your story is okay, but it was a little dull. There are also a few sentences that don't make sense. Other than that, the story is fine.

"it was his head that I didn't save

Just this ONE thing I wanted to point out, Nu. I'd like this sentence better if his and I were italicized. The distinction between the two is clearer that way.

Desmond Carter, the murderer, reminds me of you and Peter Wimsey mixed up. He's condescending and disgusting and vain and uck. So, all the bad bits of the both of you. And he makes me want to throw up all over his face, but I guess that was the point anyways. The blood, though, is that symbolic? Wisdom teeth, you know. And why the friggin' hell do you make all your characters so damned hate-able? Sorry, I got the damned thing from Peter. He makes it sound so much more moderate and respectable.

'Jewish conspiracies be damned,' he says to C. Parker. Like that. Exactly like that.

But back to the story. I felt like I was halfway between an extremely real, depressing, and altogether Nunu-like world, and a small cardboard box covered in (dare I say it) blood and crayons. Or the residue of crayons, I'm not sure how you'd say that. And I think Mr. Death Bredon has taught me how to ramble most exquisitely. That may be my elusive ego talking. Go ask it, I wouldn't know.

Can I have your number? And your mind and your money and your teeth and your security and your unselfconsciousness and everything else I can think of, which isn't much. Since we have the same number, I suppose that first one won't work, but I would so like that hair of yours.

SORRY, SORRY, I'm getting off-topic again. Here's Desmond Carter, the most despicable, confusing, Peter-Nu thing ever. And here's me saying you scare me, in every sense, definition, and acceptation of the word. I think I'll go write a really happy LoTR fanfic now, subtracting the 'happy' part.

I haven't much to criticize, but I wish you wouldn't make all your MCs so much like your evil side. I see too much of that already.

-SELA

Very much to the final sentence. On the note of brevity, the dialogue would be more apt were it more distinguishable by character. Idiotmatic for the girl, at least--which it is and then isn't. Oy, Dickensian without a doubt. But the whimsy is Chesterton, despite its distinctly dak Chernobyl hues; and the blend makes a deft ditty, da? on truth.

Lovely study. I've not read much of yours of late; only I'm glad, more than glad, I read this.


Naught more for detail, critique-wise. No doubt you can proofread sufficiently.















IMP

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:Desmond Carter had a knack for saving people.

Good opening line

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:Because everyone has the world in their head. You can't save the world without saving someone's head, of course.

This is kind of confusing but I like the way you wrote it.

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:This knack, after too many examples to count, became a religion in Carters ((Carter's)) mind. He began doing nothing but saving people, until, one day, he died. Everyone he had ever saved came to his funeral. But none of them knew him, or how he had died, or even if he was certainly the person who walked into their garage one day and stolen their car to prevent them from using it commit suicide.

I didn't like the underlined sentence. It didn't flow very well for me. There is too much going on. I would rephrase it and probably cut it in two.

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:Out of all the hundreds of people crowded around his closed casket, only one of them knew how he had died. Or, to be more precise, [s]only of them[/s] had killed him.

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:"I have blood in my stomach," muttered Carters ((Carter's)) murderer, rubbing his eyes. His name was Carter too, but he allowed people to call him Desmond, just for kicks. There was a bright, cruelly sharp shaft of light that was lighting up Desmond's pinched face, and it was cutting right through Jesus' halo that seemed to sit too high above his head. Almost like it wasn't his halo at all. But it must have been.

Huh?

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:The little girl gasped and slapped him in the face. She actually wasn't all that little, she just gave off a 'little' ambience ((ambiance)) that caused people to wonder why she looked to be thirteen or fourteen in a way that they couldn't understand. Desmond wasn't particularly interested in her age, though, so he just slapped her right back. By this time half the people had forgotten about Carter and were now watching Desmond's ridiculous lack of chivalry in absolute horror. Oddly, no one said anything, and no one stepped in to defend the girl in pig-tails.

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:Unfortunately for all three parties--the dead party included and also effected--the girl in pig-tails followed Desmond from the church, apologizing to all Carters fans as she went.

This didn't make sense to me. Who are the three parties? 'included and also effected'?

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:"Ha, like you didn't hear me. Don't ask me to repeat it." Her face was deliciously mocking, and at first he wanted to eat it. But that was only because he had missed breakfast.

He wanted to eat it?

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:The sky was a horribly strange color. As the sun fell, it sent drying rays of harsh orange that seemed to stick to the scattered clouds; its purple was of an indistinct nature, and could be blue or red at any moment. But more importantly, the tall apartment building across the street had blocked out the actual sun, and was giggling quite insistently about it. Desmond was neither upset nor indifferent towards this, he just had to wait until later to think about it . Because he couldn't possibly think about it when a thirteen year old eighteen year old was asking him to send her to prison for life. It was simply not possible.

I really like this paragraph. I liked the description at the beginning and the inner thoughts of Desmond at the end.

ChernobyllyInclined wrote:Blood, definitely, but nothing else in his mind.

Wait. Did he die?


I liked this story. It was kind of weird but it was still good.
The girl was the most intriguing character of the story, I thought. I want to know why she wanted to be turned in for something she didn't do when the real person that did it was right there. Why did she even confront him in the first place, and how did she know so quickly that he did it?
Nice work

-Carly

Hello there,

Pff. Remember the contest name if you’re going to mention it!


***


Quote:
This knack, after too many examples to count, became a religion in Carters mind.
Apostrophe needed.


Quote:
But none of them knew him, or how he had died, or even if he was certainly the person who walked into their garage one day and stolen their car to prevent them from using it commit suicide.
“certaintly” – awkward. Consider rephrasing that bit.


Quote:
Out of all the hundreds of people crowded around his closed casket, only one of them knew how he had died.
Killing your last sentence. Either rephrase that one to make this one acceptable, or the other way around. I dunno.


Quote:
Or, to be more precise, only of them had killed him.
Something is missing up there.


Quote:
"I have blood in my stomach," muttered Carters murderer,
Apostrophe.


Quote:
There was a bright, cruelly sharp shaft of light that was lighting up Desmond's pinched face, and it was cutting right through Jesus' halo that seemed to sit too high above his head. Almost like it wasn't his halo at all. But it must have been.
I don’t understand. That halo is made of light, or from a painting?


Quote:
The few people who were crying stopped suddenly to stare at him.
Stopped suddenly? Stopped? I mean, really stopped? Unrealistic. Perhaps - maybe - funny and comfortable, but unrealistic.

Quote:
The girl didn't giggle like he was hoping.
… she would (?)


Quote:
"I said I have--" began Desmond, but the man on his right shushed him loudly and lectured him in a different language on the importance of reverence.
Elaborate on that “different language”? I don’t get it. Different as in foreign - that came to me after some thinking, too – or different as in vocab, etc?


Quote:
Desmond ignored him and leaned down close to the little girls ear.
Apostrophe.


Quote:
"I have blood in my stomach because my mouth has been bleeding all day. And I swallow it. That's why. Because I swallow it."
Niiiiice.


Quote:
How dare you," he repeated for good measure.
Mmm, how about that last comment in italics for good measure?


Quote:
the girl in pig-tails followed Desmond from the church, apologizing to all Carters fans as she went.
Kick ‘fan’ and do a nice super short description of the anonymous crowd.


Quote:
Cars went by slowly, almost like they knew what was occurring and understood the gravity of it all.
I don’t get it. I don’t think cars would care.


Quote:
Although it's more likely that they just found almost everything on the planet more intriguing than driving their car.
Sorry to bully the car comment again, but – it was about cars, not car drivers in that last sentence? Again, I don’t get the overall car comment.


Quote:
But both are valid possibilities.
Time leap.


Quote:
"Another solid truth," muttered Desmond, lighting up a cigarette and then dropping it at his feet, stomping on it thoughtfully.
I don’t get it.


Quote:
"Me neither."
Me too. ‘cause ‘neither’ doesn’t make sense.


Quote;
"Well, perhaps not the only, only way, but maybe the mostly only way."
I don’t get it. In a positive way.


Quote:
He was startled enough that it worked.
Consider rephrasing. Can't give you a particular reason why, though.


Quote:
"But I wanted to be the person to confess, and they'll never believe me unless you turn me.
In (?)


Quote:
Desmond was momentarily shocked.
You can do better than that.



***

I have learned to spell the word “apostrophe”. True, it’s only a byproduct of the story’s lack of them, but there you have it. I always thought I should put a double ‘p’ somehow. Anyhow, if something is something’s, then you add the little comma floating up above. A bit of a vague explanation, but it’ll have to do. Google it, I guess.

Car of Anne -> Anne’s car
Pigtails of girl -> girl’s pigtails
Casket of Carter -> Carter’s casket

I stopped quoting later on. But a reread would do it.



Anonymous crowd is there. Everyone knows it’s there. But it’s a flighty crowd. And that crowd, which is in fact a character all in itself, deserves, I think more attention. Not anything big, just one or two extra sentences tucked in here or there, and not necessarily in the spotlight – just enough for it to sharpen its edges (mmm, more of a reaction to Carter’s death? two roasting birds, aye?).



I don’t get it. Skim back to: car comment, cigarette stomping. I just don’t. The car one was explained more or less in the quote, but the cigarette one I left as it was. That was somehow a – a philosophical portrait to his last dialogue sentence? Erm, emphasize that? And if it’s not, then him lighting it up and throwing it away is just silly. And if it was meant to be so, make it obvious that is was meant to be so. So to say.

Mmm. Reference to the arson bit? But at the time of me reading, it was confusing, and I still stand by it to not be confusing. It was confusing and rather bare, that solitary sentence.



Blob of description worked well as an action-stopper, or whatever people call it. In a “the world stopped” sort of way – fantastic , fantastic idea. But I didn’t particularly care for the description (oh, it was nicely written, yes) and found it boring.

Find another one?



“Uh, let go.” I absolutely loved the dialogue, on the other hand. Peons and peons and peons.
Little thirteen year old eighteen year old. Characters. Mmm. Peons and peons and peons.
Everything else.


Was a joy to read, well-written, nicely carried out, etc., etc.. I’d say “seriously” but then it maybe wouldn’t sound serious, and so I’m stopping right here. I’m giving it a star, though.



Loved it,
Esme