Young Writers Society

My fingers trail down Kenny’s forehead and alight on two warm, delicate balls. Our eyes.

The air is cool here – cooler than the others – and the pressing whine of machinery a bit louder. But the smell is the same throbbing smell that I have come to know. The smell of sterilized fear – and inevitable, stinging disappointment. It’s the smell that throws me back nearly thirty-five years, to the first time I was slapped with the cold, hard word incurable.

The warm air was heavy with the chaotic textures of the hospital in the city. My little fingers formed a sweaty fist inside the embrace of my mother’s hand. The doctor inspected my eyes, lifting the lids… poking, prodding. She kept asking me, can you see this? I was unsure in my answers – what did it mean to see? If I was seeing, would I even know? I waited, my lungs tight, as she scrutinized me. Then, the verdict. I don’t remember the first doctor’s voice, only her words, ricocheting hollowly off the inside of my head. Your eyes are incurable, Rina... incurable.
The first two visits were the most painful; after that, I had Kenny. From the first time I felt those warm, soft eyeballs, I knew that I had something with him that no healthy person could ever have. With Kenny, it suddenly didn’t matter that I didn’t have eyes of my own; I had his. Ours.

After I had Kenny, I still traveled for hours at a time when I got in touch with a new ophthalmologist who ensured me that they would give me sight. And the blow after the appointment, when the flustered and deflated doctor told me that they couldn’t classify my problem – much less cure it – still hurt… but the feeling of those warm, downy eyeballs eased the pain.

I sigh, bringing myself back to the present. My tongue feels fat and fuzzy, like my suede shoes – my mouth has been hanging open. My mother always used to tell me that I did that when my mind was wandering, and that it was an impolite habit. I can feel that nobody’s in the room, but I close my mouth anyway. I sigh again. My mind shouldn’t be wandering. Not now.
Two days ago, Doctor Gregory Falmer, a nervous man with small, tense hands and a voice that felt like steel wool, told me something I’ve never been told before: that he recognized my problem and could cure it. He said it was a rare disease, and that the procedure was as yet unrefined and would be prolonged and painful… but it existed.
We scheduled an appointment for today.
When I got here, earlier this morning, I was sent to a pre-operational room where they inspected my eyes, cleaned them, and gave me anesthesia. Then I was taken here, told that it would only be a few moments before Dr. Falmer would arrive.
The anesthesia has only recently kicked in – or I think that’s what I’m feeling; it may just be tingling anxiety that makes my face feel leathery and numb.
Will I finally understand the meaning of those foreign words, light, color… vision? My mother has told me that Kenny’s – our – eyes are a shining blue-gray. Will I finally know what that means?

The creak of a door. Hard shoes shuffle energetically over linoleum. The creak and slam of a door. I can feel the presence of another person in the room.

“Rina Morris, yes?” Words like steel wool.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Ah-ha… now, I believe I explained yesterday that you will not be awake for the operation?” I can hear him unscrewing bottles, snapping rubber gloves.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Well, before I put you under, I just want to tell you that your dog will be kept in a kennel during the surgery – we have a kennel here for seeing-eye dogs. Now, if you could remove his harness…?”
I reach down, unclasp his stiff harness. As soon as the leather straps are off his belly, his stoic position snaps and I can feel his strong switch of a tail banging joyously against my shin. “I’ve got a leash too,” I say, “Should I put it on him?”
“Ah… yes, please.” He sounds as though he’s turned away from me, and his steel wool voice is distracted. “I’ll call someone now to take him away…”
I fish around inside my canvas purse and find the long, nylon leash I always keep there; I buckle it onto his collar.

The door creaks again.

“Ah, Ruth,” the steel wool voice says, “bring this dog to the kennel.”
Heels click towards me.
My fingers linger a moment on Kenny’s warm – shining blue-gray – eyes before going down his face and receiving a quick kiss. I hold out the leash in the direction of the clicking heels. The tail freezes, the energetic panting slows.
“Go on, Kenny,” I say, patting his back gently, “it’s alright.”
“Guide dogs are so loyal.” Ruth’s voice is fluffy and light, like whipped cream.
Kenny’s nails scratch at the linoleum.
“C’mon,” Ruth says.
“Go with Ruth.” I make my voice hard and cold. “Go.”

He whimpers softly, unwilling to leave me when he can tell I’m anxious, but eager to obey me. I can feel his eyes growing farther and farther away… will we ever be so close again? Will those warm balls ever again be ours?

“I’m going to hold this up against your face.” Steel wool cuts into my thoughts. “Just keep breathing and I’ll count down from ten. You’ll be under before I get to zero.”

I lie down. The chair is hard, uncomfortable. He pushes something up against my face.
Ten.
My feet feel numbly cold as intense heat from a light floods my face. My neck. My hair. My eyes…
Nine.
…My “incurable” eyes.
Eight.
Will I really understand light, color… vision?
Seven.
What about star, or shadow?
Six.
Or: shining blue-gray….

* * *

“Where am I?” Why didn’t he get to five? “What went wrong?”
“It’s alright.” Whipped cream? “You’re just waking up from the anesthesia.”
“What went wrong?” How did I get into this bed? Wasn’t I in an operating chair, less than a second ago?
“Nothing went wrong. You’ve been asleep for hours.”
“Did he do it?” How could I have missed it?
“The surgery? Of course.”
“Am I…”
“You’re fine – just disoriented from the anesthesia.”

* * *

I’m lying on my back, chained to the top of a mountain. I have worked hard to climb to this height, but I feel as though part of me has been left behind. I almost want to roll down again, but … the chains. They are loose, but strong – not tight enough to be called a confinement, but a definite warning. The thin mountain air is cold against my dry, irritated face. Steel wool is dabbing at my eyes. Distantly, I can feel two warm eyes looking for me at the bottom of the mountain….

* * *

Cold air. Metallic. Synthetic. Clean. Beeps and buzzing. Urgent. A faint, longing bark… so familiar.

* * *

Excitement. Something is waiting behind me. A new world, on the other side of the mountain. Chains fall away. The new world smells fresh, tender, full of an alien intrigue… one chain remains in my hand. Somewhere at the other, far-off end are two warm eyes. At the bottom of the mountain, on the other side from the new world. The chain is a slippery switch tail, sliding out of my grip. I fall towards the waiting world.

* * *

Busy smells – official, sterile. Cool air. Thin, artificial sheets. Where am I? It smells like – yes, that’s it. A hospital. The surgery, the dreams, Kenny… could it all really have happened so quickly?

“Awake, Rina?” The same whipped cream voice that took Kenny.
The skin around my eyes feels crusty. “How long has it been?” I whisper.
“It’s about midnight. You’re recovering quite fast, actually – you’ve been in post-op. for just over eighteen hours.” Eighteen hours? “You woke up about half an hour ago, and talked to me – but you were pretty confused. You’ve been going in and out of sleep since then.”
“I was talking to you?”
“Yes… don’t worry, though, people don’t usually remember what they say right after waking up. But how do your eyes feel? Any sting or anything?”
“No, Ma’am,” just the crustiness. I reach up and feel tenderly – my fingers are shocked to feel gauze and tape.
“The bandages are just there to hold the medicine on and protect your eyes from light – they’re very sensitive.”
“When do they come off?”
“You should only take them off once in a while until your next surgery and never keep them off for too long so that your eyes can get used to seeing light. You’re only going to see light at first, of course—”
Dr. Falmer told me that two days ago. He also said that I would be staying here at the hospital for a month, until my next surgery, and that I shouldn’t expect to ever have perfect vision—
“—but you can take them off right now.”
My thoughts skitter to a stop. “Now?”
“Yep.” Her whipped cream voice sweetens as she says the word.
“Can you take them off of me, please?”
“Of course.” The whipped cream is melting, drippy.

Heels click towards my head. I sit up, and make my gaping mouth fold into a smile as I feel the tape pulling away from my skin.

At first, there’s nothing. Now – small dots of burning pain. So many small dots, in neat rows above me and scattered around me. They swell, biting at my eyes. I squeeze my eyelids shut. The world becomes familiar again, but I can still feel those stinging dots.

* * * * *

Two surgeries down, one more month before the final one.

My vision has been improving on an almost daily basis. Those dots have turned from bites to kisses upon my eyes. From burning stings to cool pinpricks, like summer rain. It has been like blowing the sand off of buried treasure; each day I uncover more, crisper dots.
When I take off these fresh bandages, I will be able to see more than just light…

The door squeaks. Heels approaching, claws scraping eagerly over linoleum. I sit up. Delicately tear the gauze away.
Head aching confusion. The dots are still there, but there is more – little rips and splashes around me.
The heels and claws are next to me – I turn around. I close my eyes and laugh as I feel Kenny’s familiar weight knock me down onto my pillow. He kisses the tears away, before settling in his usual spot beside me, his chin on my stomach. I open my eyes.

The most beautiful thing in the world is here next to me. He is the color of the smell of wood smoke – warm, cozy, yet closely related to fire. His lean body shines with light from the ceiling. His face is content and intelligent.
He opens his eyes.
Shining blue-gray doesn’t even begin to describe the beauty I see on those faint smudges. I am sure that I will never see anything more intelligent and caring, more understanding, than our eyes. That understanding banishes the fear that has been plaguing my dreams. It assures me that those warm, shining blue-gray eyes are, and will always be, ours.


______________________________________________________
This was written originally for a title prompt -- meaning that I had to write a story with a certain title. That title was "Many Small Dots." I think that title works, but I don't really like it or think it captures the story very well, so I've changed it. I'm still not sure I'm crazy about the title I chose, though -- thoughts?

Also, I apologize for the length... I didn't have the heart to break it up into two posts. ^_^

Azila!

You are back indeed. And better than ever! I really loved this piece--it was sweet in a way that's hard to write without being cloying and sentimental. The story had a rough, futuristic edge to counteract that, which meant you could go all-out with the waterworks at the end and it wouldn't seem false.

Just a few small things:

A STRANGE ATTRACTION

The problem with writing a story about love--however platonic it may be--is that readers are potty-brains. They will always assume it is about sex. This is why you have to be careful to tell us exactly what kind of relationship exists between two characters from the very beginning, especially when one of the characters in question is of indeterminate species.

I would change Kenny's name, if you want to keep the 'mystery' at the beginning, where we're not sure what he is. Kenny's a human name, so naturally I was assuming it was a human male whose eyeballs she was massaging.

AN AWKWARD PHRASE

You have made a fool out of me--I have been pressing on my eyeballs for the past few minutes to figure out what they feel like, interjecting with, "Ouch!" every few seconds.

Yeah...they're not soft. ^_~ They're weird feeling; a more fluid egg? It's hard, but with the promise of jelly underneath.

Ewwww.

___

Ah! I love this story, Azila. Let me know if you have any questions. ^_^

Okai dokai. This is my review; sorry if I repeat anything that has been said in previous reviews, but I have to say I dont read them, and only read the piece that has to be read... Wow, that sounded jumbled. ^^

Picky things;
"The air is cool here – cooler than the others – and the pressing whine of machinery, a bit louder."

At first, this line made no sense to me, and it made me sit gawking and re-reading for a couple of minutes. I only just realised what you were saying when I copied and pasted it into this quick reply box. Buuuuut, I think that perhaps you could either word it differently, such as; "The air is cooler here - cooler than the others - and the pressing whine of the machinery is a bit louder." Or you could just add a comma, where you can see it in red on the original quote.

"After I had Kenny," I dont know why, but I just dont like the wording of this. It sounds like you've given birth to this. Maybe that's the story - as you can tell I'm doing a step by step review - so excuse that if this is the case >.<

"Will I finally understand the meaning of those foreign words, light, color… vision?"

In this little snippet, the last four words are in italic in your original, it just doesnt show up like that in my review - apologies. I think it should be more along the lines of; "Will I finally understand the meaning of those foreign words; light, color... vision?" Just gives a little bit of a pause and makes it scrummier to read.

Ohh! Kenny is the dog? I get it a little more now! Sorry, back with the story;

"receiving" should be recieving, shouldn't it? I dont think the rule applies in the instant of that word... Actually.. I dont know.

Praise for;
Okay, I finished it. Sorry, it looks like I've pointed out loads of things you need to improve on.. But I just garble on, don't I?

I really loved this idea. I admit, in my own stupidity, I got confused about who Kenny was, but as soon as I realised, I thought it was great! You really put into perspective how loyal and depending people and animals can be. It really put a new twist to what I thought was a common "romance".

Great with the emotion too
Happy Writing!

Thank you two so much!

I guess I need to clarify Kenny's species... but I didn't really want to to be obvious. I'll have to think about it.

Sam: by "soft" I meant "furry," because I was trying to get the message across that he wasn't human. Hmm... I shall have to try harder, it appears.

Anyway, thanks for the suggestions! I will take them into account.

~Azila~

This is wonderfully written. I think you did a spectacular job of hiding what Kenny was while still portraying that he is loved by the character and is comforting to her. After reading through it again, "our eyes" makes much more sense. I enjoyed it immensely. You did an incredible job describing the process through which a blind person regains sight, and what they would see and feel. I considered writing a story with regards to that but I doubt that I could have done as good of a job as you have. I can only wonder...were you once blind, or did you interview someone who was?

You have an OUTSTANDING use of imagery, which makes your story juicy and thick flavor.(see what a did there?)

Again, you did an amazing job concealing what Kenny really was. I think perhaps you wanted the reader to assume that Kenny was a human being? I honestly thought Kenny was a stuffed animal provided for comfort, though once you revealed he was a dog...it just made sense. All of it.

This work is absolutely wonderful.

I look forward to reading more from you

-raheeL

Hi there! Only just heard about this yesterday, we just got back. (Email me!)
I really enjoyed reading this!
Here are some things I noticed:

The air is cool here – cooler than the others – and the pressing whine of machinery a bit louder.

Clarify here? I guess you are talking about other hospital rooms that he/she has been in before?

The warm air was heavy with the chaotic textures of the hospital in the city. My little fingers formed a sweaty fist inside the embrace of my mother’s hand. The doctor inspected my eyes, lifting the lids… poking, prodding. She kept asking me, can you see this? I was unsure in my answers – what did it mean to see? If I was seeing, would I even know? I waited, my lungs tight, as she scrutinized me. Then, the verdict. I don’t remember the first doctor’s voice, only her words, ricocheting hollowly off the inside of my head. Your eyes are incurable, Rina... incurable.

Clarify that this is a flashback. Maybe put the whole thing in italics? Also, try and make it more obvious that she is a young girl

steel-wool,

You have this in a number of places, and IMO, it shouldn’t be hyphenated. Too distracting.

We scheduled an appointment for today.
When I got here, earlier this morning, I was sent to a pre-operational room where they inspected my eyes, cleaned them, and gave me anesthesia. Then I was taken here, told that it would only be a few moments before Dr. Falmer would arrive. The anesthesia has only recently kicked in – or I think that’s what I’m feeling; it may just be tingling anxiety that makes my face feel leathery and numb.

This change from past to present tense was a bit abrupt.

The creak and slam of a door.

This felt a little out of place, feels like it should be a complete sentence.

“Go with Ruth.” I make my voice hard and cold. “Go.”

I don’t think you mean cold, I think you mean commanding, or firm.

Nine.
…My “incurable” eyes.
Eight.
Will I really understand light, color… vision?
Seven.
What about star, or shadow?
Six.

This part was very well-done. Good job!

“Where am I?” Why didn’t he get to five? “What went wrong?”
“It’s alright.” Whipped cream? “You’re just waking up from the anesthesia.”
“What went wrong?” How did I get into this bed? Wasn’t I in an operating chair, less than a second ago?
“Nothing went wrong. You’ve been asleep for hours.”
“Did he do it?” How could I have missed it?
“The surgery? Of course.”
“Am I…”
“You’re fine – just disoriented from the anesthesia.”

Maybe put her thoughts in italics?

“You woke up about half an hour ago, and talked to me – but you were pretty disoriented. You’ve been going in and out of sleep since then.”

Repetition of ‘disoriented’ from a previous paragraph. Maybe find something else? Also: The part when she is flickering in and out of consciousness was a bit confusing, but also well done.

Headaching confusion.

Clarify. Also, ‘headaching’ should be two words.
The ending was also very well done, and the description of opening her eyes for the first time to see her dog was perfect and heartwarming. I’m not sure about the whole ‘kennel for guide dogs’ thing, since this kind of operation would be pretty rare, and not all blind people have guide dogs. Even if it was a special clinic or something….. I dunno. Try to watch your short sentences; when you use them sparingly they create a rhythm and a voice, but when you over-do it, it can sound really choppy.
That’s it! Like I said, I really really enjoyed reading this.
See ya!

~Lupis

Thank you guys so much!

Canislupis>> Thanks! Your review helped so much. I have fixed most of the little things you pointed out and will work more on the more major things when I get a chance.

Raheel>> Thank you for the encouragement. No, I didn't actually interview a blind person, but my mother has had and has good friends who are blind, one of whom had a guide dog. She also volunteered for a school for the blind for a while.

Thanks again for taking the time to read and review.

~Azila~

Hey Zills!

The air is cool here – cooler than the others – and the pressing whine of machinery a bit louder.

Others? What others? Other rooms? Hospitals?
But I love "the pressing whine of machinery" -- perfect imagery.

But the smell is the same throbbing smell that I have come to know. The smell of sterilized fear – and inevitable, stinging disappointment. It’s the smell that throws me back nearly thirty-five years, to the first time I was slapped with the cold, hard word incurable.

Need I say any more?

The warm air was heavy with the chaotic textures of the hospital in the city.

Hmm... 'chaotic textures' is a little odd, in my opinion. I always thought hospitals smells, or textures, were clean and neat and sterile, manufactured odours easily separated from each other, never mingling to create anything more complex. I don't understand how smells like needles and clean metal and anesthetics could be chaotic -- maybe you should elaborate?

And the blow after the appointment, when the flustered and deflated doctor told me that they couldn’t classify my problem – much less cure it – still hurt… but the feeling of those warm, downy eyeballs eased the pain.

It's the third time that you've referred to Kenny's eyeballs as "warm", and not the last in the story, either ...

Will I finally understand the meaning of those foreign words, light, color… vision?

Did you mean to italicize words?

My mother has told me that Kenny’s – our – eyes are a shining blue-gray.

[/quote]

I always thought dogs' eyes were either brown or yellow-ish -- can they really be blue? I know dogs like malamutes and huskies have blue eyes, but later on you say that Kenny is a smoky brown colour ... is it possible for him to have blue eyes?
Meh. I'm just being picky.

The creak of a door. Hard shoes shuffle energetically over linoleum. The creak and slam of a door.

The two bolded sentences are kind of similar, especially with the repetition of 'creak' and 'door'.

“Rina Morris, yes?” Words like steel wool.

“Ah… yes, please.” He sounds as though he’s turned away from me, and his steel wool voice is distracted. “I’ll call someone now to take him away…”

“Ah, Ruth,” the steel wool voice says, “bring this dog to the kennel.”

“I’m going to hold this up against your face.” Steel wool cuts into my thoughts. “Just keep breathing and I’ll count down from ten. You’ll be under before I get to zero.”

You refer to the doctor's voice as 'steel wool' a lot in the story ... maybe you should try describing it as other things, like 'rough', throughout the piece so we don't keep reading the same thing.

My feet feel numbly cold as intense heat from a light floods my face.

Well ... there's nothing strictly wrong with this, but it strikes me as kind of odd that you're talking about your feet and then your face -- where's the relation? Which is more important: her numb feet or light flooding her face? Hmm, speaking of that, how would she even know about the light flooding her face since she's blind? After all, a couple phrases later she's wondering if she'll be able to understand what light is.
Maybe you'd just be better off saying "My feet feel numbly cold but I cringe instinctively as intense heat floods my face"? (Or something like that.)

“Where am I?” Why didn’t he get to five? “What went wrong?”

“It’s alright.” Whipped cream? “You’re just waking up from the anesthesia.”

“What went wrong?” How did I get into this bed? Wasn’t I in an operating chair, less than a second ago?

“Nothing went wrong. You’ve been asleep for hours.”

“Did he do it?” How could I have missed it?

“The surgery? Of course.”

“Am I…”

“You’re fine – just disoriented from the anesthesia.”

* * *

I think this part would be better with more ... I dunno, substance? Like maybe, to make it more realistic, describe how she feels (groggy? Does she expect to see anything? Does she feel panicked?). Make us feel her blind fear, the muddy darkness behind her lids, her mind struggling into consciousness; things like that. This part seems bare compared to the rest of the story, which is rich and complex with imagery.

The chain is a slippery switch tail, sliding out of my grip..

* * *

What's a slippery switch tail?

“No, Ma’am,” just the crustiness.

Did you mean to include "just the crustiness" in the dialogue? If not, maybe it should be: "No, Ma'am." Just the crustiness.

“Of course.” The whipped cream is melting, drippy.

You call her voice "whipped cream" a lot ... it was really good at first, but after a while it can get tedious because that's all her voice is described as, over and over again.

It has been like blowing the sand off of buried treasure; each day I uncover more, crisper dots.

This is really a matter of personal opinion, but I think it would sound better as "more crisp dots".

He is the color of the smell of wood smoke – warm, cozy, yet closely related to fire.

How does she already know what colour is? Maybe try: He looks like the smell of wood smoke".
Oh, and I think "woodsmoke" is one word ... not sure though.

* * *

Omigosh, this is so good, Zills! It kind of reminds me of a movie I saw a while ago called The Eye. Blindness has always been something that terrifies and fascinates me; this piece gave me a lot to think about and I think you did an amazing job of writing from a blind person's point of view. The only thing I thought was missing is: what does it look like to not see? Do you see only black? Only white?

Basically the only things that I thought could be improved were 1) you use the same descriptions over and over again, especially for peoples' voices, and 2) I think you could have made the waking-up-from-anesthesia scene a lot more realistic by including what she felt as she woke up from her operation. Was she getting stiff from being in the same position for so long? Did she feel slow and heavy, sluggish?

Well ... that's all I can think of, really. It seems that there's already been many helpful critiques on this piece. Overall, this is an amazing piece of writing (my favourite that you've posted on YWS so far) and I will probably think about it for a long time.

Wow!
- Camille<3