Potato in the Orchard, Chapter 1 /P

This is such hot back humour, almost makes me wish I liked coffee. We've got the logic of Sade, the sardonic wit of Miriam Toews, Augusten Boroughs, of course, but actually the over all feel of this most strongly evoked Jean Genet, to me, which excites me, as "The Maids" is one of my favourite plays.

You end up rocking back and forth on your bed, biting your lip,

This is the punishment, the penalty, for the living: you feel everything.

What little extremities we do suffer we suffer in the company of pharmaceuticals; some might say it's unhealthy.

Some say living with ghosts drives you to the grave.

makes me reconsider my naked body. Would I, too, one day be so porous as to let the wind seep through my bones?

"I read in this article that if you take some throat lozenges before you go down on people, it helps with the soreness in the morning."

combined with anything you could possibly want;

XD I thought this was awesome. Throughout this whole thing, I felt really sorry for Nick. Sheesh, his family is so...disfunctional! I didn't really expect that, which made this new and surprising.

And: Bisensual. Omg, I laughed at that for about two minutes straight. This just has comedy all through it. I loved it. And even when you changed it from funny to serious when he's on the bridge it was good. You put in a lot of great points that a lot of people think about and can relate to. And Ms. Carlyle, dude, she'd make me jump off a bridge I think. I really liked her character though, it just emphasized further how horrible Nick's life was. And you introduced Dylan well. He seems like a very nice character, I think that in the end, even if it takes forever, him and Nick will get along? Possibly.

I think I saw one sentence that didn't make sense to me...but I can't find it at the moment. Lol, when I do I shall tell you.

Post more!
~Rieda

Hmm... I really don't know what to say. I guess I'll start off with what I liked. Jill is a good character, you did a good job with her. You didn't over-do it and just told us what we needed to nknow, and brought her back at the right moment. Ms. Carlyle was great, an awesome character.

Now on to what I didn't enjoy so much. His 'fight' of sorts with Ms. Carlyle didn't seem believeable. He works there, right? So he has to be polite to the customers, even if they're mean to him.

You introduced Dylan well, but I don't think the character is very developed at the moment. Maybe you're just hiding it from us, but I really don't believe that there's much more to him.

Keep posting, though! I want to read more.

It could have been any other summer--one when I was much more mature and capable, or one when I was too young to understand--that it happened. Things started out harmlessly enough: a job at Central Market, a new car, a new live-in. But somehow it ended up here.

I shouldn't be surprised.

Things always wind up this way. You end up rocking back and forth on your bed, biting your lip, waiting on whatever hell of a life you've created to incinerate you right there. But it doesn't. No, life is more vindictive than to employ death: its tortuous and agonizing drawls into what could have and what should have been comprise so much of our time here--so much of our minutes are wasted on the static aftertaste of moments that have passed us by--it's no wonder we fall asleep all the time. No matter. Nobody has to know about the quiet parts of our lives. Mostly, people don't anyway: our lives being so boring even we can't stay awake for their entirety.

I look down at my trembling hand and clench it into a fist so hard my short fingernails dig into my skin. It doesn't seem to help the shaking, and the shadows from my quivering body only grow more intense and wild with the prolonged displacement of mind from body. For a moment, I think I can actually feel the electricity shooting through axon hillocks and into their terminals, causing a spontaneous overflow of calcium and potassium and the rapid-fire movements of actin and myosin filaments, all leading to this explosion of slow-motion locomotion. This is the punishment, the penalty, for the living: you feel everything.

All this integration of organ and body, nerve and brain, bone and muscle--it all commands its own destruction.

I try to take deep breaths, bring gravity back into my system's orbit before things break apart. I reach for the nightstand and the open bottle of Xanax--the common cure for every pain--and pop a tab into my throat. Almost instantly I start to relax, falling back against the bed, and even though I know that pills don't work this fast, I don't question it. Most pain is psychological anyway. Society has developed such that it shelters us from major calamities and inclement weather and conditions. What little extremities we do suffer we suffer in the company of pharmaceuticals; some might say it's unhealthy.

Some say living with ghosts drives you to the grave.

"I put your damned groceries in the car; now leave me alone." I kick a loose rock across the gravel and close my eyes. She's still talking, but it's pretty easy to block her out with all the noises out here. Sometimes I think things turn out okay when I come to work; sometimes I think I've gone from the frying pan into the fire.



I could be anywhere right now. I could hitchhike, probably get raped and stabbed, or worse; I could ask a friend for a lift. I could be dead. And I suppose that's why I'm really here, feet dangling from the ledge of a condemned bridge: I could be dead. There's something comforting in the thought. I know most people, like Jill, are so scared of death they get locked up by it. Just the thought of losing somebody or yourself forever--they find it overwhelming.

I think that Ms. Carlyle is just about the most fun character ever. I want to say that Nick appears to change personalities with every scene, but I suppose in reality he doesn't, really. I think what changes is how much he narrates, in which case, I wish that in some places I knew more of what he was thinking. Another curiosity: why does he sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor at the end rather than in his bed? Or was his bed already ~contaminated by Dylan?

**Updated**

Braddy--

You're right. Augusten Burroughs has nothing on you. I don't have many suggestions to make as of yet--there's not that much to comment on, and it is a first draft--so I'll save that bit for later, and just beg you to bring Mrs. Carlyle back in the future. She's fantastic.

Nick, by the way, is incredibly sympathetic. I'd like to see more of his inner dialogue, though; the little you have is fascinating.

**Updated**

Well, I wasn't going to read this at first but then I changed my mind.

This is... different. I'm not saying it's bad, I liked it, but it's definetely not liek anything I've ever read. There wasn't really anything I can comment on, apart from the MC seems a lot more anxious in the first bit, and then totally calm for the rest.

I was a little confused about the first it. Was that like, in the fututre and he's remembering?

I did like it, the plot isn't anything I've seen before, so I'd like to read more. I'm definetely intriuged.

Ah, I see. Something else I noticed: I don't think he got dressed before going to breakfast? That seems a tad odd, even for this family

-Amelia

Amelia--


Thanks for reading more of this drivel! =]

In "book form" (as opposed to "post form"), the first part is more a glimpse of the future, not something immediately happening in the present. It is, in a way, a memoir-ish novel. The beginning, I suppose, is then just a cinematic tease for what's to come, if you will.


Thanks again!
Brad

"Jeffrey!" Mother hisses. She does this every time anyone mentions her and Father are married. It's like some kind of revolting secret she has to keep well-hidden and without mention.

**Updated**

Things always wind up this way. You end up rocking back and forth on your bed, biting your lip, waiting on whatever hell of a life you've created to incinerate you right there.

I look down at my trembling hand and clench it into a fist so hard my short fingernails dig into my skin.