[I. WHEN SAINT ELMO CAME TO CALL]
Like those who came before them, Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher did not anticipate death when they stepped onto the elevator.
It was just beginning to rain—little rivulets of mist condensing against the sides of buildings like tears. The clouds merged and folded, forming one swirling mass of thick gray that choked the sun and set the sounds of cannonfire rippling through the air.
Mary Jane was ten floors above them, fingers straining to reach an E-flat. Mr. Gibson with his Coke-bottle glasses and red beard was standing behind her, tapping the page with a baton meant for an orchestra and not for a girl with her hair in braids, shoes barely reaching the tips of the pedals.
She was a Prodigy; four feet tall and gap-toothed.
The elevator rumbled its way upward, slowly. It was a beautiful elevator, all things considered—a turquoise-colored metal box, with glass diamonds set in the walls. It was the Westbrook School For Music's pride and joy, a symbol of art and particularly heavy funding. Light jazz music was playing from a radio set in the ceiling. Mr. Fletcher checked his watch. Mrs. Fletcher, meanwhile, looked at her reflection in the keypad; a moist finger running along the outline of her lips, brushing away smudged red.
The cable above their heads grew weaker; a great band of wires slowly decaying until there were five, four.
Mary Jane turned the page and looked at the clock. Four fifty-eight. Two minutes until her parents would step off the elevator and free her from the windowless room with naught but two grand pianos and a madman.
Three.
Mr. Fletcher hummed a song—a ditty he had learned as a boy; something folksy and simple.
Two.
The elevator shifted to the left.
Mary Jane startled as thunder shook the building. Mr. Gibson set her hands back on the keys and pointed to measure thirty-six. There were two accidentals in measure thirty-six—two flats.
"Play!" Mr. Gibson's brows were furrowed, twin caterpillars merged together. "Play with feeling!"
One.
The foundations gave a little shudder. There was a great flash of white and a smash—of breaking glass, of breaking bones.
Mary Jane sat in the dark with her fingers folded across her lap.
[II. THE APOSTLE'S CREED]
Hassan al-Faruq was a very bitter man.
He was also Mary Jane's best friend. He brought her breadrolls and magazines and chocolate milk, and sat on piano benches beside her when he was on break. They were waiting for her parents to come collect her from piano lessons.
"I know it'll be today," Mary Jane said, smiling.
It was always today. It had been today for six years.
Hassan pushed open the window. It was damp and humid outside, the whole world soggy with vapor. A pretty red bird was warbling a sort of reveille from its perch in the tree, mocking him. He sneered at it and it flew away.
He sighed. "We'll see."
"I just know it."
They sat there, Hassan contemplating the utter shittiness of life, Mary Jane swinging her legs. Her stockings were getting too small, he noticed. They barely reached her knees and left angry purple lines where her legs had grown too big for them.
"I'm on Stall Duty," he said. "Do you want to help me?"
Taking care of demented orphans was not written in his job description. Scraping away the sins of drunken little boys in suits and ties was, however. This was something that Mary Jane was very happy to do, most of the time, so long as they wrote her parents a note, in case they came back and couldn't find her. It made him feel bad, to sit there watching her giddily scratching snowflakes into bathroom stalls with a razorblade, but it kept her smiling. The best he could do was smoke and pray to Allah for forgiveness for his laziness.
The way things had been, he wasn't entirely certain there was an Allah. Fresh out of grad school and he was back, cleaning up vomit, looking after Mary Jane.
She gave him something to love, he thought in increasingly common moments of sappy introspection—the vomit was unresponsive.
He brought his toolkit into the mens' restroom and pointed out several sketches: teeth, eyes, genitalia, fag in letters three inches tall. Mary Jane opened it and knelt next to each one, lovingly sloughing away the nauseating yellow paint they had used to cover the turquoise, after the accident.
It was a different building, almost, but for a sickening black scar down the center, like some enhanced Hollywood debutante. Beautiful and new, but with surgery scars running where no one could see them.
Hassan left her alone and took a packet of cigarettes with him to the Abyss—a deep pit with that same yellow color coloring up rotted boards, shielding wandering eyes from what lie beneath.
A crumpled jewel box and two bodies, ten floors down.
Mary Jane had never made the connection. It had never occurred to her that her parents had never come to pick her up because they were waiting at the bottom of the Abyss, rotting.
Hassan carefully stuck the end of his cigarette into the hole. It illuminated a pinprick—shiny, blackened walls with small flecks of that turquoise.
When the lightning had struck, it had gone straight through. It had heated the outside of the box like some kind of sick microwave.
Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher had toasted.
It was an awful thought.
Hassan shook his head and took the last few remaining drags before going back into the bathroom to check on Mary Jane's progress.
She was still kneeling, bare knees against the tile, but her razorblade was not scraping away. Her shoulders were trembling.
"Hassan," she said. "This one says the world will end next Wednesday."
Hassan squatted next to her and squinted. Someone had written in silver Sharpie:
Fire and brimstone, sinners, repent!
Those final hours of your life hath spent
Making evil with thy hands of blood
Thy intentions thick and black as mud.
A comet will strike this Wednesday coming
While the chords of sin are loudly humming
Prepare, for the coming of Jehovah is true
And his plans of vengeance set to brew.
Sincerely, The Apostle.
It was one of the more juvenile apocalyptic predictions Hassan had seen in his janitorial career. Amateur, practically. The ones by the English majors were the best, usually, in iambic pentameter and cursive with flourish.
"Don't worry about it."
"But it says—"
"Just some stupid kid."
She looked up at him, smile wavering. "I'm going to go see if they've come yet."
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125,020 Literary Works • 672,861 Reviews
I was working on this today and realized that I'd completely forgotten to thank you all! I'm terribly sorry--I've been playing with your suggestions all day long and forgot. How awful of me. ^_~
I'll hopefully have the third/fourth/fifth part up later, and if there's anything I can do for you guys, please let me know.
That was great Sam! You have this way of pulling storytellng off effortlessly and in a way that makes me desperately want more. This piece is lean, dark, attractive, and, above all, very well written. The colors well defined and perfectly incorperated for the contest. I don't know how I stand a chance...
Everyone before me has commented that the opening line is stellar. I don't know... The foreshadowing just doesn't work for me. It reminds me of a fairy tale, once-upon-a-time opening and that turns me off like a light switch. But that's just me. If everyone else likes it, ignore my misgivings.
If this is all there is to the story - which I'm not sure off - I find myself walking away from this dazzled, yes, but slightly confused as well. I mean, I got the premise of the piece - girl trapped in a (boarding?) music school, waiting for (prospective?) parents, parents die, girl is blissfully unaware. But I don't think I got the intracacies. This was written in such a style that it could be confused with a dream. It's like the characters are floating a few feet off the ground and everything is hazy around the edges. It's a very surreal story, which doesn't make it bad, but lends itself to a somewhat confused Kylan. Also, your characters aren't very well-formed at all (I won't kill you for that, since this is a short story and story comes before characters in this setting). Hassan, for instance. Who the heck is this guy? A janitor, okay, a friend, got that, something more than a friend? I don't know but I had that feeling. So I've got his basics down, but really, who is he? He has no distinctive personality and therefore seems dreamlike. Like he's not really there. If you have any flaw in this piece, it's that: things don't make much sense.
But again, maybe that's just me. Maybe this story is just too profound for me to comprehend ^_^.
It seemed strange to me that you capitalized 'prodigy', which would mean that it was a proper noun, meaning that she is part of a group or an organization which calls their individuals "Prodigies". If the caps, was intentional it only confuses me more and gives the story a science fiction vibe.
This is another problem I had. Cables just don't break. They're not made out of twine or rubber either. These cables are tightly woven superstrong steel as thick as a man's thigh. They just don't 'snap'. Now, if a pulley broke and caused the elevator to be released from the cables, then the two Fletchers could plummet to their death a little more realistically. Also, you mentioned lightning struck. I would elaborate slightly on that. And what's more, how would lightning cause the cables to break?
I don't like the use of the word "naught" here. You're not a nineteenth century novelist, my dear, you're a twenty-first century budding artist. I don't want this period language in the narration. Keep it simple, keep it modern.
This confused me to no end. So she already knew about the accident? Are you using flashbacks? Is this piece taking place in two different times? Ack! Clarify for us uniformed readers.
Why? What's his motivation? Why doesn't he care about the burnt bodies at the bottom of the shaft? Why doesn't he tell MJ? This would be a perfect time to get into Hassan's head. Then again, maybe you don't want to. It's your style. But I'm still left with a lot of questions.
Anyway, beautifully written. I think smorg and I got a very thorough beating...
-Kylan
That was great Sam! You have this way of pulling storytellng off effortlessly and in a way that makes me desperately want more. This piece is lean, dark, attractive, and, above all, very well written. The colors well defined and perfectly incorperated for the contest. I don't know how I stand a chance...
Everyone before me has commented that the opening line is stellar. I don't know... The foreshadowing just doesn't work for me. It reminds me of a fairy tale, once-upon-a-time opening and that turns me off like a light switch. But that's just me. If everyone else likes it, ignore my misgivings.
If this is all there is to the story - which I'm not sure off - I find myself walking away from this dazzled, yes, but slightly confused as well. I mean, I got the premise of the piece - girl trapped in a (boarding?) music school, waiting for (prospective?) parents, parents die, girl is blissfully unaware. But I don't think I got the intracacies. This was written in such a style that it could be confused with a dream. It's like the characters are floating a few feet off the ground and everything is hazy around the edges. It's a very surreal story, which doesn't make it bad, but lends itself to a somewhat confused Kylan. Also, your characters aren't very well-formed at all (I won't kill you for that, since this is a short story and story comes before characters in this setting). Hassan, for instance. Who the heck is this guy? A janitor, okay, a friend, got that, something more than a friend?, don't know but had that feeling. So I've got his basics down, but really, who is he? He has no distinctive personality so he seems dreamlike. Like he's not really there. If you have any flaw in this piece, it's that: things don't make much sense.
But again, maybe that's just me. Maybe this is
She was a Prodigy
The cable above their heads grew weaker; a great band of wires slowly decaying until there were five, four.
naught but two grand pianos
lovingly sloughing away the nauseating yellow paint they had used to cover the turquoise, after the accident.
Hassan left her alone and took a packet of cigarettes with him to the Abyss
Hello my Dearest Darling! Since I am sans D and munching, I thought I should work on this instead...
I love lines like these from you. They're very much your style, and so perfect, and dead pan. It's nearly Waughesque, but much more yours, which is one of the larger reasons I like it.I think you should cut the dash and make them two sentences. And the second sentence has an -ing verb (forming; swirling is a gerund I think, something like that.) -ing verbs are nasty buggers and should be gotten rid of because they make for bad reading, or something like that. (I read it in my editing book and I am going to adhere to it.) "The clouds merged and folded until they formed..." works nicely. Although you could also ignore me entirely. Also, firefox, though not always correct, says cannon fire is two words. Anyway. I am envious of your description skills. Can I eat your brain and gain your knowledge?
I understand your organization of the first sentence, but it causes pause -- Mr, she? Look over it and you'll know what I'm talking about. I have no suggestions, though the easiest would be to put in a name instead of she. The second sentence is also a little weird, but not overly problematic.
Your flip flop between the POV of her and her parents makes this a little confusing. What foundation? I know the elevatar will fall but in the end I'm not sure what is going on here. Another point: Of breaking glass and bones reads smoother. But write something cooler. You listen to The Decemberists, and you are brilliant on your own. Write something unexpected, and dark but hilarious. Glass and Bones are so expected. Do a few sentences if you have to--but I know you could make that into something brilliant.
Why is she in the dark? My guess what they shut the lights off on her--but can I be sure? not really?
Oh wow that is ugly. to forgive his laziness is better.
Mein Karl. I love that metaphor. But, love, don't explain your metaphors--trust your audience to get it.
color coloring. It's... cute, but ugly. So I don't like it. Figure it out for yourself, but I don't like it.
I just understood it. I suppose I misread--that was really brilliant of you though. We assume they will fall down the elevater shaft, but the building gets hit with lightning. Haha, that is so you. I do hope I finally understood it properly... in any case, you may want to explain yourself? I am a bit unsure if I "get it".
I think if you unitalicized this it would be so much funnier. If you speak (or rather, write) without emphasis, it becomes more dead pan, more hilarious, more you. Yes, uh, because I completely know "you" and "your style"? Pardon the assumptions on my part, dearest.
Where did you pull your verse? I can't find it on google and I am curious. If you wrote it yourself, that's grand.
"cursive with flourish" seems like the wrong order of words.
My my my, I love this. It's horrendously simplistic, and hilarious, and stark. It's depressing and sad, but I laugh silently. The way I tend to laugh at Waugh. I think this may be one of the best short stories you've written (though Toss-up is also amazing, as is Naked and Ashamed). I love it so much. I can't really put it into words. You do everything just the right way. Sure words could be fixed here and there, and your characters aren't too detailed--but they don't need to be. Their made lively by lines here or there, what you make them do, or how they speak and believe. And it's so simple how they are characterized, and it is perfect. If they were anymore lively it would be to a fault. They have to be bland, like real people. And they aren't bland, they're just strange and bland, uh, if that makes sense? And you write sarcastically, and with a dead pan tone, and your descriptions rival my dialogue, and you really are a wunderbar writer. ^_^ Need I say more? Anything else would just continue to be a compliment.
I await your next piece of yum, and give me some D!
*mouth hangs open*
This was so gorgeous. I really have nothing to critique, and anything I could have dragged up with a nit comb, Mat beat me in mentioning.
Your first sentence was a knock-out. It just sounds so innocent and quaint until you actually pay attention to what the words are actually saying.
Your imagery was beautiful. You barely described anything, but what you did describe conjured up haunting images in my head. Absolutely beautiful. You have some major talent here, missy.
Sorry I have no nasty critiques, but praise is always good too, yes?
Please PM me when you continue this. I am hooked.
~GryphonFledgling
Hey, Sam. Yes, this is going to be one of those critiques that every writer dreads: the hollow ones. I've read it over a couple of times now. I'm going to check it once more after writing this paragraph, but I can hardly find anything to critique.
No, I'm kidding. This is a great piece, though, and I'll look forward to more.
Like those who came before them,
This may just be a personal preference, but I would say "went" instead of "came," there.
Mr. Gibson set her hands back on the keys and pointed to measure thirty-six. There were two accidentals in measure thirty-six—two flats.
The repetition of "measure thirty-six" is a little annoying. Changing the second mention to "it" would make the sentence flow better.
Mary Jane sat in the dark with her fingers folded across her lap.
Maybe you should say "hands" instead of "fingers." Yes, all of this is extremely circumstancial nit picking.
And that's all I could find.
So far, out of Hassan and Mary, the former seems more developed. Mary's still an interesting character, but Hassan holds more depth to him. Maybe you could flesh her out a little more in future chapters? I have to admit, though, her being the way she is, it'd be extremely difficult to make her more realistic. I have to applaud you on your job so far.
Well, as usual, it's perfect writing from you. xD Do I sound bitter? Maybe I am.
-Mat