She scrubbed the kitchen table, not so much in habit but in dread. Her back was beginning to ache, but she ignored it all, only pausing to peel off a tiny bit of garlic that had somehow embedded itself in the table during dinner.
The radio was playing – Ella Fitzgerald was on. Ella was wailing in her crystalline voice, screaming of the woes of something, though the woman (her name was Alyssa) wasn’t paying much attention to the lyrics. She hummed along with the music in a loud harsh buzz, sometimes joining Ella in scat.
Heavy footsteps. Door slam.
She spun around anxiously, soapy water streaming down her sleeves. A terrified look flew to her face and she immediately put down the sponge, wiping her hands on her jeans before swiping a hand through her frizzled greasy hair. She turned around to the front door slowly. Nobody was there. Then, through the thin walls, she heard a man and a woman talk – their names were Nelson and Ivy. They were living with together, but they weren’t married. They didn’t want to pay the taxes.
Alyssa turned back to the table, which was still stained with tonight’s spaghetti dinner, and stifled a sigh, though she wasn’t sure if it was out of relief or worry.
She was trembling.
She stared at the table and then picked up the sponge and tossed it into the sink. It sailed through the air before landing with a soft ‘plod’ on one of the counters. She looked around more and then seized a dust cloth, attacking tiny crevices that might possibly harbor dust. She smiled, dusting off pictures.
“Noooooooooooow you say you’re sorry.”
This particular picture was of her husband and her on their honeymoon. They were both smiling. She was wearing a pink and green bathing suit with a floppy straw hat on and sunglasses. He was wearing jean shorts, one arm wrapped around her and the other around a surfboard. Both looked happy. She stared at this picture for a long moment, stroking her hair longingly. In this picture, it wasn’t frizzy.
Her head snapped up.
Police sirens wailed across the street, and sure enough, a minute later, she heard screaming coming from down below. She paused at this, her eyes squinting as she tried to identify the voices. There was a man’s – dark and husky with a bit of impatience ringing in with the usual boredom. No doubt he was the policeman. And then there was a woman’s – shrill, screaming out insults to the hapless policeman. Her name was Bernice, and she lived in the apartment across from hers. She was divorced and unhappy. Most likely, she was in trouble for drug possession. Alyssa listened a little bit more closely, but could hear no other voices. She paused and stared at the kitchen before leaping over and turning the volume up more.
“Why don’t you crrrrrrrrrrrry me a river?”
Her front door slammed open.
With a cry, she sprang backwards. A familiar odor of stale booze wafted through the room, and she closed her eyes tightly, as if the smell burned her.
“Frank,” she murmured.
“Turn that fuckin’ radio off!” Her husband stomped through the kitchen, spreading mud over the floor, before pulling up a chair and flopping down on it. He stared at her with half-opened eyes and then put his feet up on the kitchen table. She didn’t move. Her eyes were opened in a fearful horror. Then, mechanically, she turned to the radio and turned it down.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“I said turn that damn radio off! What would the neighbors say if you kept blasting that fuckin’ music? Do you want them to throw us out like the last guys?”
“Nobody cares, Frank.”
He snorted at that and kicked off some of the mud off of his boots. “‘Nobody cares, Frank.’ Well, I care. And I suppose you don’t give a damn about me. A fuckin’ damn! And here I give you food and shelter and money. Without me, you would die, you miserable bitch.”
She flinched. Then, very slowly she asked, “Would you like something to eat?”
“Are you going to keep asking me that, or are you actually going to get off your fat lazy ass and do something?” Her face paled, but she turned to the refrigerator and obediently took out the leftover spaghetti.
“Can’t eat with me, anymore, eh?” he asked, looking irritably at her. “Am I contagious?”
“It’s past midnight, Frank.”
“And I’ve been out all this time, working, and you can’t even stay up a little bit longer and wait for me.” She said nothing to this. He hunched his shoulders more. “Get me a beer.”
“No Frank,” she said in the same bland voice she had been answering him. Then she turned around, looking at him carefully. “Not after last night.”
His face turned a deep scarlet. He sprang up unsteadily and clutched his fists. “Get me a beer, woman.” She ignored him and turned around, taking the hot spaghetti out of the microwave. “Get me a beer!” He slammed his fist on her collarbone, and she screamed, falling on the floor in a crumpled heap, her body tangled with hot spaghetti.
He smirked.
She whimpered, getting up, her eyes following her husband as he stepped over her and opened the cabinet door, getting out a beer. With obvious relish, he sat back down, his feet going back to the table, and he popped the can open. “Get me some food.”
She wiped the spaghetti off her face, letting it slide to the floor. Then, still shaking, she stood up. Her clothes, which were pink, were now a deep orange. Then, with a scared look in her face, she said, “You’re not getting any.” His face firmed.
“And why not?”
“Because you ruined it!”
He looked bored. “Make me some more then.” She shook her head firmly, tears beginning to well up in her eyes.
“No, Frank.”
He sprang up once more. “Let’s make this easy,” he growled. “I’m the man of the house. I have two jobs that I do every day, no matter how much I hate them. I do them just for you. Without me, you would die.”
She shook her head quickly, silent tears pouring down her face.
He laughed. “Yes you would, you bitch. In return for the misery you cause me, you do whatever I ask you to do. Got it?”
“It’s past midnight, and I’m so tired… I haven’t slept well for days. And I’m so tired, and I did try, Frank, really, I did.”
“Obviously not hard enough. This place looks like a fuckin’ pig sty.” He glared around, then his eyes found the picture of their honeymoon, newly dusted.
She froze.
He stood up slowly and walked to it. He picked it up carefully, and then turned to her, his face turning red. “So this is what you do! Fuckin’ reminisce all day!”
“No!” she cried, but he slammed the picture into the wall. Glass shattered everywhere. Her small face became pink and she raced for the picture, holding the photograph lovingly in her hands.
“I’ll call the police!” she screamed, looking up at Frank, still cradling the picture. “I’ll call the police and tell them everything – everything! And then you’ll go and then I’ll be free and I’ll be--!
A baby began crying in the other room. Her face turned white, and she looked behind her. “Baby! Oh, baby!”
Frank smiled shrewdly, walking to the refrigerator. “You take care of her, won’t you? I’ll take care of myself – you needn’t worry about me. When I’m done, I expect to see you in bed. Wear that pretty lace nightgown, will you?”
She stared at him for a moment and then nodded quickly. She dropped the photograph and raced for the room where the baby still lay crying.
Points:
Time spent:
Canary word: Present
Possible AI signals:
Original Text:
Are you sure you want to delete this comment? This cannot be undone.
Mark this comment as a review? Points will be awarded to the poster.
Your comment was posted, but it wasn’t long enough to count as a review. Reviews need about four complete sentences (at least 250 characters). Try writing another review that explains your thoughts in more detail — the author will appreciate it, and you’ll earn points for it.
125,022 Literary Works • 672,752 Reviews
Ha ha! now i know where you keep it *starts designing an underground tunnel from my house to yours* thats right i know which house is yours! its the one glowing with talent! *evil laugh*
*rolls eyes* I love how you all talk about me like this... I'm gonna be paranoid now and go search the site for all the places my name shows up, just so that I know what you all are saying about me behind my back.
Anyways, I started to read this Snoink, and so far, I like it. But I am so tired and I just can't keep my eyes open, so I'm gonna have to come back and read the rest later. Kay? Let me know if there's anything you want me to keep any eye out for.
*yawns* *locks up her talent for the night in a specially designed safe and then heads to bed*
Sure thing but at a price, what did you think, that i was just going to give it away?!?!?!??!?!?
HA! I changed one sentence which makes this story that much better!
... I'm so lame.
Aw, thanks Sarah! It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
You're not the only one who's jealous of her talent!
I've finally figured out whether the guy is drunk or not... finally. Revised version coming soon!
And Shadowdancer, we women do know how to probe into the manly mind. I don't think guys will admit to being abused, but you can be sure they use the term, "pussy-whipped."
And when you do steal Dusky's talent, can you give me a little bit?
Everybody's already said everything i wanted to say! It just isnt fair. Anyway, without turning this thread into a massive debate i would like to point on to the few very narrow minded people who may read this its not always the man thats at fault. I'm all for woman's rights and everything, i mean i go to a girl's school, i live with 130 girls. It would be weird if i wasnt but i do know that the abuse can go both ways.
Its just most men are to embarresed to admit that they have abusive wives and that a female can beat them. Abuse against men is acctually on the rise, it's so common and its not always pysical its a wive putting down her husband around the children, making him feel as if she's doing all the work and he's doing nothing.
Anyway im getting off track, i really did enjoy your story Snoink, now if i could only bottle your tallent and keep it all to myself. I'll do that right After I've probed Dusky's mind
I, like like JigSaw, found the beginning to set up the story very well. I didn't like the "(Her name was Alyssa)" even if you use it as a literary device to make her name seem unimportant. Because you follow her actions, her reminiscing, and making her the obvious protagonist, her name is important. It would only be unimportant if you took a different approach to the story, maybe telling it through Frank's eyes.
I agree with whoever said that Frank just doesn't seem drunk. You said you don't know if he's drunk or not, but in that case you should take out the "scent of stale booze" because that automatically makes the reader think that he's drunk.
I enjoy your style of writing, because it isn't overly flowery, it too the point, which is probably because you're so hardcore about grammar and stuff. (Holla! Love the grammar.) Great grammar by the way! It was a good story, though, definitely. Probably a few weeks ago I would have thought it cheesy, but I saw a Dr. Phil about women who were abused by their husbands, mainly verbally, and it really opened my eyes to the subject.
I loved the imagery of her falling with the spaghetti, well done, and well done tying that into the title.
I actually thought that the story lost stamina, or...something...when Frank came in. Maybe it all went a little too quickly. The baby was definitely a surprise. That was a nice touch. It brings a lot of truth into the story. A lot of women don't leave their husbands because of the children.
The dialogue was good. Personally I would have liked more interjection of emotion on at least Alyssa's part. Unless, you specifically avoided that, then, I think you should make it a little more clear that you're specifically avoiding her emotion, though I have no suggestion as to how you might do that. He. Right.
Good job, Snoink, I always enjoy reading your work. I like the way you write.
-Sarah
Yeah, way to smash down our critique with sound reasoning. My complaint about the song was to do with the fact that the reader couldnt be sure about wether:“Noooooooooooow you say you’re sorry.” and “Why don’t you crrrrrrrrrrrry me a river?” were part of an argument or were part of the song. Maybe you could put that part in italics so its more identifiable.
You're welcome!
And yeah, you have good reasoning to overrule my critiques. Although I think it would make for a better story if Frank was smashed--he'd be more animalistic, uncontrollable, and certainly more of a threat. Just a suggestion....
Yay! Critiques!
Before I change anything, I have several questions.
Oh dear! In this case (and I probably failed horribly) I wanted to make it seem like her name was almost unimportant. She is called the woman, but then I hoped to pause and say, "Oh, by the way, you probably don't care, but her name is Alyssa" as if she herself wasn't important - the only important part of her was the fact that she was a woman. Perhaps there's a better way of doing this?
Hm... I hoped that, by seperating the sentences would sound stronger? Almost as if I am saying bluntly of the truth instead of trying to dodge it with extra words. I don't... shorter sentences seem to lend themselves better to fact.
Eh... no. I'm hopelessly illiterate, lol.
Lol! I never quite thought of it that way. I guess I don't know that genre well enough.
Or maybe I'm looking into this too deeply...
*sighs*
Both of you complained about this -- always an omninous sign.
The song is Ella Fitzgerald's song, "Cry Me a River." In it, a strong woman sings about her ex-lover. The man, the singer claims, "Nearly drove me out of my head/While you never shed a tear." Then, after a great long while, she gets over it. The man tries to woo her back telling her that he is sorry for being untrue, but the defiant woman tells him to "cry me a river/I cried a river over you." It's defiant really... one of the great jazz standards, and Ella makes it better.
Gr... it seems like, in order to enjoy this, you have to be aware of Ella Fitgerald's repetoire.
I don't know if he's drunk or not... he's abusive certainly, and he probably did have a beer on the way home, but I doubt he's really drunk. I should probably figure out what's happening, shouldn't I? *sighs*
And... thanks for the compliments guys!
Shriek wrote:I thought most of the things in the beginning were superfluous.
Nonsense, they helped to create the settting/scene in the mind of the reader. This is needed in every type of story.
Ah, so Snoink finally posted a short story, I see! I liked this very much. At first, I didn't really see what the entire purpose of Alyssa looking at the photograph was, but as then the story unfolded and the husband switched from love-of-her-life to antagonist, you began to see.
But to be honest, I thought most of the things in the beginning were superfluous. Well, actually, with the suspense you were building in the beginning, I thought this was going to be a murder/horror type story. You know, innocent woman laboring in the kitchen--enter, man with a gun and a knife! It might have been the "Heavy footsteps. Door slam." or the "Her head snapped up." that triggered my thinking. For this reason, I think it took quite awhile to get this story started--I felt like it didn't actually start to gain momentum until she started looking at the photograph.
“Noooooooooooow you say you’re sorry.” and “Why don’t you crrrrrrrrrrrry me a river?”
Were these lyrics from the song? Because, for awhile, I thought that they were Nelson and Ivy fighting... If not, I would suggest you either take them out or find a way to connect them more to the bulk of the story. What is their significance?
Otherwise, I thought that after Frank entered, the story went well. Contrary to your beliefs, the dialogue was great.
Athough, Frank really didn't seem drunk. I mean, I know he was, but the dialogue and his actions didn't really reflect it to the full extent. My suggestion would be that you slur his dialogue, make his actions more violent. You've been around drunk people, right? If not, get to a bar and write it...
And the last part was sad. Especially that lace nightgown part. The entire think reminded me of a modern Stella and Stanley Kowalski of Streetcar exchange. The sad thing is, this stuff does happen nowadays--and quite often. I've witnessed it, and it's not pretty. Alyssa could have taken the baby and walked... but, like Frank said, he's the one putting food on the table for the three of them. So sad.
Wow, I'm rambling.
Anyway, nice job.
*whistles* That was certainly... intense. yes, intense is the word.Or confronting. However, its not perfect. I think there could be some adjustments.
I personally hate this. The name of the character should be introduced in another way. It should be either: though Alyssa wasnt paying much attention to the lyrics. cut out the "woman" and incorporate the name. Or later say:“Turn that fuckin’ radio off, Alyssa!"
Too obscure, although it has impact,perhaps: In the distance: There were heavy footsteps, pounding up the stairs. Then a door slam.
You could make that one sentence; They were living together, but they weren't married, as they didn't want to pay taxes.
Is this part of the song, if so maybe you should make that clearer.
And then there was a woman's- shrilly screaming out insults to the hapless policeman.
Thats all Ive got; I hope it helps. I like the story it has something reminiscent of Martina Cole in it. Do you know of her?