This is just an experimental thing I'm working on- testing out that whole "plan a novel first" theory. I've got this beginning, an ending, and random pieces of the meat written already, plus an outline, research notes, and character files. All sorts of fun stuff I'm trying out for the first time (except for the research bit). So far it's actually working for me.
Prologue
“Is it on?”
“Yes, Eric, it’s on. We’re recording.”
I shift in the stiff maroon armchair, trying to get more comfortable. Crossing and uncrossing my legs, I fold my arms tight across my chest to retain whatever body heat I can.
“Are you cold, Eric?” Reading my mind as always, I nod. “I can turn the air up if you like.”
“It’s not a bother.”
“It’s not a problem. I want you to be comfortable.”
“Go on then.”
A rustle of movement, the sound of the aircon turning off. White noise fading to memory. I can’t remember your name, I realise suddenly. Someone said it to me as I came down here to talk with you, but I don’t remember. Dr. Whitman? Whiteman? Yellowman?
“Well, Eric?”
The words, spoken in your deep and booming voice, rip me from my thoughts, bringing me back down to reality with a bang.
“Well what?”
“I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped. Do you want help?”
I think for a moment. This question has come up a lot the past twenty-eight days. Seems like everyone is doubtful of my commitment to this.
“Yes. Yes I want help.”
“Then talk.”
“About what?”
“Whatever you like,” you say, transferring your notepad to the other knee as you switch crossed legs. Your glasses fall a bit down your nose and you push them back up, studying me with those sharp eyes that seem to go beyond the powers of normal human vision. A few more seconds of silence pass, the wall clock ticking to its own beat. I stare at the plain beige carpet until it crawls.
“Eric, we don’t have all day,” you say, a touch of fatherly impatience in your voice.
“Sorry. I just don’t know what to talk about. Or even if I’m ready to talk.”
“Why don’t you start with something simple?”
“Sorry?”
“Something simple. A memory of your favourite pet. Or an amusing anecdote from school. Or whatever happens to be going through your mind this very second. It doesn’t have to be coherent.”
I ponder this concept for a moment. Something simple- of course I’m overcomplicating things again.
“Maybe… how it started?” I suggest, raising my head to meet your gaze.
“Starting from the starting point… fine logic, Eric,” you say, your bushy grey eyebrows rising expectantly. I shift in my chair again. Why do all therapists insist on sitting their patients in uncomfortable seats while they bask in the wonders of squashy leather?
“You’ve gone quiet again.”
“Sorry. Another place where I don’t know how to begin. We’re hitting a lot of bad beginnings, aren’t we?”
You chuckle, a sound which somewhat surprises me. “Indeed we are, Eric. Here, I’ve got a simple solution: what did they make you say when you first got here?”
I meet your eyes again, my own widening, wondering what tangent you’re going off on.
“Sometimes it helps to repeat it. And then you can just jump into your story. Trust me, it’s a lot more effective than you think.”
I nod and look down at the floor again, eyeing my beaten-up black boots. Remembering constant reprimands about making eye contact, I look up.
“My name is Eric MacAllister, and I am an alcoholic.”
------
Sidenote: Only the scenes between Eric and his therapist will be in second person. There's three of them. Everything else will be first person.
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Canary word: Present
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Hello,
Your beginning caught my attention because the main character, in present tense is very direct. However, I think you will need to be very original and make your character a little more dramatized and unique to stand out from other alcoholic stories.
“Are you cold, Eric?” Reading my mind as always, I nod. “I can turn the air up if you like.”- I would think if it was cold he would turn the air down.
This may just be a personal preference, but I find it exhausting to read entire novels in the present tense. Most novels I've read are in pat, but maybe you're going for that and perhaps it will come together more as the story goes on. I'll wait and see.
Too me this felt like a long scene to say a very short statement. I would concentrate a little less on facial expressions and more on only the very most important dialogue. The chair descriptions were good and you had some excellent imagery, but it could be a little more vibrant.
This was pretty good. The only thing that really bothered me was how you used things like, "you said" in reference to the other person. That got a little confusing, and I felt like it took from the piece. Try using "he" instead of "you".
Otherwise, it was a good beginning. I'm looking forward to reading Part 2.
Heya, hon.
Here is my proper critique, if my handwriting is illegible or you need some clarification of something, please tell me.
I really liked this, and the only thing I think you have to watch for is keeping Eric's voice consistent. Also, the explanation of the siblings was a bit confusing.
Good luck with it.
Ta,
Cal.
hey, the pm about the second person problem was for Ten Years, Twenty-Eight Days: Year 2
Just wanna say good luck. The 2nd person thing feels a bit risky. I'm not sure making the reader part of the story is going to work well, and if the reader isn't doesn't WANT to be engaged in the story, this isn't going to work.
Prologue
Kind of odd--why are they recording?
You had some really good lines there [carpet crawling, for one] but I can't help but nudge. You say only those will be in second person, but still, the resulting first person and the present tense grate on my mind. The second person hurts... his first person I can't much judge yet as I'm not far into the story, but you have to be damn good at that. And present tense is... strange. I've never liked it. You have to make me not realize you're writing in present tense, otherwise it looks gross--if that makes sense. I don't like those things, haha. But that isn't something big, because someone else might think it works well, lots of people may think it works well, besides, I'm only on the prologue. I'll make more sense and be able to say more when I read more.
I like how it begins though, it's subtle, but you know something is going on, and then the last line sums it up for us. I also loved the line where Eric uses "bother" and the therapist uses "problem"--with feeling. It's laughish. Hahha. I know, this is useless babbling, isn't it? But I have to start somewhere...
Hehe, thank you. ^^
None of it comes directly from personal experience. I have plenty of alcoholics in my family (I'll freely admit that my blood is 5% Irish, 5% Scottish, and 90% whisky) but none of the events in this story are directly drawn from personal experience. It's based off cases that I've read about from doctors, tales from the mouths of alcoholics, and a bit of my own imagination.
All of the characters are fictitious, too, except maybe Craig, who hasn't been introduced yet. He's based off of my grandfather, who is amongst the people I dedicate this to.
[/rambling]
wow... that was pretty good... i know its a personal question but dose any of this come from personal experience?
Year 2 >> topic23705.html
Sorry I'm so late... *shame*
I love the ending to the second chunk. It definitely gives a sense that something big is about to happen, I can't wait to find out what.
Um... in the first bit....
I thought this sounded a little bit cheesy...
And I agree with Amelia that "intricate" sounds a little strange. "Transpired" I don't mind, but since "intricate" is in dialouge, you might want to go with a smaller word? I dunno.
And in the second...
Typo. ^_^ Should be 'books on."
In any case, you, my friend, are brilliant. I love this story and can't wait to read more. ^_^
I didn't get as much of a sense of the setting from this chapter as I have from previous chapters; it's like the characters are taking for granted the world they live in. Not to say that they don't, but I like the setting ^_^
So much for "go west, young man" XD If this becomes significant, that'd be cool.
The running bit? I'm rather confused. I know it's just a general statement, but it seems so random after the being drunk at midnight part.
Rawr! I have so little to say about this chapter! I guess now I'm just waiting for something big to happen. In that case, yay end year one!...? lol
Okay, I know it's really soon and I've only gotten one critique for the last bit, but I'm just so eager to end Year 1 and get Year 2 underway!
Yeah, I'm impatient. So sue me!
+++
I fell asleep, having completely forgotten about my life away from the pages as Sarah called it, and nearly had a panic attack because I’d slept past one of my regular drinking times.
I had overshot it by about an hour, which I realised the exact same second that I woke up. Something in some internal clock was going of like an alarm- an alarm in a bank that had just been the victim of a robbery.
Silent yet dangerous.
The first word through my head was shit, quickly followed by a mad scramble into my makeshift den to find my hidden bottle of whisky.
I drank deeply the second that I found it, breathing a tiny sigh of relief when I’d finished.
Jesus, MacAllister. You can’t do that to yourself. Don’t let something like this happen to you again.
I replaced my den back into its monolithic glob as I simultaneously cemented a fresh brick into place. Faux crisis averted, I replaced the book I’d fallen asleep with on my stack and walked out into the shop.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Penny sang from her place behind the counter. I nodded, pretending to be groggy, and leaned against the counter. I rested my head on its smooth surface- unusually clean, but that was probably a side effect of Penny’s obsessive compulsion- and spoke to my elbows.
“Where’re Mum and Dad?” I asked.
“Out,” my right temple responded, sounding uncannily like Penny. “There’s a wee bit of dinner left over for you, I’m pretty sure that Mum left it on the table. If not, check the oven or one of the usual places.”
“Not hungry,” I mumbled. I felt Penny watching me, sensed her mimicking my pose beside me.
“Suit yourself, but Dad was eyeing your plate. You might just go hungry if you don’t eat before Mum and him get back.”
I lifted my head, wondering why the hell I put up with her irritating energy and simultaneously gluing a new brick into place. To her face, I said, “Do you need any help covering the shop?”
She shook her head. “Nope, but Dad told me to ask you to do a spot of cleaning or two, or all the spots that need cleaning for that matter, and would you please check into the squeaky hinges on the front door, please and thank you?”
I shot her a look as I straightened up.
“What? I’m just telling you,” she said defensively.
I bit my tongue to keep back a vicious and unfair remark about how annoying she was repeating Dad’s orders to me. In a different lifetime, I would’ve teased her about her squeaky voice. I would’ve given her all kinds of flak for it- but the kind of flak that just expresses love- and things would have been okay.
But things were far from okay, and no amount of crash acting courses from primary school teachers would come close to fixing things.
I yawned, stretched- more play acting to convince Penny that nothing was wrong- and climbed the stairs. In the kitchen, I pulled my dinner out of the oven and started eating.
+++
There was loads to do when it came to cleaning the shop.
Downstairs in the actual shop itself, the shelves were in constant need of organizing. There were rubbish bins to be emptied, cardboard boxes to be disposed of (or added to my makeshift nest, it didn’t really matter), floors to be swept, new shipments to be registered, a counter to be cleaned off- although Penny had taken care of that for me- and my personal least favourite, windows to be cleaned.
Upstairs was a wee bit less complex and important. There were two rooms I didn’t have to bother with- Penny’s room and the room my parents shared- and hardly anyone used the sitting room, so I only needed to waste a few minutes in there. The kitchen, dining room, and my room were the most important. It took loads of time to do alone- more time than I cared to really bother with since I had started drinking- which was why I was secretly glad for my dad. When he and Mum returned from whatever they were doing- a night out with their friends, perhaps, but it was completely different than my definition of a night out- he jumped right in to help me. I had already tackled most of upstairs and had drifted down into the shop.
“Alright there, Eric?” he called, coming down the stairs. I was in the nonfiction corner, alphabetizing and shelving a new shipment of book son addictive substances- heroin, alcohol, cocaine, and the like.
“Aye, just restocking,” I said, not bothering to turn around or even look up from what I was doing. I felt him walk up beside me. I secretly hissed mentally, wanting him to get away from me.
“How much have you done?” he asked, leaning over my shoulder to see what books I was holding.
“There’s only one box left,” I said, still not stopping my systematic and fluent motions- alphabetize, find a place, shelve. Alphabetize, find a place, shelve. Just like clockwork. Just like a routine.
I shelved the last book and let my arms drop to my sides. Chewing my tongue to keep my anger at my father’s proximity at bay, I turned to face him.
“I’ll let you take care of that then. What haven’t you gotten around to, then?” he asked, taking a step back, out of the nonfiction corner. The way the shop was laid out, it really wasn’t designed to have more than one person in that particular corner.
“I haven’t done any of the nitpicky cleaning stuff. Sweeping, cleaning the windows, details like those.”
He nodded. “Alright, you shelve those books. I’ll do the ‘nitpicky cleaning stuff,’ as you so eloquently phrase it.”
I feigned a grin and disappeared into the back storage room, grateful to be alone. I looked up at the wall clock I’d hooked up just above my makeshift den- mostly so I could know when I needed to (reluctantly) leave. One of my scheduled drinking times was coming up. I took the few spare moments to lock the storage room door and to dig out my bottle of whisky. I sat down heavily on my den, taking the lid off of the whisky bottle.
At least you didn’t miss this one, MacAllister, I thought as I watched the clock tick over a minute and drank deeply. Can’t miss another one. Not something worth risking.
I downed a quarter of the bottle, corked it, and buried it back beneath my den. I replaced the rubbish and sat down on top of it, awaiting the alcohol to permeate my bloodstream and make everything magically better.
It was the same time it had always been. Same time, same place, same damn rap.
Just like clockwork. Just like a routine.
I got up and spent the rest of the night shelving the last box of books.
+++
The rest of the year was just like clockwork. Just like a routine.
April was just like any other month, passing like the countless Aprils before it, or at least the 18 or so Aprils I had experienced. It faded imperceptibly to May, the city starting to feel the first vibes of summer.
I had finally gotten a proper handle on how to make myself and the alcohol talk as one. I managed to get proper control over my life- well, at least that’s what the ever devious bottles of whisky had convinced me to think.
The alcohol was a clever wee bugger. I felt like I was the one in control, but I lost whatever control I had every time my hand lifted a bottle to my mouth. On the surface, I was just fine- the shop was running smoothly, I had my friends back, my family was fooled well enough. And the surface was enough to trick my rational self into thinking that my problems had magically gone away. It was pretty damn tricky. And I bought the whole façade. I fell for the whole song and dance. I was suckered in.
I was a slave to the alcohol.
I passed out drunk just after midnight had changed the day to May 17th, and I woke up and knew I had to get running, and get running fast.
Traditional Scotsmen went west to find understanding.
I decided to go east.
+++
And thus concludes Year 1! Only nine more to go, hehe.
hehe, lying about a lie. Not only awesome characterization but humourous as well ^^
I like Eric's mental conversations (in italics) and the real out-loud conversations. Well done.
*flails* Isn't it just a deck of cards? Or is this supposed to imply that the dad is a bit over-enthusiastic about card games?
Have yourself to yourself? Sounds a bit odd.
(grammar aside: should be "Tomorrow's Sunday ; we're closed anyway)
Nice ending to the section bit ^_^
I think this would be more effective if but time halted for no man were its own sentence.
The most of all bit was oddly worded/structured with the rest of the sentence.
I think some words in this bit could be cut or combined to make things tighter.
What's that mean: drink Clyde under the table?
Reading seems such a significant action for Eric, but we never see any emotional impact from it. Like a character who's always running will probably have to run fast to save the day. Does reading have any effect on Eric other than it being an action to keep him occupied? :has now read last sentence of chapter: huh.
Cement seems such a careful word. Does it have anything to do with Eric's brick wall? That's the only other place it's used in the story, and there're certainly other words that could be used above. I can kind of see it if you're trying to make a symbol, but if you're not, I'd highly suggest changing this word.
Transpired and intricate, in context, sound like lofty words used for the sake of vocabulary. But I'm just being picky
We're almost to the end of year 1! This next bit might be a bit too long, let me know if it is. Too lazy to read over it myself and come up with something else to add here. Heh.
P.S. I love you all. <3
+++
A door slammed, jerking me out of my sleep.
I sat up at breakneck speed- literally. Massaging my neck with one hand, I glanced out the glass front of the shop.
“Shit,” I swore, lashing out with one hand and seizing my bottle of whisky. I dove into the back room as Dad opened the door, holding it for Mum and Penny. I buried it hurriedly and haphazardly behind the boxes.
“Eric?” Dad called out. I smoothed my hair down and walked back to the shop front as nonchalantly as I could, acting surprised to see them.
“Looks like someone fell asleep in back,” Penny teased as she passed me on the way to the stairs. I was caught between wanting to push her and wanting to make up some lie about what I’d really been doing- lying about a lie- but my mind decided it wasn’t going to make a choice between the two.
“How many times have I told you not to fall asleep when you’re responsible for the shop?” Dad said, exasperated. I grinned sheepishly, feigning shame.
“Sorry, Dad,” I said aloud. Mentally, it went more like Well, maybe you should have taken care of your own damn shop for once.
Another brick was drying in its proper place as I sat back down behind the counter and swept up the deck of cards. Dad looked at me, cocking one eyebrow. I stared defiantly back.
“What?” I said.
“Your mother isn’t supposed to know about those,” he said in a secretive tone, pointing to the cards in my hands. I glanced at them, then looked back at him.
“Dad, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but everyone who’s ever set foot inside this shop knows you have these,” I remarked.
His jaw opened as if he was about to say something, but he thought better of it and closed it again. I cocked an eyebrow at him, tilting my head inquisitively.
“Oh, forget it,” he said at long last, waving his hands in surrender. I smiled.
“Care to join in, then?” I said, holding up the deck. He shook his head.
“I think I need to go upstairs and try to figure out a better hiding place for those… anyway, Mum will take over the shop in a few hours so you can have yourself to yourself again, alright? Tomorrow we’re closing the shop to celebrate Penny’s birthday properly.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, we’re closed anyway,” I called as he disappeared up the stairs. I shook my head, my dirty blonde hair falling in the way of my eyes as I dealt myself a game of solitaire.
I should really cut my hair, I thought idly as I propped my feet up on the counter and started playing.
+++
At one point or another, I got drunk alone in my room and threw my clock at the wall, breaking it, but time halted for no man. January was soon a bitter cold memory (as it always is in Glasgow) and February wasn’t much better. Mid March brought a fresh burst of life as it usually does, the plants and trees flowering beautifully. The start of spring found the four of us roaming the city with no boundaries and all the time in the world- so we thought.
It had taken a long time to regain the trust of Clyde most of all. He had long since stopped providing me with whisky and we hadn’t spoken in months. I felt a wee bit awkward in his presence. I felt like there was something I had to say to span the abyss between us, but I couldn’t quite figure out what those magic words would be.
Of course, the shortcut was drinking, which I did frequently.
We still went drinking, late at night and wherever we could find good alcohol in town. We broke away from some of our usual places to try out new ones, but we always went back to basics. We were creatures of habit.
I found out pretty damn quickly that I had acquired the ability to drink Clyde under the table, which started happening frequently. Most of late March is a blur. I know there was more than one occasion where Chester and Clyde had to bodily drag me home. How my parents never said anything to me was a mystery. I had a strange gut feeling that they knew- at least, a strange gut feeling when they were sober- but I couldn’t begin to explain why they never brought it to my attention.
Of course, the alcohol told me that I was invincible.
There were many times that I stopped bothering to worry about the shop. The times when I covered it became endless hours of me staring at the clock and sighing, drawing idly on scraps of paper as I waited for someone to come and relieve me of my duties. I started being short with many customers, my once-endless patience shortening to a few moments, a few words that were “wrong” to me.
Of course, the alcohol made it all their fault.
My mind was slowly losing the battle against the poisonous substances I was forcing upon it.
Of course, the alcohol told me I was perfectly fine.
+++
I had the day off at the tail end of March.
I spent it mostly reading in the back room, at least during the morning. By mid afternoon, I’d gotten a bit stir crazy from being voluntarily cooped up for so long. That, and I’d run out of whisky. So I slid upstairs with hardly a twitch of the eyebrow from Dad, who was covering the shop front at the particular moment.
I laid flat on my floor by my bed. Burrowing under it, I fished out my bottle of whisky and took a deep drink. My hands rested over my knees as I sat up, cross-legged. I stared at the heap of random rubbish I had to dig out from beneath my bed to reach my stash.
"I wonder what all is in there," I said to myself.
"Wonder what's in where?" a voice said.
I jumped nearly a foot in the air, hurriedly shoving the whisky back under my bed as my mum walked in. She took one look at the pile of junk on my floor and sighed.
"Oy, Eric, you are unbelievable. An impossibly die hard work ethic downstairs and yet upstairs you're lazier than Wyatt. How is that possible?
He hands were on her hips by that time, a sure sign that she meant business. There were times when I was younger that my mum scared me more than my dad. That was before I learned how effective smooth talk was on her.
"How do you know that I'm not just cleaning?" I said, cocking one eyebrow. "This rubbish was under my bed, I'm just going through it now."
Her eyes narrowed, and I smiled sweetly. I could see the corners of her mouth twitching slightly.
"I win," I said lightly, and her control broke. She laughed loudly, sitting on the floor beside me.
"You are terrible, honestly," she said, still laughing. I smiled charmingly, trying to calm my pounding heart. Silently thanking a teacher I had in school who gave crash courses on acting, I leaned forward and plucked a jumper off the pile.
"Isn't this Jasmine's?” I asked, holding it up. Its purple fuzziness stuck out like a sore thumb against everything else in the room.
“It is, actually,” Mum said, taking it from me. “My word, she lost this years ago. She was very upset about it.”
“No clue how it got under my bed. Probably Wyatt put it there as a prank and forgot about it,” I remarked. Mum shrugged.
We passed a decent hour or so like that, sifting through the clothes, books, and oddly random objects that had found their way beneath my bed. Eventually, after the pile had shrunk and split into several different piles- one for clothes, one for rubbish, one for books, and one for everything else- I moved aside a pair of Mark’s old jeans, revealing a beaten-up shoebox.
“What’s in here?” I said to no one in particular as I picked it up.
“Open it, silly,” Mum said. I obeyed, tugging off the top.
Photos, figurines, and other random objects spilled out onto my lap. I picked up the nearest photo- it was from ten years ago, when we had repainted the shop front.
By “we” I mean my dad and myself, since Mark and Wyatt had miraculously “forgotten” what we were doing that day. Catherine eventually jumped in to help at the end, smoothing what I’d done and covering what I couldn’t reach.
Look here, Eric, smooth strokes. Big and bold, just like you. Here, you try.
She’d been the one to take the photo after we’d finished a few hours after we planned. My dad was laughing his head off, and I was grinning ear to ear- covered head to toe in paint.
Hey, Dad, look. Eric blends right in with the wall. If he wasn’t so twitchy, we might’ve painted right over him and cemented him to the shop!
As an eight-year-old, that kind of concept terrified me.
Convinced that she and Dad were planning on carrying out such a deed, I hid for the next two days in the storage room. I even convinced Mark to bring me food so I wouldn’t have to leave.
I probably would’ve stayed there for weeks if I hadn’t overheard my mum talking about buying sweets at the store, something she’d said for the purpose of coaxing me out of the back storage room.
“I never did get those sweets,” I remarked to her.
“What sweets?” she asked, staring at the photo. I reminded her of what had transpired all those years ago, and she laughed.
“I can’t believe that you still remember such an intricate story from so long ago,” she said. I shrugged, grinning myself.
“Well, I wanted and still want sweets. Not many kids forget those kinds of things.”
She smiled, spreading out the other photos. All of them were five years old or more. I remembered the story that went with each of them. There was one of Clyde, Sarah, Chester, and myself on the day that we started secondary school, the four of us nice and neat and pressed in our school uniforms. Another was a candid photo Penny had taken of Mum and I standing in front of a family grave at Necropolis- the sun had been setting, causing us to appear as dark silhouettes. It was very beautiful, and the first time Penny had expressed her interest in photography.
I picked up one photo that had ended up by my foot. It was me holding my orange cat that an uncle had bought me for Christmas one year. I named him Teague. He had to live on the first floor, above the shop. Back then, we had a regular customer who was highly allergic to cats.
Teague had disappeared four years after I got him, when I was eleven. I had been heartbroken- I loved to curl up with a book in my room as he would lie on my chest or next to my head, purring.
“Teague didn’t really run away, did he?” I said to Mum, who shook her head.
“He got out one day when you were at school and was hit by a passing car. I wanted to be honest with you, but Dad was too nervous.”
I set the photo down. Truth was that I had forgotten all about Teague. I wasn’t sure why I was suddenly angered at my mum for not telling me the truth.
I was old enough to handle it, I thought with a wee bit more fury than necessary.
I shoved aside my rage as Mum put one hand on my shoulder. I felt five years old again, internally wishing that she would stop touching me.
“I know you loved Teague, Eric. We would’ve got you another cat, but it would’ve been too expensive.”
I nodded. “It’s alright, Mum.”
I swept up all the photos and put them back in the box along with everything else that had come out of it. Shoving it under my bed, I leaned back, putting my hands behind me to lean on. I stretched my legs out in front of me and looked at Mum.
“I still want those sweets, though,” I said, giving her the cheekiest grin I could muster. She hit me on the leg playfully.
“You’re a big boy, get them yourself,” she teased. I donned a wounded puppy look.
“But you’re the one with all the quid. I’m just an underpaid slave, that’s all I am.”
“Oh, woe is you,” she said, standing up. I followed suit, towering over her diminutive form. She looked me up and down, her hands resting on her hips.
“My word, stop growing,” she said.
I smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “I can’t help it, Mum.”
She smiled. Looking back, there was plenty of sorrow, worry, and love hiding just beneath her gaze. I didn’t notice at the time. She must have known then that I was walking down a path to self-destruction, although she didn’t know the specifics. I suppose it was just her maternal radar going into hyperdrive.
She turned and walked away. I waited until I heard her bedroom door close before shoving my massive pile of clothes back under my bed. I followed it with the pile of random rubbish before gathering up all the actual rubbish and shoving it in the rubbish bin that sat next to the desk- the Desk of Uncertain Ownership, Wyatt used to call it. It had been a gift for Mark, but I used it primarily. Mark wasn’t exactly keen on reading or homework, which is what I used the oak behemoth for.
I gathered up the books and went downstairs and into the back room. I stacked them within easy reach of my favourite reading spot, plucked the first one off the top, and curled up inside the pages, lost in the escapism glory of literature.
So the first thing I saw when I looked at this post was "miracle nose warmer" out of context, and it was so random that I started cracking up XD
Because of the saying to warm someone's heart, the "which heated my heart" sounds kinda funny. And yes, I get the feeling that Eric hugging Sarah right now would be a very bad idea indeed.
This seems awkward because one minute, she's rather upset with him (and they haven't seen each other for a while), and the next minute she's in his arms. The joking's cute, but the contact seems rather ~fast. And then she's happy that Eric woke up her mom; like she's forgiving him too fast.
^ should be "bade me good evening"
Towards before the first set of plus-signs,
----
Agh! I must dash for now >< But I will be back later to finish ^_^
ta ta!
----
EDIT: I'm back! Now to finish...
I think this would be more effective if simply stated, rather than his un-italicized explanation afterwards (the "I thought..." etc.)
Personally, I think Chester's a riot. But how did he know Eric'd be at Sarah's house? Seems like everyone's back on good terms too quickly.
Again, I think the brick thing's a little too obvious.
The "I don't mind not going to the flicks" sentence is redundant in context.
Bring on the next section! ^_^
I love this bit. It doesn't seem pointless at all. ^_^ It really made me smile, and the interaction between Eric and Sarah seemed very realistic. This part did a great job of defining her character more.
I can't think of any critique... I really love this story, and with every chapter you write, it gets harder to think of something. XD
Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.
I agree -- this establishes a bit more of who Eric really is. To be honest, I'm quite surprised they he and Sarah were so innocent. So it shows that he really is a good guy who just got into some nasty stuff. We definitely needed this piece to help solidify his character. Plus, it's a very positive entry, and a break from the downward spiral. Still, I have a feeling everything's about to crash down around him.
I really liked how Sarah tried to be nonchalant, but wanted to be with him more than anything, so she let it go. Very realistic, I think.
Keep it coming!
Pointless? I think not! To be honest, I prefer the non-drinking bits. I mean, they're cool and all, but I find these ones a lot easier to read and a lot more relaxed.
As to a critique, I really don't have anything to say. I love it! I'm definetely warming up to Chester, and I really like Sarah. The writing is good and there's no mistakes.
Great first line. I love it, it made me laugh.
Anyway, post more soon!
Okay, so normally I'd wait another couple of days to post more, but I'm kind of excited that I've got so many new readers!
Anyway, this is probably one of my favourite parts. Even though it's kind of... uneventful. xD But hey, I needed to balance out the action somehow!
+++
That miracle nose warmer I had been thinking about? It comes in the form of hot tea.
Sarah handed me a cup of freshly brewed tea and I buried my nose in its warmth gratefully, holding the cup with my bare hands, not caring that the stuff was scalding hot.
“You are such a moron for walking here,” she said, a wee bit of a laugh in her voice. “It’s late January! It’s the middle of winter. It’s cold and damp and dreary and it’s the middle of the night.”
I took a deep drink from the tea. “Yeah, but aren’t you the one who said my best feature was my clumsy naïveté? Or was that just a lie?”
She sat down on the settee beside me as I set down the cup and saucer. She smiled warmly, which heated my heart, frozen by both the alcohol and the weather. I wanted to hug her then and there, but instinct told me that was a bad idea.
“Nah, it was true. You’re clumsy and stupid and sweet and… some other adjective.”
She folded her arms and watched me for a moment.
“So? You’re the one who demanded to come over here and chat. What’s on your mind?”
Oh, way more than I should really be telling you. “It’s just been a while since we were properly together, you know? I missed you, wanted to drop by for a wee while.”
“In the middle of the night,” she added. I grinned sheepishly, shrugging.
“I felt it would be something new to try?” I ventured. Her lips quivered. Victory. I gave my best cheeky grin, watching her struggle to keep a straight face.
“Whatever you do, Sarah, don’t smile,” I said in an overly dramatic, deadly serious tone. There was a brief silence in which I stared intensely at her, still smirking, waiting for her facial muscles to win the fight.
It took longer than it had in the past, but eventually she burst out laughing.
“I hate you,” she said, laughing all the while, which meant she wasn’t really serious.
“I love you too, Sarah,” I said, taking her in my arms. She hugged me, but that wasn’t what was on my agenda.
“Damn you, Eric!” she shrieked as I started to tickle her ribs. She squirmed in my arms, laughing uncontrollably. I held her tighter the more she struggled.
I heard the floor above me creak and I stopped. Sarah collapsed in a heap, still giggling and breathless. I looked up at the ceiling above me. She stopped giggling and sat up, following my gaze.
“Way to go, Eric, you woke up my mum,” she said, still grinning, her amber hair askew and her face red as a tomato.
I apologised in a quiet tone as her mum entered the room, wearing a totally cliché fluffy pink bathrobe.
“What’s all the racket down here?” she said sleepily.
“Hi there, Miz Montgomery,” I said, giving a wee wave.
“Mum, sorry, I didn’t know Eric was coming over tonight,” Sarah said apologetically. Her mum, Nancy Montgomery, waved it aside.
“It’s alright, Sarah. I haven’t seen you in ages, Eric. How have you been? How’s your mum?”
“She’s fine, I’m fine, we’re all fine,” I said in a singsong voice. Mrs. Montgomery chuckled as Sarah elbowed me in the ribs.
I continued small talking Sarah’s mum until she bode me good evening and went back to bed. When we heard the creak upstairs that meant she was safely back in bed, Sarah turned to glare at me.
“You be quiet,” she said, feigning anger. I feigned a repenting child look in return.
We didn’t have the same teacher with an obsession for teaching her students acting, no. That’s a daft notion.
We wiled away the evening watching old horror flicks that Sarah’s dad, Ronald Montgomery, kept in a box in the garage because they held too many nostalgic memories for him to get rid of. Most of them were in black and white with extremely corny special effects. We had a huge laugh making fun of how terrified folks were of those old fashioned films. I got a particular kick out of one film where aliens invaded the planet.
“‘I am an alien life form, I come in peace’ says the man wrapped in tin foil with an upturned bucket on his head,” I said, walking around the room and mimicking the shoddy pretend alien that had the townsfolk running in fear. Sarah giggled.
“Oh no! It’s the evil Eric-tron from the planet Flabtaciglob! Run for your lives!” she improvised in a dramatic tone. I stopped, my arms falling to my sides, barely able to speak for laughing.
“Flabtaciglob?” I repeated, dumbstruck and trying to regain control of myself. Sarah fell over sideways on the settee, laughing. I chuckled and sat down next to her. She scooted closer to me, resting her head in my lap. I stroked her amber coloured hair gently.
“We should make a film about a planet called Flabtaciglob,” she said dreamily, her eyes half open.
“Yeah, right. And it’ll be inhabited by the Flagorkians, who all bear a striking resemblance to Clyde Collins and Sarah Montgomery.”
She playfully slapped my knee. “Prick,” she muttered. She snuggled closer to me. We were silent for a while, neither of us paying any attention whatsoever to the cheesy ‘50s horror flick still flashing its fake “scary” images in black and white splendor.
“Eric, this is nice,” she said sleepily. I broke my staring contest with the ceiling and looked down at her. “It’s been so long since it was just you and me like this. I like it. I missed it. I love you.”
She looked up at me, her eyes full of sleep and love and so many emotions. I smiled, leaning down to kiss her.
“I love you too, Sarah,” I said.
“Don’t ever change, don’t ever leave me,” she said.
“I won’t, Sarah. I promise.”
She kept muttering “don’t ever change, don’t ever leave me,” and I kept repeating “I won’t, Sarah, I promise,” until she finally fell asleep on my lap.
One of these days I’ll get a hold on these empty promises of mine, I thought, leaning my head back again and drifting off to sleep myself.
+++
I woke up the next morning to the smell of frying eggs.
I snorted and jerked awake, one hand going straight to my forehead to run its course through my hair. I blinked sleep out of my eyes a few times and stood up. Sarah poked her head around the corner.
“Good morning, Eric,” she said, walking up to me and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I thought you’d never wake up. I was tempted to wake you up myself, but you looked so darn comfortable on that settee. Come on, Mum and I are fixing breakfast, you’re welcome to have some.”
I followed her like a starving puppy dog into the dining room, waving hello to her mum as I sat down at the table.
“Morning, Eric,” Mrs. Montgomery said. I gave the standard response and picked up a piece of toast, putting it on my plate and picking up a butter knife.
“Your mum called earlier, Eric, she was wondering where you were. She says you need to be home by noon, you need to cover the shop today and whatnot,” she said, handing me the jam that I had gestured to. Her parents were used to me randomly spending the night, and they were also used to my rather impolite morning habits. I wasn’t much of a morning person, although I was pretty damn good at pretending like I was.
I spread the jam over my toast as Sarah came in, bearing two plates full of food. She set one in front of her mum and the other in front of me, returning to the kitchen and collecting hers.
“Need any help, Sarah?” I managed to ask, briefly shaking off my morning coma. She shook her head as she took a bite of her eggs.
“Nope, that’s all for now. Dad had a business meeting today, he said he would eat on the way there.”
I shrugged and tucked in happily to my own plate. The two of us had scarfed down our breakfasts by the time Mrs. Montgomery finished her bacon.
“Would you two have preferred me to throw it in a blender and give you some straws?” she asked as Sarah wiped her mouth daintily with a napkin. I shook my head.
“Nope, solid is just fine. I’m actually not thirsty enough to drink mixed egg and bacon and all that. Doesn’t exactly sound tasty, to be perfectly honest.”
Mrs. Montgomery chuckled as Sarah and I stood up.
“Well, I’d better be getting home. Thank you for the breakfast, Mrs. Montgomery. And for letting me stay over.”
Mrs. Montgomery waved my thanks aside. “Eric, our home is your home. You’re welcome whenever, you know that full well.”
I smiled politely and left the room, Sarah following behind. In the hall by the front door, I stopped to put on my jacket.
“Have fun, I might stop by later if I get too bored,” Sarah said, standing on tiptoe and kissing me on the cheek.
“Please do. It’ll be something to look forward to. Something to keep myself from getting bored,” I said as I walked out the door. She giggled, waved goodbye, and closed it behind me. I turned away, walking out to the street and turning left.
“So I see you and Sarah have made up,” a voice said from behind me.
I whirled to see Chester leaning against the right side of Sarah’s gate, his arms folded across his chest and a muted expression on his face.
“Chester! Hey, how did you know I was here?”
“Your mum told me. I dropped by the shop earlier, but she said that you weren’t there. So I came here to wait for you.”
Something in the flatness of his tone told me that he hadn’t yet forgiven me for my rudeness. It was a very awkward moment, the two of us squared off to each other, staring the other down. I chewed my tongue for a moment before I gathered the courage to say what I was thinking.
“Listen, Chester, I’m really sorry for-”
“Pack it in, Eric.”
I halted, feeling my hopes crash and burn horribly. Oh no. He’s not going to forgive me. Don’t tell me that I’ve officially lost my best friend, I thought in a panic. I stared at him, horrified. He broke into a grin.
“Man, you are so easy to freak out.”
He stepped forward, clapping me on the shoulder. “Stop worrying, Eric. You’re my best mate. I can understand you’re under a wee bit of stress and you’re prone to being a wee bit touchy at times. It’s alright. Hey, I have a sister too. I understand the concept of PMS.”
I punched him, grinning like an idiot. He dodged my blow, grinning in the same fashion.
“It’s okay, you can be touchy,” he teased again as we started walking down the road.
Jesus, I’m such an idiot. Chester’s only playing, although he is crossing the line a wee bit, I thought. Fortunately, it wasn’t quite enough damage to support an entire new brick.
But it was enough to begin forming one.
We chatted the whole way home as if the whole thing had blown over- which it had. Turns out one of his uncles had turned him on to engineering, which is why he was going back to school. He wanted to follow in his uncle’s footsteps, and for that, he needed higher education. A lot of higher education. The way he described it to me was way worse than secondary school had ever been for me. Not that I was stupid, I just had other things to do that tenth level calculus or whatever it is that engineers need to use. I personally thought he was insane. On the surface I congratulated him for figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. On the inside, however, I hated him for even contemplating going back to school.
Which, on the other hand, was more than enough to form and place a brick. Several bricks, to be purely honest.
He left me at the shop and I waved until he disappeared from view.
“Did you have fun last night, Eric?” a voice rang out as I walked into the shop. It was my mum, in all her diminutive glory, from behind the counter.
“Yeah,” I said, taking off my jacket and draping it over my right shoulder.
“What did you two do?”
“We visited planet Flabtaciglob,” I said, starting to walk towards the stairs, nearly dying with laughter on the inside at the confused expression on my mum’s face. I yawned and stretched out my neck as I walked into my room, throwing my coat down on the bed. I dug through my pile of clothes on the floor for a fresh ensemble, changing clothes before heading back downstairs.
“So I hear you need me to take over for you today,” I said, joining her behind the counter. She nodded.
“Yup. We’re splurging a wee bit and taking Penny to the movies for her birthday.”
“Oh, so I’m not invited?” I teased.
“We couldn’t afford four tickets! And besides, we need someone to cover the shop.”
“Relax, I was only joking. I don’t mind not going to the flicks. There’s nothing out that I want to see, to be perfectly honest.”
Mum smiled and elbowed me in the ribs. My ribs are taking a lot of abuse lately, I thought offhandedly.
I was telling her the truth, though. I didn’t mind missing out on a picture show. It would give me a wee bit of time alone- and consequently, a wee bit of time to drink. I was actually highly thankful for an opportunity like the one that presented itself as my parents and Penny prepared to leave, bidding me goodbye as they walked out the door. I paced the store as they left in the taxi I had called for them. There wasn’t much to do unless a customer came in- all the cleaning and straightening and the like had already been done. I sighed, sitting down behind the counter and digging out my dad’s favourite pack of cards from beneath a giant sheaf of papers.
“Never fails,” I said, shuffling the deck and dealing myself a game of solitaire.
Author's note: It seems kinda pointless out of context. But I promise, it's not.
oooo-kay!
Post One (also known as the Prologue)
The first "you" addressing the reader was startling because there hadn't been any dialogue tags yet. Just an observation.
The "reading my mind as always" part I think gives off the wrong idea. It made me think that the therapist really would be reading the patient's mind, when it seems really to be just a figure of speech. And if the therapist really does seem to always read his mind, we'll be able to see that throughout by example.
I was confused as to why the therapist corrected the bother/problem thing. I had been expecting that to be integral to the conversation they then had, but if it's foreshadowing, that's cool too. If it's neither, then... what's it doing there?
I like the dialogue in general. Seems light. Not in the upbeat sense, necessarily, but more in the sense that you don't have to plod through everything to hear what they're saying. It's refreshing, morelike.
Why does the therapist seem to be rushing him so much? It seemed as if Eric paused for a minute and the therapist snapped at him. Odd.
The therapist comments on everything that Eric does, almost like he's narrating Eric's life story. If someone did that in real life, I'd be horribly annoyed.
Post Two (otherwise known as Year One)
I don't know about this first sentence. I think that there are people who seem like the type that could become alcoholics. Maybe this is said in relation to his family? Like it seemed like nobody in his family or in his neighborhood would be the type to be alcoholic?
haha, I like "the rest of one of my lives". Nice ending to a ~section.
I don't like how Eric clarifies that he'll be joining Chester "just like every other night". It seems too much for the audience's benefit, and even if it's not intended that way in context, sounds rather self-deprecating. Which, if that's his character (can't really tell yet), could be fine, but yeah.
I think the part about Chester being overly-pompous is unnecessary and overdescriptive, and cutting it out could make the part about him being cut off more humourous.
I'd say "...staying in tomorrow. Your birthday is a time for family..." because again, it seems more for the audience's benefit.
The mother almost seems a little too pleased that her son is breaking the rules, even if it's just filling in a log book. I'd think that she'd at least put on a bit mroe of a show of being annoyed at him.
Chester is devilishly grinning? He seems a little too... happy? I guess, that Eric is a 'sickly sweet son'.
"Bar hopping" sounds too crass, even for them. Like technical language when there's slang. I believe there's a better term for it, but I can't think of it off the top of my head.
If Eric is Chester's best friend, then why can't he remember the two sisters he has?
After the "There's a small bit I added in here, just keep looking through the thread" jump (I have no idea what that means, by the way? Gonna assume that's you talking, not Eric...), Eric talks about his nightlife, but it seems rather unnrealistic, I think, for them to be concentrated solely on the alcohol. I mean yeah, their destination will ultimately result in drinking, but isn't it usually associated with clubs and dancing and such? Or even sitting with friends? Makes the "skip school and drink" bit seem oddly over the top, even for a soon-to-be alcoholic.
This is a really nice ending. It's very telling about Eric's character without being overly-stated; it's a nice example of showing rather than telling. Good job.
peace out,
-Amelia
Dang, he is getting to be one heck of a good liar, isn't he? You did a really good job with this part. His phone conversation with Sarah seemed quite realistic to me. I liked all the little characterization bits like the way his father laughs, and the bit about the nosewarmer really made me laugh. XD
Great job, I can't think of any critique. This really is a brilliant story. ^_^
Saint Razorblade-
I wish I had more time to read this. I read the second half, and only scanned the first. I really like it though. Your characters seem to have very realistic relationships, and your plot seems good so far.
You really leave people on cliffhangers, at the end of your chapters, or posts. I want to know what happens next, horribly!
Everything flows nicely, and fits together well.
Bravo!
Cabassi_Crime_Family
So... every once in a while I'll click on an interesting title on the "Recent Additions" list, just to check it out. I may read all of it, I may read just the first line. I may critique it, more often I don't.
Then there are times that I run into something like this, something where I don't just read the first post -- I read as much as the author has written, and I hunger for more.
My name is Crysi and I'm a "Ten Years, Twenty-Eight Days"-oholic.
Seriously, Saint, this is fantastic! I am really impressed with everything. Your characters are real and amusing, and you do a great job of writing what's called the "unreliable narrator" -- we read the story from his perspective, but we're not sure we can trust him. Yes, he's more honest when looking back, but I think there's still a shred of denial there. Like how "no one knew." (And yes, later he does admit they probably knew.)
Your dialogue is fresh and natural, and I absolutely love the bricks. Very creative way to tie it all together, to bring us back to the point, to show us the psychological deterioration -- or perhaps the progression into the alcoholic mind.
Very, very intriguing. My only suggestion? (And this is really one I never used until my creative writing teacher forced me to) When you separate words within a sentence -- like this -- it's clearer if you format it as I have, using two dashes with spaces on either side. Otherwise, it reads more like a hyphenated word, and it doesn't flow as smoothly through the reader's mind.
Honestly, though, the rest is fabulous. I am very, very impressed, and I can't wait to read more!
Nice. He's a good liar, isn't he?
I think Sarah's reaction was really... normal. A newer writer would hvae her rush over and try to set him on the right track (like me a few years ago. Seriously, I would've), but she was very real.
I remember reading the last bit in NaNo quotes. It's really funny.
I don't get why he had such a hard time callign Chester. Apart from that, I really liked it. Sorry for such a boring crit, but I couldn't find anything wrong with it.
I'm going through the entire first year right now because I'm noticing some plot holes. So this is highly subject to change once I get everything else done, because once I've written it all is when I'll do the major editing. So pardon any yawning plot holes. And try not to trip over them.
I shoved the whisky and box cutter under my bed, burying them under some old clothes that I never wore and would never miss. No one would bother looking under there. I snuck to the bathroom- for reasons only the alcohol knows- and dressed the cut in my side, covering it with a fresh, hole-free shirt. I took a long look at myself in the mirror. My wild blonde hair needed a trim, and my amber eyes looked exhausted. I tried smiling, and that alleviated the effects a bit.
Good, I can still fake it. The last thing I need is Mum freaking out over me, I thought, forming another brick in my head. Mum freaking out meant that my carefully constructed dual life, my carefully built brick walls, would all come crashing down in an instant and I would’ve lost nearly a year of work. The very last thing I wanted to happen was anyone in my family finding out what I really meant by “going to hang out with friends.”
Dressed, I marched downstairs, doing my best to pretend like I didn’t have a raging headache that throbbed with each step, sound, and iota of light. I didn’t realise how early it was, but my dad was still downstairs, cataloguing the shop stock in his completely illegible- at least to outsiders- notebook.
“Morning, Eric, you’re up early,” he said brightly as I entered the room. I shrugged.
“Didn’t realise the time. Need any help?”
“Not at the moment, but thank you for offering. Later on, though, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind holding down the fort. Your mother has her book club and I have my bowling league to attend to, so I wanted to know if you wouldn’t mind taking care of the shop with Penny.”
A bowling league and a book club. How disgusting.
“Sure, Dad. What time will you be home, because I think Sarah might want me to hang out tonight, if she’s not working.” Working. She was really babysitting, but we called it work.
“Around seven o’clock, but if that runs too late you’re welcome to abandon Penny. I’m sure she’ll be fine on her own.”
“Alright, I said, nicking an apple from the decorative fruit bowl that existed for no particular reason on the counter. I bit into it, the juice spilling down my chin and onto my shirt.
“Are you ever not going to be a messy eater?” Dad said, laughing as he watched me. “Honestly. You were the worst out of all of your brothers and sisters. You had to have four baths a day!”
“Which is probably why I like baths so much,” I shot back, leaning against the counter as I continued munching on the apple. “Reminds me of when I was a wee babe.”
Dad smiled sadly at me. “Aye. Seems like only yesterday I could lay you perfectly on my forearm. Now I have to look up to you instead of the other way around.”
“Thank yourself for that,” I said, scarfing the rest of the apple and throwing the core in the rubbish bin under the counter. “I clearly didn’t inherit Mum’s height.”
He laughed heartily- or so I assumed. He never laughed outright, his shoulders just shook. If he was laughing hard, his chest would heave a bit and he might emit a sound or two. It always weirded out people who didn’t know him all too well. I wondered vaguely how he’d developed that laugh.
I was secretly anxious, trying to stop the sweat pouring down my back. In whatever fucked up logic chain my head was running circles in, it would be conspicuous to Dad what I'd done the previous night. And his interference would mean the end of my carefully constructed hidden life. I didn't need that. I didn't need anybody interfering, anybody helping. I was alright on my own, except for the fact that I knew nothing of bricklaying and somehow had a brick wall several metres thick that I'd built all on my own.
Logic is for the weak, I thought, which made me chuckle. Dad stared at me.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh, nothing, just a dream I had last night."
"Oh really? Share."
"Let's leave it at it involved Mark in a vibrant pink tutu and a Nutcracker performance," I lied smoothly. Dad went into another fit of violent laughter, shaking so bad the teacup he was holding spilled onto the floor and onto his shirt.
"Oh, damn. Listen, Eric, I'm going to clean this up, d'you mind finishing this up for me?"
I nodded and took the paper from him. I scanned the page to see the work he'd already done and continued beneath it- in my neat, perfectly legible handwriting, I might add.
It took nearly an hour for me to realise that I didn’t have plans with Sarah. She wasn’t even in the country, let alone the continent. I didn’t have anything to do that night. But it was a good lie to get me out of working that night.
I spent the rest of the day anticipating the arrival of seven o’clock, when I could finally take off and be on my own. When the time did come, I tugged on my jacket and started wandering down the street- the same street I’d wandered down for years, and just a few months before had walked with Clyde, Chester, and Sarah on my last night of a sober life. It was an eerily familiar scene, only this time, I was alone.
Strange how things fall together- or in my case, how they fall apart.
I stopped outside one of our favourite places to drink, thinking about going inside for a pint or two. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I stuffed my hands in my pockets as I watched a gang of twentysomethings wander into the joint.
I decided against that particular establishment and kept on down the road, looking for a place that didn’t have connotations reminding me of my friends. I didn’t even know if I could still call them friends after how I’d treated them. I’d taken them for granted for the first time, lashed out at them even, and now I was paying the price.
I read once about a wee thing called karma, but I hadn’t believed in it at first.
I ended up just buying myself a bottle of whisky and drinking it alone in a local park, sitting on one of the swings and drinking slowly, watching the moon wane from the starry night sky.
Abandoned, alone, and drinking. A very pathetic scene.
Oh, woe is you.
+++
I didn’t have any contact with anyone for weeks.
The New Year came and went and the entire time it was just the alcohol talking. I wasn’t really there. I was too busy being nostalgic for a time of innocence, a time when the biggest crime I could commit against my friends was nicking Clyde’s gum (which he never seemed to run out of), which was totally forgotten within a few hours.
Sarah got back from America without much fanfare from me. I wanted to re-establish contact with them, I really did. But the alcohol was too much in the way. And I knew that- the poisonous shit hadn’t quelled all of my cognitive self just yet. It still had a ways to go, but it was determined to quell every last stitch of rational thought.
I spent January getting up the courage to force my way through my drunken haze and get back with my friends. I tried to ring up Chester many times, but I always hung up in the end.
It was late one freezing January night, towards the end of the month. The shop was closed and I was staring daggers at the plain white telephone hanging on the wall, wishing that it would stop being so fucking difficult to ring up a friend I’d rung up a thousand times. I knew the number by heart, I knew the voice by heart. And yet I still couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I sighed, picking up the receiver once more. My fingers started dancing across the keypad, seemingly of their own will, until they had entered the numbers as they so pleased and the dial tone changed to a ring.
“Hello?” a female voice said.
“Sarah?” I said, surprised at myself. I stared at my right hand in wonder.
“Eric, is that you?” she said.
“Hey, um… I hate to sound rude, but I didn’t mean to call you, I meant to ring up Chester. Dunno where my head was.”
She said something under her breath, sounding distinctly like “you can say that again,” then coughed and spoke to me.
“That’s alright, Eric, I’ll hang up.”
“No! Wait. I, uh… it doesn’t really matter who I talk to. I just wanted to talk to someone. Well, other than myself, but you know what I mean.”
I got the odd sense that she was nodding and tried to picture her, leaning against the threshold of her sitting room, twirling the phone cord in her fingers as she wondered why her pathetic hack of a boyfriend was ringing her up now.
Shoving those thoughts aside, I tried to reign in my tongue which had somehow grown a mind of its own. I tried to speak like a sentient human being.
“Listen, Sarah. I wanted to apologise, honestly. I know I’ve been a bit of a jerk for a while, and I’m sorry. I really am. I dunno what got into me, but you, Clyde, and Chester mean everything to me.”
I fell silent, my heart pounding in my ears. The alcohol told me I was being an idiot, that it was their fault, but the real me was screaming that I was doing the right thing. And the real me was winning.
“Is that all?” she said in a bored tone. I winced. I’d been expecting a dismissive reaction, but it hurt either way.
“Yeah. I… I know it’s not much, and I know that it doesn’t make up for what I’ve done at all, but I want to make up for it properly.”
Both of us were silent again. I was scrambling madly for something that would convince her of my sincerity.
“Listen, can I come over tonight? Have a proper chat with you?”
She was silent for an agonisingly long period of time.
“Sure, I guess so. Show up whenever, I’ll be here all night.”
I thanked her and hung up the phone. I felt a bubble of hope rising in my chest- things might not be disintegrating as badly as I thought they were after all.
+++
I changed into some halfway presentable clothes, trying to make myself appear as decent as possible. I couldn’t exactly go knocking at my girlfriend’s door and expect her to fall to forgiving pieces over me if I was dressed like I didn’t really care. It would be rude.
Sarah lived only a few blocks away, so I chose to walk the distance through the chilly January night- in retrospect, it was a really stupid idea, since I was shivering and felt like I was coming down with hypothermia the whole way- and think about what I was doing and what I was going to say. I supposed I just wanted to rekindle our friendship.
There was no one on the streets as I walked, my hands deep in the pockets of my jacket, my chin lowered.
If there’s one thing I hate about being cold, it’s the fact that there’s nothing out there to keep my nose warm, I thought. It’s the only part of my face that ever gets cold, and it irritates the crap out of me. They should make some kind of nose warmer- yeah, that’d be useful. It could fit on the face like a pair of glasses, and just fit over the nose with wee holes so you could still breathe-
I was at Sarah’s doorstep before I knew it, and all I had thought about was a hypothetical nose warmer.
I really, really wanted to kick myself.
Hi Razorblade! I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to get around to critiquing this, but I am, finally!
I'm liking it. Your plot and characters are very engaging, but I find the scenes with his family a little dry. I really liked the one scene with all his friends, but there's something about Chester I really don't like.
Haha! That bit was really funny.
I'd love it if you could PM me when you post more, and I'll crit straight away, promise!
Ooh, excellent chapter. Very nice job. I still love your characterization, you're really good at helping the reader get to know your characters. *repeats self ad naseum*
Let's see.... in the middle of the passage... this paragraph, to be precise:
felt a teeny-tiny bit like telling instead of showing, especially in the last sentence or so. But I suppose since Eric is telling the story to someone in the first place, that makes perfect sense. So it's really fine. ...yeah, I have no idea what I'm talking about. *headdesk*
But nice job, I really, really like this story. Cant wait for the next part.
Probably one of my least favourite bits, but my favourite one follows almost immediately. Anyway, if this is too much at once, let me know. Also, to my American readers: A-Levels are a high school exam, part of the GCE's. Think SAT-type things.
It felt like a vicious cycle. And it was. The whisky Chester gave me was gone within the week, and I was already desperate for more.
I had kept one bottle buried under my bed and transplanted the other to my makeshift den in the storage room- it was a huge pile of boxes, old newspapers, and blankets that I'd assembled over the years and the place where I'd lie down to read- which I knew no one but me would dare to touch. I turned my days into routines revolving around those tiny and fast emptying bottles of whisky- a quick swig in the morning and night, and another each time I had to go into the storage room while working in the shop. And no one ever noticed, much to my pleasure and much to the aid of my bricklaying skills.
Before May faded to June, I already had a wall a metre thick, easily. Clyde was more than happy to help me keep my stashes of whisky filled- he nicked alcohol from his mum all the time. Giving it to me just gave him more of a reason to be a thief. And as a result, he was the first to feel my anger.
It was mid August- the month when Emma Collins came out of her drunken and drug induced stupor to mourn the day she gave birth to Clyde. Which made it harder for him to get away with nicking her seemingly everlasting supply of whisky. He tried to reassure me, late one evening when my parents were in bed and the shop was closed, and I was awake anyway because I was waiting for him.
"Lissen, mate, jus' till the end o' th' month. She'll get back tae normal then, jus' hold oot for a wee while more, a'righ'?" he said in a hushed whisper in his very lazy style of speaking, a habit he had when speaking to his peers. It wasn't a speech impediment; it was just how Clyde was around his friends.
I clenched my jaw and didn't bother to look at him.
"What, you couldn't have stopped at Tesco and picked some up for me? I would have payed you back," I said curtly, using a tone I didn't even know I was capable of.
Clyde looked taken aback.
"I didn' 'hink o' that, mate, sorry."
"You didn't think. How typical," I snapped. Clyde stared. I had never shown any sort of anger towards him before. "You never think, Clyde. Maybe if you used that fucking brain your drunk as an arse mum apparently forgot to give you, this wouldn't be happening right now."
He leaned away from me, taking a step back, and looked me up and down.
"Wha's go'en intae ye?" he asked, incredulous. I put down the papers I had been meaninglessly shuffling about and stared back at him ferociously, one hand on my hip in a fashion that would have made my mum proud- well, maybe under different circumstances.
"Nothing's gotten into me, the question is what's gotten into you," I spat. "Worthless friend, you are."
Clyde looked like if he was more willing to show his emotions, he would've cried. Some surviving iota of sanity screamed at me to shut up and apologise to the kid who'd been a faithful friend to me for years. He was the kid who stood up for me when Tyler Fergusson would beat me up in primary school. Clyde was the kid who shared his already meagre lunch with me when I didn't have any, the kid who had stuck by my side as far back as I could remember. I was turning away that friend. But that iota of sanity wasn't in charge. The alcohol was, and it wasn't about to let something like a silly friendship interfere with its clockwork functions.
"I hope you're fucking happy, Eric," Clyde spat in wounded anger. In his anger, he'd lost his lazy pronunciation- a sure sign that he thought I was the scum of the earth. He marched out of the shop and into the night, leaving me even more cold and alone than I had ever been before.
+++
Clyde didn't speak to me for days.
It was unusual of him- he wasn't the type to hold grudges. He'd kick your arse one night and laugh it off the next morning. It was just his way. Underneath his scabby exterior he was one of the most loyal friends anyone could ask for. His undying faith was one in a billion- and I'd shunned it.
And it never occurred to me that it was my fault, and not just him being "immature."
He kept silent about it, fortunately. Neither Chester nor Sarah knew of the tension between us- that was between Clyde and myself. It was a mark of Clyde's faith that he would even speak to me after what transpired, let alone feign like we were on friendly terms in front of Sarah and Chester.
As for myself, I didn't fake the whole thing as easily. I was civil with him, yes, but I was more curt and cold towards him than I ever had been before, even more so than when we were in primary school and he had stolen the biscuit Mum had slipped into my lunch as a special treat. Then, I'd refused to even look in his general direction for three days, until he tackled me one morning and forced me to speak with him again. The humour of it was too much for my childish stubbornness to withstand, and I had burst out laughing.
The whole thing had ended in a three-way wrestling match between Clyde, Chester, and myself, with Sarah jumping in at the last minute.
It was great fun.
And it was probably one of the last times the four of us ever really appreciated the close bond we shared as friends.
+++
My family life wasn’t exactly thriving, either.
I was becoming more and more of a recluse, feigning friendliness when I needed to and keeping to myself when no one was bothering me. Oftentimes, I would lash out at anyone who bothered me while I wanted to be alone. I’d spend most of my time “reading” in a makeshift den I’d created over the years in the back storage room.
This is how I would do it.
I would wait until my dad or my mum or Penny was covering the shop. I would announce, like I always did even before the alcohol came in to play, that I was going into the back to read and didn’t want to be disturbed. I’d nick a few books from boxes in back and read for a wee while to ensure that I wasn’t about to be disturbed. Then I’d burrow behind my head and uncover the whisky bottle I kept safely hidden and uncover it just enough to stick a straw in it.
No one ever knew.
Whenever I was called upon to interact with those related to me, I kept my behaviour curt and presentable, but nothing further than what I had to do. It caused for a lot of uncomfortable moments when the family got together.
“So, Eric, how’s school going? When do you take your A-Levels?”
“I’m not taking A-Levels.”
And the conversation would end there.
I can’t even momentarily contemplate the thought that my parents didn’t notice. They would have to be monstrously thick to not realise what was going on. It might explain why they were suddenly always trying to be in my company- Dad would work in the shop along with me and keep me as close as possible and Mum would try and drag me to her book club like she used to do when I was younger and before I outgrew her in size.
You love reading so much, what's so bad about going to a book club? Trust me, Eric, you'll love it.
Yeah, just what I needed. A bunch of stuffy old ladies turning on the charm for the youngster in their midst and talking more nonsense about literature than a high school English teacher. No thank you.
I hid in the back room every time someone tried to do some kind of “family” stuff with me. Books became my only refuge from everything that I was desperately trying to avoid. I even started hanging out with Clyde, Chester, and Sarah less than I ever had before. I know that Clyde knew full well what I was up to- he’d be even thicker than I ever imagined him to be if he didn’t- but I never knew if Chester or Sarah knew. Had I been completely myself, I would have felt overwhelming guilt at abandoning my friends, my only friends on the face of the earth. But the alcohol was slowly becoming the only friend that I had, pushing aside everything else that I had so that it could take up my entire life.
Some last vestige of me- the real me, the me that had been there before the alcohol had taken over- knew how much of an asshole I was being. So after weeks of isolation, in mid September (to be specific), I got up the bollocks to finally re-establish contact with the outside world.
I rang up Chester to check in and see what the plans for the near future were.
“There aren’t any, Eric,” he replied to my question.
“What?” I said, incredulous. I leaned against the counter of the bookshop, phone sandwiched between my head and my shoulder as I doodled on a scrap of paper in front of me.
“We haven’t been doing much recently, Eric. Sarah isn’t due back from America for another week, and besides, I’ve got school.”
“School?” I repeated, feeling like an idiot and double the prat.
“Yeah, if you weren’t so busy being a selfish idiot in your damn bookshop, you’d know that I changed my mind about leaving school,” he said. “I’m going to a tech school to get my A-levels and then I’m off to university.”
I felt a surge of anger. “Whatever happened to all the promises we made when we left two years ago?” I spat.
“Eric, we were younger then. We were sixteen years old. A lot has changed between now and then. Everyone is moving on from all those childish things we said, except for you. And Clyde told me what happened between you two in August, the last time any of us saw you, really. Eric, you’re going to kill yourself if you keep going like you are. You’re a smart kid, you shouldn’t be doing that to yourself.”
I felt fire burn through my blood, but when I spoke, my words were dripping in ice.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Chester. I don’t know what I’m doing to myself that is so very wrong in your eyes, but whatever it is, I don’t need you preaching to me. Shut the fuck up and stop fucking calling me.”
As I slammed down the phone, I completely forgot that I had been the one to ring up Chester.
It was the second time I’d shown anger to one of my best friends. Hating myself even more, I disappeared upstairs, diving under my bed and digging out my special stash- a full sized bottle of whisky. I broke the seal, opened it, and drank deeply, trying to forget how worthless of a human being I was. As I sat there, my thoughts of rage turned away from myself and out to the world.
It’s not really me, is it? I wondered, a thought which only prepped a fresh brick for placement in my wall. It’s the world, and the idiots who populate it. They’re the reason why I feel this way. Chester’s wrong. I’m perfectly fine. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, except the fact that the world can’t seem to handle me. Pathetic, really.
I shoved the whisky back under my bed and climbed on top of it, sliding my legs under the covers and lying on my back, anger still coursing through my veins. I started thinking about how to escape. How to escape all the morons surrounding me with every breath that I took, every step I took through the city. It would be too hard to get rid of them all.
So I figured it would save time and effort to get rid of myself.
It would have been easy. There were more options than I could count. I could break one of the windows and use the glass to slit my wrists. I could take Dad’s package opener knife and cut a bit cleaner. I could jump out into traffic. I could dig up Mark’s old hunting pistol. I could nick some fishing line and strangle myself.
I sat up in bed late into the night, thinking about it. Narrowing down options. Breaking down the windows would make too much of a commotion. So would the hunting gun. Jumping into traffic could backfire. So could strangling myself. The most obvious choice, I decided, was the package opener. Quick, clean, small, and efficient.
Now the matter was where to make the cut. Slitting my throat or wrists seemed to cliché. I wasn’t in the mood for drastic pain, so stabbing myself in a non-vulnerable place and bleeding to death was out. I supposed I could try to hack through my chest, but therein was another factor of backfiring. I also was afraid I would scream and be discovered with a knife in my chest.
I scrambled out of bed, snuck downstairs, and slid silent as a shadow into the back storage room. I shuffled around, wincing at every tiny sound, until I finally found the knife buried beneath a sheaf of papers on the desk that I’d been neglecting. With its comforting weight in my hand, I retreated back into my room. I kicked some random articles of clothing under Mark’s bed and laid down on the floor. It made some sort of cosmic sense to me to keep my bedding as clean as possible.
I’ll show them, I thought as I slid the blade out a few centimetres, cementing another brick into place. They’ll know now. They’ll know what they did to me, those bastards.
I wonder why it never occurred to me to ask myself who “they” were.
I hovered the knife over my throat, my blood pounding in my ears. I felt my resilience wavering, whatever vice the alcohol had on my brain being loosened by my better judgment. The sober, sane me was gaining ground.
What the hell are you doing? Just fucking do it! You’ll regret it later if you don’t.
My hand shook. I laid there, my hand hovering over me, my divided mind raging a bloody civil war. I battled myself so long, I got bored and rolled over onto my stomach, pulling the hidden bottle of whisky out from under my bed. I sat up, uncorked it, and took a long, grateful gulp.
I woke up the next morning to a hangover and a small cut in my side.
I’d forgotten to kill myself.
Oh, fuck.
Oooh, great chapter. I like the continuation of the brick metaphor, and the contrast between Eric's thoughts and what he actually says. I also love the bit about the birthday biscuit. XD You're great at little touches like that.
I thought the "Don't ever leave me" bit sounded a teeny bit cheesy, but it also really helps us sympathize with Eric's poor mother, so... I dunno. XD
Nice job, can't wait for more!
PLEASE READ:This piece here is actually a short bit I added between where Eric's friends are introduced and where his family is introduced. I'll indicate it on the original post, but I recently stuck this in there.
We had a wild night.
We had at least five places to hit to start off with. Chester and I had a challenge to each other- whoever could drink more whisky shots at each pub. See who had more by the end of the night. No throwing up was allowed- it was an automatic disqualifier. Sarah thought we were crazy.
I beat him the first and second times around- he threw up at both pubs- and by the time we were at the third one, Clyde decided to jump in. Neither of us bothered to even try competing with him- it was almost certain death.
I drank more that night than I ever had before. It was one last fling before Sarah had to leave on some trip to America to visit family or something. She wanted me to come, but I declined. I told her I couldn’t leave the bookshop.
The real reason was that the American drinking age is higher than Scotland’s. I wouldn’t be able to get away with sneaking away to a bar if I didn’t have Clyde’s research to back me up.
But that night, that last night of childhood for me, is such a blur that I barely remember being able to get home. It was the first time that I’d been that drastically drunk- I’d been buzzed before, but never drunk- but it was certainly far from the last.
---
This is the actual next piece. To my American readers: biscuits = cookies.
The cake was long forgotten by midday, and some biscuits Jasmine had dug up from somewhere were rising happily in the oven.
I say biscuits. I should really make that singular. Mark was right; sending Wyatt up to help cook was like inviting a tornado into a china shop. He'd ended up ruining or eating all the dough until there was only enough for one biscuit.
"Eric's own personal birthday biscuit!" Jasmine said happily, trying to put an optimistic spin on it. "It should be a new family tradition."
I laughed. Mum thought it was a fantastic idea. "Wonderful, Jasmine! We could put a wee candle in it and everything. It'll be fun."
Wyatt looked crestfallen. "But what's everyone else going to have? Birthdays are a time for sweets." Penny hit him over the head with a rolling pin, which made both Mark and myself double over in laughter.
"It's your own bloody fault there's only one biscuit," she scolded, looking like a slightly taller version of Mum, which Mark pointed out to me later.
"Eerie, isn't it? Good luck dealing with that," he said to me. I rolled my eyes at him.
"We haven't got much in the way of birthday gifts, Eric," Mum said sheepishly. "But Dad and I have both agreed that you can help yourself to whatever books in the shop you want to keep to yourself, okay?"
It was a present I'd received time and time again, but it didn't bother me. My parents knew I loved books and were probably relieved that they could appease my childhood greed with things they already had.
"Thanks, Mum," I said, folding myself in half and hugging her. I wasn't expecting much more, but I'd learned to live with the meagre. It had stopped bothering me before I could remember it bothering me. My siblings knew how I felt about them buying gifts for me, so they'd all skipped out on anything flashy. I was grateful. Gifts made me uncomfortable if they were for me. I'd even managed to talk Sarah, my girlfriend, out of buying me anything on cheesy holidays or the anniversary of our relationship.
As the day progressed, my siblings filtered out to take care of their own lives and their own business. I was secretly relieved as Jasmine finally gave in on her conversation with Mum and left, hugging me one last time. My arms were starting to get sore from all the hugging, so I excused myself and took a long, hot bath before falling asleep gratefully on my bed.
Oh my God, I've never felt something this comfortable in my entire life, I thought as I collapsed onto my bed, still wrapped in my towel, and slipped into dreams, completely forgetting that Chester was coming by later. Fortunately, he didn't forget, arriving maybe a half hour later than he'd promised, but at least he was more punctual than Clyde.
Dad, thank the heavens, was the one who came barging into my room when Chester arrived.
"Chester's downstairs, Eric, wants to see you," he said, not realising right away that I was asleep and nearly naked. "Oh... er, get dressed and come downstairs."
He backed out in a hurry.
I let out a muffled groan of protest at being disturbed and rolled over, my towel coming undone. That woke me up faster than anything, and I was instantly glad that Dad had left as quickly as he did. I floundered around my room for a minute, fishing out a complete set of clothes from the mess on my floor and pulling them on. I ran a comb through my hair briefly before heading downstairs to find Chester wasn't there.
"He went up to the sitting room," Penny said, guessing what my question was before I'd even asked it. I thanked her and went back upstairs, pushing open the door to the sitting room, which shared a wall with my room.
"Hey there, young one," Chester said from the sofa where he was sprawled as if he was right at home- which, in a sense, he was. "Finally eighteen. Finally amongst the ranks of the proper adults amongst your friends."
I threw a pillow at him as he sat up to give me room to sit down. He grinned and moved the backpack he'd brought in between his feet.
"Got something for you, might want to hide it right quick, dunno how your parents will respond," he said in a low tone, unzipping it and pulling out a brown paper bag. I started to open it curiously.
"Not here!" he hissed. "Go stuff it under your bed or something. Open it later, thank me tomorrow."
I obeyed, burying the bag behind a beast comprised of old clothes that lived under my bed. When I came back, he acted like he hadn't given me anything. We bantered back and forth for a while, eventually turning on the telly to make fun of the shoddy shows until Mum came in and asked Chester to leave because it was getting so late. I glanced at the clock and noticed that it was nearly 2 a.m.
"Alright, Miz MacAllister, I'll see you later," he said, standing up and giving her a polite kiss on the cheek. He waved at me and disappeared downstairs, followed by Mum who had to lock the shop front behind him. I yawned and stretched, letting the telly claim my brain for only a few more minutes.
Mum came back upstairs and joined me in the sitting room. "Happy birthday, Eric," she said for the millionth time.
My word, woman, be quiet, I snapped in my head, providing the cement for a fresh brick. Aloud, I said, "Thanks, Mum."
"I love you."
I gave the standard response, failing to notice the sound of sadness in her voice. I snapped out of the funk television put me in and stood up.
"I'm going to bed. Goodnight."
Mum stood up and hugged me tightly.
"I love you, Eric. Don't ever leave me."
We stepped apart, me again failing to notice the sense of concern and sadness in both her eyes and her voice. I said goodnight again and moved into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I laid flat on my stomach, reaching under my bed for Chester's gift. I pulled it out and sat cross-legged next to my bed, tearing the top of the bag open, which had been taped shut.
Inside were two small bottles of whisky. I grinned.
"Best gift ever," I said to myself, shoving them back under my bed until morning. I changed into my pyjamas and crawled under the covers, asleep within the minute.
Loved this third chunk, as well. lol cake. XD I love the descriptions of all the family member's weird quirks, like Penny's habit of listing people off in age order. It's a characterization idea not a lot of people would think of, but that adds an extra layer of realism to each member of the cast.
I also like the sudden shift from the calm, happy, introducing-the-family montage to the serious near the end of the passage, especially the way Eric describes the article. His comment on the use of the metaphor and the author's writing skill added just the right... sorta detached air to it... and... I don't really know how to phrase what I mean. XD But I really like that bit.
[quote] Catty- which is what I had called Catherine since I was old enough to speak. As a wee boy I had trouble pronouncing “Catherine” so I shortened it to Catty- was the furthest from me in age but the closest to me in relationship{/quote]
This felt a little weird as two sentences, not sure why... the full stop after "speak" sounded a bit unnatural...
Great job with this. *worships you* I really like your writing, especially your talent with characterization. And dialouge, and description, and pacing (which is my greatest weakness XD) and... well, i just like your writing, period. XD Desite the fact that a lot of this has just been getting the story started, I'm hooked. If I saw this in a bookstore, I wouldn't be able to put it down.
Oh, and happy fifteenth birthday. ^_^
I really like this. I'm actually planning on probably moving to Glasgow, so it was cool to read something set there. Anyway the character seems interesting and easy enough to relate to. Unfortunately I have nothing to crit yet, but maybe when you post more.
Many thanks to Angela for the one critique... *pokes the countless others whom I solicited for crits*
Anyway, the next few bits are pretty long, so I'll post them individually. There's not much left to the beginning before my disjointed document drops off, but I'll be lengthening it soon. Woo for more crappy NaNo writing! And a totally cliche family, but it's totally on purpose. ^_^
+++
I rolled over, feeling the claws of sleep slowly releasing their hold on me. My nose crinkled. I could sense someone staring at me. With some reluctance, I opened my eyes.
Splat.
“Happy birthday, Eric!” a voice said above me, teasing in tone. I wiped the remnants of what was chocolate birthday cake from my eyes.
“Wyatt!” I cursed, flinging a lob of cake at him. He cackled.
“Good morning, baby brother,” he said in a singsong voice. He danced out of the room, still cackling as he made his way down the hall. I snorted and rolled out of bed gingerly, trying to keep my bedding as clean as possible. I wiped the rest of the cake off my face with a towel I’d left on my floor. I dressed, did my best to clean up the cake, and went downstairs.
As if on cue, my dad called out as I reached the bottom stair: “Janine, have you seen Eric’s cake?”
I heard Wyatt snicker.
“It’s in my room,” I said, walking out into the middle of the shop. “Someone, and I won’t mention names but his initials are Wyatt MacAllister, thought it would be funny to throw it at my head while I was sleeping.”
“Wyatt!” My mum, Janine, exclaimed. Wyatt snickered again.
“Hey, you should’ve seen him. He looked like a giant badger, what with that chocolate in his hair,” he said. I looked to my dad, who was caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to discipline his son. I grinned at him, and he chose a side.
“Alexander!” Mum scolded as my dad burst out laughing.
“It’s alright, Mum, you know it’s funny,” I said, walking over and giving her a hug. She sighed.
“I guess you’re right. But what are we going to do about a cake? I spent all night making that for you.”
Wyatt and I exchanged glances. Both of us had eaten Mum’s cooking long enough to know that “all night” translated to “ten minutes at Tesco this morning.” Wyatt pointed to his hairline, and I stared. He jerked at me and pointed again. Comprehending, I wiped some missed cake off my own hairline.
At that moment, two of my three sisters walked through the front door to much fanfare from my parents- Jasmine, the youngest of the girls, and Catherine, the oldest of us all. Catty- which is what I had called Catherine since I was old enough to speak. As a wee boy I had trouble pronouncing “Catherine” so I shortened it to Catty- was the furthest from me in age but the closest to me in relationship.
“Happy birthday, wee Eric,” she said, hugging me tightly. Jasmine followed suit, and I smiled at the both of them. Where my brothers- Wyatt and the second youngest Mark- were complete jerks, Catty, Jasmine, and Penny- my fifth and final sibling- were total sweethearts. Dad would call his girls the Three Princesses and his boys the Three Stooges.
Favouritism? Yeah, I’d say so.
Birthdays in my family were always a big deal. With eight mouths to feed and just profits from the shop as income, money was tight. Luxuries were few and far between, but my parents- bless them- always made birthdays something special. Today, my dad had closed down the shop and both my parents had gotten up early to set up a small party for me, inviting only my five siblings and “baking” a cake.
“Why do you have cake in your hair?” Jasmine asked curiously, picking a chunk of frosting out of my hair.
“Talk to him,” I said, jerking my thumb at Wyatt. The girls giggled.
“And now we’re without cake,” Mum sighed, looking pointedly at Wyatt, who was still grinning like an idiot, telling himself how clever he was. I flicked a bit of frosting at him.
When are you gonna stop being such a sickly sweet son?
Hugs and the like circled around as my last brother, Mark, came through the door. Mark was a lot like Wyatt in the prankster sense, only he was much better at it. Much more devious. Had given me a lot of hell over the years. Which is the curse of being the youngest. But the trick was that I was about a thousand times more intelligent- Mark would rather drive a stake into his left eye than read a book.
The tiny store was getting rather crowded by the time Penny finally woke up and came bounding down the stairs, a blur of her usual peppy energy- something she’d acquired at a young age and never quite lost the edge of.
“Good morning Mum, Dad, Catty, Jasmine, Wyatt, self, Mark, and Eric,” she sang, listing us off by age, an interesting quirk of hers. Any time she listed anyone in the family, it was always in order of age. And she would include herself if she listed Wyatt and Mark. I’m not sure how she organised it all in her mind and kept the ages straight, but it worked for her. “And happy birthday, baby brother.”
Mum sighed. "All these people to feed, and no birthday cake," she said wearily. I kicked Wyatt, who had moved closer to me to accomodate the influx of people. Wyatt flinched, which caused him to elbow Jasmine, who shrieked and bumped into Dad, who in turn knocked over a table full of books, which went flying every which way. One of them bounced off my head, making a small cut just at my hairline, and whacked Wyatt in the stomach before clattering to the floor.
"Why don't we just... bake something?" I said, wiping a trickle of blood from my forehead.
"Good idea," Mum said hurriedly, dashing upstairs, followed by Jasmine and Penny. Wyatt clapped me on the shoulder.
"Another day saved by Captain Eric," he said in an overly dramatic tone. I elbowed him in the stomach.
"Shut up and go help."
Wyatt saluted and scurried upstairs. Mark glanced at me.
"You sure that was a smart idea?"
"I'm just surprised he listened to me."
Mark grinned a bit and I felt a batch of warm fuzzies erupt in my stomach. Making Mark smile was like the sun coming out on a cloudy day, forgive the completely cheesy simile.
Catty poked me on the shoulder. "Been staying out of trouble, dear Eric?"
"Yes ma'am," I said in a mock sweet tone. She giggled and patted me on the head. I smiled and took a step towards the stairs.
A strange shock wave hit me, and I wavered in that split second between when my foot came off the ground and when they met again. I stopped, shook off the feeling, and resumed up the stairs.
Man, I'm still dizzy from last night. Oh my God, Chester was insane for challenging me to that contest. I should’ve known better than to let him manipulate me like that, I thought.
I read somewhere, in one of my many sessions curled up amongst books and boxes in the storage room of my parent’s Glasgow shop, that an alcoholic’s mind is basically like putting up a brick wall around yourself- easy to build, difficult to tear down. Even the smallest thought can trigger another brick to be put into place and the person’s defences to become stronger. It was a good metaphor, very operative. I admired the author’s skill with nonfiction.
Little did I know it at the time, but that thought of Oh my God, Chester was insane for challenging me to that contest. I should’ve known better than to let him manipulate me like that was the first brick in my own isolating wall. It seemed so harmless. But as the adage goes, never judge a book by its cover. And living amongst books since birth, I knew that probably better than anyone that I’d ever met.
But did I pay attention? Of course not. I knew my own mind better than anyone else. I knew what was wrong with it.
I’m perfectly fine.
Brick two. Fucking brick two.
They multiply so fast, don’t they?
+++
Wow. Really... wow.
That was very, very well written. You did an excellent job building up your characters and introducing the storyline. The character development already made and the backstory left to be discovered.... it's tremendous. It feels like a story about real people. It's only chapter one and I already care about each member of the cast, I'm already interested in hearing more about them.
And those last few lines... dang. You, my friend, know how to end a chapter. Your prologue's ending was such a simple, yet powerful statement, and your first chapter's ending actually gave me a shiver down my spine.
It's just amazing how quickly and completely you make your reader care about and identify with a character. I've heard so little about Eric, and yet I feel as though I've known him quite awhile. I've seen a lot of first person narration that makes me think... "okay.... who is this guy and why is he talking to us?" But yours is very well done.
As for crit... I can't think of any.
I look forward, only somewhat patiently, to the next bit. ^_^
(Now I really need to be doing that lab report for Mrs. Hell-burd. XD See you later! ^_^)
A small continuation of the beginning, sorry if it's a bad cut-off point. And it's probably mondo confusing because it's NaNo stuff, and well, eh. You can fill in the rest. xD
Year One
No one ever thought I'd be an alcoholic. But no one ever thinks about that kind of thing, do they? It just happens.
I guess it stems back to when I still lived in Glasgow with my family. It was where I’d grown up. It was where I thought I’d be for the rest of my life.
Well, the rest of one of my lives.
+++
“Hey, Eric, you comin’ out tonight?” Chester asked, not even bothering to check if it really was me answering the phone.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Just like every other night,” I told him, an answer he was always satisfied with.
“Awesome. See ya-”
I hung up before my overly-pompous best mate could continue. Best to cut him off when you still could.
I sighed and looked out the window. The sun was just setting, and closing time was just around the corner. The bookstore that my parents ran- and that I’d lived above all of my seventeen years of life- was a quaint wee place. We did fair business, but that didn’t stop things from being slow, especially when I ran the shop while my parents took care of other business. Sometimes I’d have one of my sisters, Penny, along to help me, but she had some kerfuffle with her girlfriends and was too busy to keep shop.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek as I straightened the rows of books lining the walls. Still another hour to close, but I could’ve taken a nap behind the counter for all the good being awake did me. Muttering to myself about rude customers, I plucked three misplaced books from the shelf where some careless patron had placed them after deciding against purchasing them. I returned them to their respective proper places and headed to the stairs that led to the three bedrooms my family shared upstairs- which, fortunately, had emptied out as my siblings had grown older and moved away. One of the few advantages of being the youngest of six.
I trouped into the room my two brothers and I had shared for years- I was the only occupant now- and grabbed my jacket from my bedpost. As I slid down the banister back down to the ground floor, my mother walked in, returning from her book club meeting.
“Hi Mum,” I said, kissing her on the cheek as she took off her coat. “How was the club?”
“Lovely. We’re reading To Kill a Mockingbird, and you know how much I love that.”
“Aye, a good book indeed. Listen, I’m going out with Chester and the guys tonight, is that okay?”
My mum, an easy foot and a half shorter than me, stared up at me, her blazing green eyes burning into my amber coloured ones. She may have been a dwarf in comparison to me, but in her presence I felt a centimetre tall.
“Alright, but you’re staying in tomorrow. Tomorrow’s your birthday, which is a time for family, not carousing with your layabout friends.”
I chuckled, and her expression softened. I’d actually forgotten that the next day- May 17th, 1997- was my eighteenth birthday.
Finally, a bit of freedom.
“How was business tonight?” she asked, walking behind the counter to check the log that I’d miraculously failed to update.
“Better than you’ll find there,” I said, handing her the scrap of paper- the reverse side of one of those day-by-day calendar pages- that I’d been keeping track of things on.
“Just when I think you’re incompetent,” she said, but the twinkle in her eye said she was joking. I grinned.
“Alright, I’m off. I’ll be back by midnight, methinks.”
“Take care,” she said as I kissed her on the cheek again.
+++
“When are you gonna stop being such a sickly sweet son?” a voice said as I closed the shop door behind me. I jumped nearly a mile in the air.
“Holy fuck, Chester. Don’t do that,” I said, turning to face his devilishly grinning form.
“Stop being so easy to scare then. Come on, we’re bar hopping tonight. Sarah and Clyde are coming, they’re just up the street here. I had a helluva time getting out tonight, my dad wanted me to take care of my sister.”
“I thought she was old enough to take care of herself?” I asked as we started walking down the road. Chester shook his head.
“Nah, you’re thinking of my other sister. This one’s me half sister, the younger one.”
I nodded as we rounded the corner. Sarah and Clyde were a ways down the block, Clyde leaning against a street lamp and Sarah sitting on the curb.
“You twose are fuckin’ slow as sin,” Clyde swore as Chester and I came within hearing range.
“Nice to see you too, Clyde,” I replied jovially, clapping him on the shoulder. His forced taciturn expression broke for a moment and he smiled a wee bit. That was the thing with Clyde- you had to know the difference between when he was joking and when he was being serious. The line wasn’t always clear.
Sarah stood up and took my hand. “You really need to stop cooping yourself up in that damn bookstore of yours. You’ve got a life outside of the pages, you know. As in, me.”
I rolled my eyes and she tickled my cheek lightly. I turned to face the guys, my arm sliding around Sarah’s waist.
“You look like you’re waiting for me for some fucked up reason,” I said, and guided Sarah away, further down the street. One of our favourite spots was only a stone’s throw away.
“Fuckin’ arse, he is,” Clyde said to Chester, assuming I couldn’t hear him. I just smiled.
“Hurry up or my fuckin’ arse is all you’ll be staring at,” I shot over my shoulder. Sarah giggled. Clyde looked gobsmacked. Chester laughed.
“Come on.”
+++
There's a small bit I added in here, just keep looking through the thread.
+++
That was my night life.
Staying out until three a.m. drinking, no matter what time I promised my mum I’d be home. I’d been doing it for years. There were loads of places you could sneak in if you were under eighteen. Clyde was the one who found them all, God knows how. But all that mattered was we had places we could drink. Skip school and drink, until we all left school to have more time to drink.
It was a vicious cycle.
I had lied my arse off about leaving school, but hey, at least I had a good cover. As opposed to Clyde’s blunt honesty, which is the reason why his mum kicked him out and he now bunks with Chester. I had a real reason, though.
Ever since I was young, I knew I wanted to carry on with my parents’ bookshop. In primary school, I would run straight home after school and help my dad with anything he needed help with. I wouldn’t even bother to change out of my school uniform. It used to make him laugh- watching me, a wild whirlwind of childhood energy, running down the street with my school bag flying open, eager to get home to work. He swore it was that predestination stuff Protestants like my father believe. He took a lot of pride in telling his religious friends about my work ethic, and how I was guaranteed to get into heaven.
That over there is my boy Eric. Hardest worker you’ll ever find. Runs home every day so he can work in the shop. I have to remind him to take a break for his homework, even dinner and bedtime. Wakes up early on weekends and reads in the back room all day.
At sixteen, I left school since my career was already picked out and I didn’t need higher education and I was drinking and I was sinking slowly into the black hole of alcoholism.
I couldn’t be more proud of him.
Look at me now, Dad.
Are you proud now?
I didn't find any mistakes either, but, I did get somewhat confused by the second person narration, maybe you should try third person omniscient, or something. I don't know.
It's very good, the last sentence is very powerful, I like it! I felt like I was in the room with them too.
Probably when NaNo's been underway for about a week.
I liked this. I couldn't find any mistakes, and the way you wrote it was good. When is more coming?
This is a very interesting idea, and I hope you'll post more. Very good storytelling and dialogue too. I... can't find any grammar or spelling errors, and I'm horrible at critiquing other things aside from general plot, which I already did, so, great piece. Bye! *waves* EDIT: Oh right, and this is for Snoink's Critique The Person Above You. It needs some love, check it out!
I liked how you combined first and second narrative in this piece. I can honestly say that I've never seen anything like it. So kudos to you for writing something new.
However, the dialogue dragged in places. And really, this story is practically all dialogue. I kinda had to wade through the beginning exchange. Want me to turn up the heat? I don't know. Really, I can. Fine then. Ho-hum. It deflates the piece before you've even delved into the actual story. Also, their was little conflict. And a good prologue - a good anything - requires conflict. If your character doesn't have something at stake, the reader doesn't care. This is true for all facets of storywriting. It applies to a scene, a chapter, and a novel in general. Prologues should make me crave more. This is just staccato dialogue with smatterings of description which accomplishes nothing except to introduce yor main characters name and problem.
Your title is dull. But, hey, all titles are a work in progress, no? And they can be easily changed.
As a last sidenote, this particular couplet didn't sound right for some reason. It sounds forced and contived. Think about changing it around a bit.
Anyways, good stuff, this. You are obviously a talented writer. I look forward to more.
-Kylan
It is a nice beginning, but I really don't like the swapping of view points. It makes it kinda hard to follow because I feel like I'm reading the characters thoughts, but they're not meant to be thoughts. It's odd and makes everything kinda read funny.
I like the scene, you told us what was going on without actually telling us. It was well thought out.
I strongly suggest picking a point of view and not changing it as you go.
Brought to by the Cabassi Crime Family
Hmmm, plotwise this was good. I found it slightly offputting the was you referred to the therapist as "you/your". Even though it is stylistically correct, I just wasn't really a fan of it in this piece. I liked the way your dialogue flowed, it was very smooth and pretty realistic. I wonder what is going to happen next....
I really liked this...an auspicious beginning, to be sure. I do think that the therapist was perhaps slightly too impatient? I mean, he would have set aside a window of time for each patient, and he would try to prompt the guy as much as possible but he wouldn't be irritated if the guy wasn't talking.
Anyway, a really nice piece so far! I'm interested to see where it leads.
Yours most truly,
Mademoiselle Kool
Ok, you have a good start here, although if he is now going to start telling a story, the whole scene with a therapist is a tenny bit cliche...unless in the next part you turn it around completly?
anyway, it was good i enjoyed it just one thing...you said that the therapist got a little impatient, they wouldn't get impatient with peole - it is their job to sit and listen to people and give them time
Anyway, good luck with this!!!
Meevs
x
I liked this peice! It didn't really have anything that I could see that needed fixing, as far as grammer and stuff. I really liked the ending of this peice, but I'm not sure what to think of the beginning. Like SassyLady said ^_^ it was kinda difficult to understand. Anyways, I thought this was great! Keep it up!
That was interesting! And you said "aircon" instead of air conditioner? And I liked the tone although I do beleive from the first paragraph its different, but I'm not sure. Over all I think its a great begging and I can't what to see more.
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p.s.- mind giving me a review