Old Man
I killed a lamb last week. Paula was stuffing a hind leg with garlic cloves and rosemary stalks. Her sleeves up and hair tied in a summer knot, clad for both the garden and the kitchen. I had nothing to do these days, not since I retired. Today I read my book and the paper, the sport and business, then tore it up and used it to light the fire.
My daughter and her Chink fiancé were on the way for dinner and the night. Kate had called my wife a week ago. She travelled Europe with him and he had taken a knee under the Eiffel tower. Again, her little voice came down the line from Auckland airport before they started the drive down. Paula guessed they would probably be here by seven.
***
I thought about the kill, the lamb's helpless eyes came in focus. Always the same, the body hunching over itself, the head flapping back. Years ago it wasn't that easy.
“Who’s that coming up the drive,” Paula called from the kitchen, snatching me from daydream. I watched the car through the blinds, a silver, slick, Jap model with small wheels. A firm knock came at the door. I placed my glasses on the kauri table in the den and moved to the foyer. Paula held the door and my daughter shuffled in with a suitcase, then she moved into Paula's arms and tears started at the corners of her eyes. Her hands moved up and down Paula’s back then she stepped towards me.
"Dad," she said, warmly taking my arms around her waist.
He came through, case under a lean taut arm. He pulled my wife in introducing himself, then grinned and stretched out his hand. I took it. His dark pupils slyly found mine, and his grip was firm. Skin stretched across the hard, hair-free cheek bones. Swept across his forehead, a black fringe fell.
“Ung-So, it’s lovely to meet you Mr. Phillips.”
“Call me Tatai,” I said, pressing the door closed.
He carried a woman’s scent, perhaps it came from my daughter.
Kate put her notebook computer on the dinner table and, undistracted by the languid strokes of my carving knife, they all watched. With every click, my wife Ooh’d and Aah’d at the photographs of grand churches and those ghastly pyramids outside the Louvre. We had seen most of it, but that was a long time ago now. From a long neck, the boy’s head hovered over my daughter's shoulder, lips licked, mouth in a sappy half-grin.
“It’s all ready, do you want to start serving up, Paula?” The plates were set at the table, piled with a steaming mess of veg-garden and home-kill. Using my oak cane for support, I gently lowered myself onto the chair. Then Paula, swift like a lioness, batted my hand, caught half way to the gravy.
“You know you can’t touch that, not with your heart.” I slowly retracted, lips tight keeping the frown inside. The Chink gobbled down the entire meal as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“You can eat, boy.”
“Oh, ah, thanks.” He paused to swallow a mouthful of water. Kate and Paula glared at me with eyebrows high, and noses creased. Looking at me like that, they could have been twins, if you tightened Paula’s skin and took my daughter's colour, I mean.
“This is a lovely house you have, Mr. Phillips.”
“I built most of it myself.”
“Oh that’s interesting; Kate mentioned you’re a bit of a handyman.”
“Well I wouldn’t go so far as to-“
“-Don’t be modest, Tatai. You know he did most of the electrical fittings and plumbing himself too.”
“Oh wow, that’s amazing.” The boy exaggerated.
“So where are you from, boy?”
“Wellington, Sir,” he said, then forked a few more slices of lamb.
“OK, but where were you from?” The girls stopped eating in my unfocussed outer gaze, I could feel the same look from them; this time they held it a little longer. I revealed my wrists and lifted my brow, as if to ask ‘What?’
“Originally, my parents came from Korea.”
“Korea,” I thought a moment and continued, “And what brought you to our great country?” His gaze moved to my daughter, and a dopey grin started at the edges of his mouth.
“I guess my parents just realised how amazing this country really is.”
“Compared to?”
“Korea.”
“Oh, well I haven’t been to Asia since the Vietnam war, so I wouldn’t know.” Kate’s knife and fork clanked against the china and that look came again.
“Who wants pudding?” Paula asked as she swiftly stood, forcing her seat into a slide.
Silence lingered and when Paula returned from the kitchen, she brought with her a sweet cinnamon scent wofting from a dish of crisscrossed pastry and sliced apple. She served it up and heaped the whipped cream into all the bowls except mine.
“So what was your favourite city of the trip?” Paula asked, turning to the boy. He eyed Kate, then with spoon in one hand and scratching along his jaw with the other, he spoke.
“Paris was definitely my favourite place.”
“Oh how wonderful. Tatai and I stayed in Paris for a week when we were younger. I loved it, so beautiful.”
“I didn’t care much for it,” I said, between hot mouthfuls.
“And are you going back to work?" my wife continued, glancing away my input with the roll of her eyes.
“Next week, that’s the beauty of my job, I can go back to practicing at any time, really.”
“So Dad, how is retired life?” Kate started.
“It’s fine, I don’t have much to do now. I just walk about the farm, shooting the rabbits.”
Kate pushed me with more questions about retired life and asked about her aunts and uncles. I took a moment to let my gut catch up to my mouth, glancing down at the half-full bowl, then over at the boy's dry bowl. He dropped his spoon against the china and his eyes finding Paula.
“That was a delicious pudding Mrs. Phillips, and the dinner was amazing too.”
“And most of the veg’s are from my garden,” Paula boasted, lines seaming from the edges of her eyes. She then dashed around collecting the plates and offered my daughter and the boy a glass of wine. Kate asked,
“I’ll have a red, Merlot if you have it? Do you want a glass of water, Hun?”
“Yeah I will have water, if you don’t mind?”
Conversation continued at the dinner table for a short while longer. I added my thoughts occasionally but, I couldn’t speak without letting my lip curl and eye’s narrow. He laughed too loud. I found myself staring at his wrists,I could see them snapping back under an armload of firewood or a summer bale. And his body, tapered in at the hips.
With every joke, my wife threw back her head in a snort of laughter and each time I neglected to laugh, my daughter gave me that look, staring at me like a hideous slug was moving along the ridge of my nose.
“We should take care of these dishes,” my wife finally said, bringing conversation to a halt.
They disappeared with the plates in the kitchen and Paula called, “Why don’t you take Ung-So on the grand tour, Tatai?”
I stood with cane in hand. “Come on then.”
His face washed with wide-eyed-confusion, and then he stood following my silent trail. I moved through the foyer, taking my daughter’s suitcase as I passed. In my wake he skulked. Flicking lights on and off as we went, I showed him the den, the TV lounge, the guest bedroom and ensuite, and finally the pool room, noting it was once Kate’s nursery.
We reached the crest of the steps after a few careful half strides and his Chink hand occasionally pressed on my lower back.
“That one’s our room,” I said, pointing at the first door. We moved up the hall, I reached in to the next room and found the light switch. “This is Kate’s old room.”
Shirtless men, crudely cut, still tacked to the wall. I watched the boy, running his gaze along her bookshelf library, Wolfe and Picoult, well read by age ten. He scanned the framed and hung sepia-tone memories of high school balls - being head girl, she attended several. Strung from the wall, above her pink bed, her ballet shoes fell. We stood, shoulders almost touching, staring at the only photo unstained by sunlight. Our little girl jammed beneath my shoulder. Held in one arm was a framed degree and in the other her mother’s waist. All grins, all those years ago.
“Wow Kate’s hair was so long.”
“Yeah,” I said without effort, though he may have heard it uncouth.
I lead him to the deck, overlooking the farm. From the hills, washed in receding pine, to the gully, dotted with a moonlit flock. I jerked my head, before I walked down the stairs. The girls sat with a teapot and cups. Paula’s eyes found mine, her head tilted toward the den, a tacit command.
“Have a seat.”
He fell into the red leather antique and stared at the open fire. I walked to my father’s old sideboard and poured a couple of fingers of whiskey.
“You want a whiskey, boy?”
His back straightened.
“No thanks, I don’t drink.”
I winced as my rusty knees finally bent. The fire casted dancing figures around the walls and the boys’ eyes were dark, shadowed like canyons.
“Can I ask you something, sir?” he began. I swallowed a taste of whiskey and nodded. “Oh-” he paused and his eyes moved from the licked flames to mine, “Actually, it’s nothing.” The cool glass trembled softly in my hand and I sucked a wheezy chest of air.
He sat stiff, then unbuttoned his shirt collar, and hunched over his knees. A small glistening silver chain fell, spinning and rocking. He quickly snatched it back in his shirt.
“You a Christian, Boy?” I watched him with a firm glare, and my heart came on fast. The weight in my throat cleared with a pat on the chest and a hard cough. “Why did you hide it away?”
Somewhere beyond the flames he stared, eyes unfocussed, vacant.
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You don't know why you're ashamed of it or if you’re a Christian?”
"I ah-" he began but stopped, swallowing the words, his eyes stayed still, voided by the flames allure.
He let it slip and I watched it twist and bounce, shining and twirling against the light. Suddenly, I was conscious of my own crucifix, I quickly ran my hand over it like a tongue over a capped tooth and again the lamb's cold helpless eyes flashed. The last jolts of life. The thudding organic metronome coming fast, then not at all.
Together we stared through the flames. The fire cracked and spat sparks against the grill, the popping and rustling grew so loud I couldn’t hear my thoughts. I heaved myself from the chair. The last finger of whiskey went down in one mouthful and I walked behind my seat, leaving the boy steeped in fire light.
Points:
Time spent:
IP address:
Canary word: Present
Possible AI signals:
Original Text:
Are you sure you want to delete this comment? This cannot be undone.
Mark this comment as a review? Points will be awarded to the poster.
Your comment was posted, but it wasn’t long enough to count as a review. Reviews need about four complete sentences (at least 250 characters). Try writing another review that explains your thoughts in more detail — the author will appreciate it, and you’ll earn points for it.
137,524 Literary Works • 672,040 Reviews
Great narration by the old man. You did a great job on keeping his voice consistent and as a result, characterizing him further by how he perceives.
I found the piece anti-climatic. You built everything up with the tense dinner and then the unexpected venture of Tatai and Ung-so, yet there was no escalation despite their conversation about Ung-so's covering of his Christianity and Tatai's own religiousness.
This is where I might start to ramble:
Now, I saw the ending as Tatai's own realization that he and Ung-so, despite Tatai's prejudices due to his Korean descent, are similar in their Christian faith. But, I find that this realization goes deeper. I found that the first line, "I killed a lamb last week," was an allusion to the sacrificial lamb of Christianity. The father's time in the Vietnam war was a sacrifice. We don't know what he was like before the war, but we know that he has been emotionally effected. He seems isolated and alone as shown by his hobbies of walking around the farm and shooting rabbits and he's retained a racist attitude towards Asians that he holds very firm. Yet, the old man sees this similarity between him and Ung-so, their shared Christianity. And then Tatai reveals to him that he too is a Christian. As the reader, I see this as Tatai's sacrifice coming full circle. Tatai, unknowingly, sacrificed himself for the future, and this dinner with Ung-so marks his encounter with not only his daughter's freedom, but the freedom of a Christian from East Asia.
Now that was a fun interpretation. Did I get the killing-of-the-lamb part right?
Thanks
-Adam
I love your work! It is very good. Although I would like to include a quote.
"You don't want me to read what you wrte. For either way I will hate it. Even if it's any good I'll have wish I had wrote it myself. Therefore, I would hate it." The Character "Hemingway" in Woody Allen's a Midnight in Paris
That's really all I have to say other than thank you. Thank you for putting this up so that many others may enjoy it as much as me. Keep on writing.
--Maya
Hey Paul, thanks for the comments on The Shed. Could you please read the story and comment? The formatting should be fixed in my reply post. I've come here to return the favor. I've read your piece, Old Man, and would like to offer some help and general impressions. Here we go:
I'm not excellent in terms of Grammar, probably average at best, so I'll leave the nit-picky grammatical errors to you and prior reviewers. I think I have a better grasp on the flow of a work and individual sentence power, or lack thereof. With that being said, here are a few sentences and or passages that I believe stand out.
The good:
1.
Excellent, just fantastic. I flew threw this passage like it was gravy. It flows well, it provides the reader with a great description of the daughters room and a little bit about her previous life, which is good... but who is she now? The first sentence is interesting, if only for the reason that the Korean should have no reason whatsoever to help Tatai from not falling. Does Tatai cringe at his touch? Does he recoil with horror? Why is it that he continues to use racist terms in his head? It's almost like he's trying to reassure himself of his prejudices... and interesting topic and idea! The dialogue in the middle is great. It's direct, right to the point and downright honest as hell. I can picture it all happening. Now the last passage, the descriptive paragraph about the daughter's room, was the best part. Again, it flowed nicely, it gave a good vision of the room, a good feeling of abandonment in the room, since everything is stained by the sunlight, in essence faded, just like the relationship between father and daughter. A shrine to their daughter, who seemed to be a good student... with the whole degree picture on the wall... does this tell the reader anything about her? What is it trying to tell us about the daughter? The our little girl jammed beneath my shoulder is a very clever sentence, and one that I think is very original in terms of crafting pictures with words, it suggests that maybe the father was a bit pushy since he's jamming her into his shoulder as opposed to holding her nice and softly. A nice finish with the last sentence, a good way to wrap up the description/reverie for the father. Great work there.
2.
A good sentence and well placed. There's always a moment of awkwardness when situations come to a head like the one described at the dinner table. The dialogue itself is a break from the tension and provides a good description of just who Paula is. Mom's are typically caretakers, not all of course, but it's not a far stretch of the imagination to have a mom who just wants everyone to get along and who wants her daughter to be happy. The hurried interjection from Paula is typical of mom behavior; I've been in similar situations, and I can attest to the situation's validity. The seat sliding is a nice finish. What started as a mom just wanting to make everyone happy is covered by an obvious uncomfortable noise, showing that you've added a slight and indirect method of making the silence more uncomfortable for everyone, thus picking up tension again. A good sentence and well thought out. Nice work.
The not so good:
1.
A sentence that has little effectiveness. It's grammatically incorrect, but more than that, it's rushed and seems like you were kid of lazy in placing the back story for this character. It's understandable that you would like to inform the reader of who your protagonists family is, and of his prejudices, but you've gone through it too fast. If you're going to just give a cursory glance at something, usually best practice is to elaborate, or just leave it out, especially when it's an indirect way of describing the main character. Take some time and really let the reader know who the daughter is too, how the father disapproves. During the story, there's not really any description of who the daughter is now, nothing really about her and why she took a Korean man for her husband. Was she aware of her dad's prejudices? I seems like maybe she did, with the slug comment towards the end of dinner, but it doesn't really tell much other than she probably knows he's racist. Did she do it to spite him? Who is she?
2.
A weak passage that's again rushed through. What does he practice? Do you think a mom would just stop asking questions after such a response? I believe a mother would be much more inclined to know about what her son-in-law does. I think the dad, knowing he's looking for things to not like about this man, would also like to know what he does, if only to support and justify his distaste for Ung-So. I think Kate would also try to support and help her parents get to know Ung-So, again, if only to justify why she has married him. Is there a silent battle going on between father and daughter? Is the mother trying to mediate? How uncomfortable is Ung-So? Why is he acting so confident? Does he know about Tatai's prejudices? Is he ignorant of them? Has Kate purposely kept this from him? Is there a reason why she would keep it from him? The dinner conversation started with tension, but this sentence breaks it all down, makes the previous passages much less effective.
Overall impressions: The story itself flowed nicely, with only intermittent distractions from the story. It kept good focus and was not riddle with inner dialogue, which could have been overwhelming in a story about a somewhat closet racist, like Tatai. Good work there. The characters were a bit unbalanced though. I think that Tatai and by proxy and from the few comments she made, Paula were well done. Kate was given a back story, but not really anything about who she is now. Again, why did she do this if she knew of her father's prejudices? Ung-So was given a few lines at dinner, but really nothing of substance about how he is, except for of course the christian symbolism at the end with the crucifix. Who is he? Why is he a Christian? What is he going to ask? Would he ask it if he knew that Tatai was also a strong Christian? For that matter, is Tatai a strong Christian? Does Tatai suddenly change his mind about how he feels about Ung-So because he is Christian? Sorry for all the questions, but it feels that they are necessary for me to understand who these characters are. I need to know more about them before I can relate. I can try to relate to the situation, but other than that, I have no bridge to two of the characters, I don't know who they are, and therefore I don't care about them as much as maybe I should. The middle of the story was well written, especially starting with the grand tour and leading up the the question that Ung-So is wanting to ask. After that though, it kind of derails. I understand that you want to promote an idea about tolerance and understanding, of loving one another despite whatever may have happened and whatever prejudices people may have, but it's kind of a cop-out. It's just like saying: "Tatai's racist, he mistrusts this person for numerous reasons, mostly personal", which we don't really know, "but he finds out he's a Christian, so now he's ok with him." The ending negates the entire previous part of your story. Does a man so embittered with racism which is somewhat inferred to the vietnam war really come to understanding that quickly? Is a Christian man so easily such a large racist? If he truly was so intolerant and a Christian, do you think he would be accepting of this boy, regardless of his race? He's a Christian, but he's still a racist, so logically, regardless if the boys a Christian shouldn't matter, he'd still be racist against him. You see that right? If you're trying to write a fable-esque tale about tolerance, then maybe it should teach a lesson. I haven't learned any lesson from this ending, it just seems to say that you shouldn't judge a book by it's cover, forgive the cliche, but I think most people already know that, right?
The story has very interesting subject matter, you just need to expand on the characters and think about what you're trying to convey with the ending. It's building up to something. What is it?
Hope this helps
MPM 9/26/2011
Hi Joshua,
I know it's been a real long time since I said I'd review this for you, but between the start of school and now, I have had a really tough time balancing YWS and writing life with my hectic 19 credit 1st semester of college. Anyhow, I am finally a little ahead of the game and am ready to review.
The truth of the matter is that I am woefully ignorant about most of the thematic matter that your story deals with. I know very little about Christianity, and I admittedly don't understand your lamb metaphor to the fullest. That said, I am going tell you what I see here and my opinion on it.
You introduce the father as a slaughterer of the innocent. Weak and helpless, the lamb represents the perfect victim. Parallel to this, the father preys on his daughter's fiance, a Chinese man who wants to impress his soon to be in-laws, and so can not defend himself against the father's aggressive onslaught.
You then proceed to expose several examples of the narrator's attitude toward his future son-in law. You continue to refer to the boy as "the boy", highlighting his innocence. You also are careful to note his eagerness and desperation to try to get Mr Phillips to like him.
Finally, you bring forward the crucifix as a theme. This seems to be a symbol that demands repentance or at least signifies it in some way. Your narrator begins pointing fingers at the validity of the fiance's Christianity, before realizing his own is flawed, and repenting in his mind by accepting the boy.
Now, in the review above mine, Rosey said your story is lacking in tension. I disagree. I think the tension is here, but is hidden. It is a result of the conflict between the reader and the narrator. I do however think it needs a little more prominence. Of course, your desire to make this scene ring as true as possible and to make the narrator seem as sane as possible makes highlighting this conflict a little more difficult. I suggest you do this by giving the boy a little more airtime, observing his consistent strong personality. The change needs to be very subtle, though.
Your characters are vivid and distinct. They work well together.
Your transition between narration and dialogue is often clunky. I'll give a couple of examples:
This really bothered me when I read it. Both Kate and her fiance are asking way too many questions here. Having Paula offer the daughter and boy a glass of wine without dialogue and then rebooting the dialogue again for the reply reads horribly. Also, do you know much about wine? Kate would probably just ask for a Merlot. Merlot is red by standard. White Merlot has only been around since the 1990s and is not as common. If you want to make her picky about her wine, at least have her know what she's talking about. Also, Kate didn't ask "I'll have a red merlot", she said it.
Now this piece here just jerks me out of the story. Since I have no idea what he wanted to ask, my attention is pulled away. I think you should make what he wants to say clearer.
Overall, I liked this piece. It's beautifully written and well crafted. It would help if I didn't feel like my lack of knowledge about Christianity wasn't affecting my understanding of this, though.
Those are my thoughts, and it's 1:30 am so I'm going to get to sleep. Hope they help some.
Have a good one!
Hello.
I would like to ask you flatly: What is the point of this piece?
You have a few cutout characters who aren't even given proper attribution (I couldn't tell who was speaking half the time) and just talk. Your language is vague at best; several words I had to Google or completely guess at meaning because they were so steeped in slang that somebody from another area probably wouldn't understand what you were talking about very well, and there's no extra context to give us that desperately needed definition. It's the slang word, then the story is gone in another direction.
Your first few paragraphs were boring and rather difficult to get through; I'd been trying to continue reading past them the past few hours, and I always got distracted. There was no reason to keep reading. No conflict. No thoughts from the character as to why we should care about this situation. Actually, let me rephrase that. There was no situation to care about because of how long you dragged on what was happening. When writing a short story, you must remember the importance on beginnings and how to use them to your advantage.
The lack of conflict continued for the rest of the piece. You had hints. Buried deep under your dinner scene that gave me just enough implications of something rich that I wanted to rip the conflict out of the story and leave all of the extra— the narration, the dinner, the descriptions— behind, and just read about the conflict. But in order to do that, you need to cut this down. Give characters names, personalities, speaking styles, thoughts (especially your narrator, whom I often forgot was a first person narrator because of how little he observed anything in his own voice). Cut everything unneeded. 90% of this story is unneeded, in my opinion. All I see as important is your initial distaste of the "chink", the line about his wrists being so think they could break under firewood, and your mention that the narrator's daughter was also the chink's (but if only you spent more time on that, diving into the root of the conflict and actually having him comment on what he felt about this and what sort of horrible mistake his daughter was making). These are details. These give some sort of emotion, some flesh and blood to this character.
And the ending. Is the old man understanding what the chink is feeling? I hope not, because that just drips with a plot-perfect, long-distance happy ending that was forced instead of being cultivated through the actual plot— which makes the ending even weaker because there didn't seem to be anything to resolve throughout the piece. It's too much introspection too late; nothing in the story had touched greater depths, so a sudden implication that the old man understands something about the chink, after generic lines and prose focused on everything but the conflict at hand, was horribly dissatisfying. It lets me know you could produce something rich, but aren't, for reasons unknown.
To be (more) blunt, this felt like a novel excerpt. Something that has a few thousand words of story before and after it. This would be the dull part to give readers some sort of breathing room as the story moves from one event to the next.
Short stories need to be an event themselves.
I'd suggest looking at this article to turn this piece into an actual story instead of a long description exercise. One of the reasons I'm being so hard on this piece is how much is left ignored in favour of giving a scene with no context and simply capturing a moment in time without much of any details to its name. It acts like an old memory still in somebody's mind: the context is already there, in previous memories; the setting is routine [ie- doesn't deserve a mention because it's so normal]; the people have personalities constructed by event after event in the past.
However, when you take a memory out of its context, readers become hopelessly lost because we don't have the other things in the narrator's mind. And because he doesn't even hint at other memories, this is left floating on a timeline without even implied context. The dinner? Nondescript. It could be happening to anybody. There's nothing to ground it with this narrator, this situation. Which is not good, considering this is supposed to be somewhat of a unique situation.
I can understand you're reaching for the old "racist father hates his little girl's not-white fiance" and are trying to make this as vague as possible because it's, well, old and common. But by leaving it vague and only scratching the surface, you are left with a dry, flat piece of literature that readers struggle to get through and, if they do, have a decent chance of leaving a review like this one. You have the possibility to have so much psychology in here, especially with first person, that it would be a fascinating study. But you never penetrate the surface until the end, and by then it's too late.
Hope this helped. Drop me a line if you have any questions or comments.
~Rosey
Hullo there,
I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get to this, although it seems you have a plethora of very helpful, very well chosen reviewers who have given you their best. You're a lucky duck and don't need me. That said, I have very little to say about the piece on the whole. It's well written technically, with a strong voice that carries the story forward without any unnecessary lagging or disinterest.
To the meat of the issue, which is the content of the piece. I didn't find your narrator compelling or even interesting. He is certainly the racist army-man. Ruined by his experiences in a country he probably never wanted to go to. But, to the point, is that he's boring. This may be my personal prejudices against prose at the moment, but the man and the story follow a very predictable line and while I understand it's about the man's personal discovery and etc, it's very easy to tell where it's going and why. There is little you can do about this, but be resigned to it, though. Mostly because that's just what this story is and for some readers they will be pleased at the progression, and there will only be some like me, who have read too many of these before.
It's a solid story, otherwise, got the right elements in the right order. Just, clearly, not my cup of tea. If you're really unhappy with the review, hit me up for a replacement at another time.
~ Penguin.
Haiiiii just little old me
Line-By-Line
The Beginning
As the others have said, a perfect first line. But your next sentence is not only ordinary but also a little hard to place whether it's about to be a flash-back and work up to him killing the lamb, or whether it's the present. It does of course turn out to be the present but I think perhaps you need something more about the lamb first. Maybe simply a memory of draining the blood outside and how his wife wouldn't let him drain it in her nice, clean kitchen. Then you have the transition lamb to kitchen.
The Ending
It was passive which I hadn't expected and I found it to be a bit of a let down after that first line: I killed a lamb last week. I'm not sure how you wanted us to feel. To be honest I felt quiet. I'm not sure if there's another way to describe it. I'd hoped for a last exchange of dialogue perhaps or just a tightening of the hand around the cane, a suggestion of his resolution or a reassurance of his strength. That was what I liked best about this piece, how you took a strong character in reclining health and showed his struggle to remain strong and to retain his power in a world moving past him and a world he could no longer fully control. I've gone off topic a bit now but yes, I'd just have liked to see a little something more at the end.
Overall, a great piece of writing with some solid characters and strong themes. Thanks very much for the read,
Heather xxx
Here as requested! I think a nitpick review will serve my purposes best here.
Keep writing!
-Kafka
Hi there, Joshua! Here as you requested
.
I loooove this opening sentence. Love it. Creepy as it may be.
Stop. Mr Phillips time. (... >.>)
.
"Led", I believe.
Joshua, I love this story. I have nothing that I didn't like about it, and I don't have any real nitpicks either -- not that they would help you that much anyway. You're a really good writer. The dialogue felt real, and all the characters had their own voice -- they were people instead of just names. Everything just seemed extremely real. I have a feeling this will be a useless review. I'm nearly ashamed not to have anything more concrete to say, but just know I enjoyed this. Please tell me whenever you'd like a review, because I will gladly read anything you write!
Demeter
x
Hey, Joshua! Sorry it took me longer than planned. The other day, I decided it's just been long enough to where waiting for the Review Day wouldn't hurt too much more!
I very much enjoyed your story. I very much enjoyed the narrator. I thought his voice was spectacular, and it was enjoyable to read. The other characters were also very good.
I'm not sure if anyone else had this problem, for lack of a better word, so maybe it's just me? But in the beginning, I got a bit lost as to who was doing what and which person was who and who was related how and -- well, you get it. xD Eventually, I figured it out. I think the use of all those pronouns in the beginning threw off my groove there. Still, thought I'd mention! Otherwise, the dialogue was good!
I wasn't sure I liked how the piece ended, but then again, I'm not sure how else I would suggest ending it? Now, I absolutely love how you worked in the lamb and Christianity bits. That tied up so wonderfully at the end, but I feel like there wasn't enough foreshadowing to hint at it? I don't know how to explain. The piece itself didn't seem to indicate that it was about religion at all, but more accepting other cultures. Maybe play with that more? If that made any sense to you whatsoever. I just wasn't entirely satisfied as I would have liked to be by the time I finished. I got a couple goosebumps? But not enough to indicate it was truly fantastic. /stopsjabbering
But honestly! I did enjoy your piece, and I can tell a lot of thought went into this. I think it's brilliant and just shy of masterpiece. There were some grammar clunkers in there that a thorough edit would help with so as the reading itself doesn't get awkward, but that aside, you've got good things here. Great job!
Keep writing!
Jabber, the One and Only!
I may decide to critique this with a more appraising eye at a later time, but I wanted to finally read through a short story of yours. I found the piece quite enjoyable -- you conjure a couple of delightful characters, particularly the narrator. I do believe that you brandish a little symbolism here, specifically through the lamb motif coupled with the Christian theme. Christ is often described as a lamb led to slaughter, though lambs were also used as sacrifices in the Old Testament. You could potentially factor in the lamb's-blood on doorpost anecdote from Moses' exodus. It's interesting that you decide to so loosely toss this symbol around -- a symbol with many connotations, though without much context. The theme, of course, is "overcoming prejudice" -- a sample from your own contest, though certainly with more length latitude -- and so perhaps, if you have intended the lamb to serve as focal point (what with your impacting opening line), you might want to consider tying it in throughout the piece with a little more care, specifically at the end. Where is the sacrifice occurring? Who is the Christ figure? What Angel of Death is being fended off? These are just speculations on my part, but I would ask for more clarity.
Otherwise, an engaging story. Well-written and intelligent.
Kylan
I read it, and WOW. This seriously felt professional, and actually a lot better than most books I've read. I have no criticism, except what's with the Christian theme near the end? It just seemed random- almost weird- in an otherwise effortlessly awesome piece.
Wow thanks Sarg, I've taken it all to heart and amended it. Will PM response.
Just an A/N for future reviewers, it's set in NZ so terms like 'the vietnam war' are used over 'nam' or 'vietnam.'
Thanks again everybody for your insight.
Agreed with confetti. The first line gives the false allure of a hook, but then there's nothing to substantiate it and then we're just watching someone cook and read the newspaper. It could work if you tied it into the theme or characterization. The narrator is an old, proud, set in his ways, do-it-yourself kind of guy. Take us back to that moment. He's kneeling next to the body, its open throat is steaming in the chill air, he wipes a bit of snot and trades it for a smear of blood across his face.
This line is strange. You neglect to mention it's Kate's face. And that Paula answered the door. And having someone's face sitting on someone else's shoulder is a strange wording for a hug.
Again, these disembodied parts of Kate's body interacting with Paula are weird. The phrasing makes me think of floating hands ineffectually floating up and down someone's body.
Again, weird body parts. Just say "The boy hovered over her shoulder..." or something.
Not a big problem, but as one reads this, the instinct is to think that the narrator "gently lowers himself into the chair then [moves] swift like a lioness." I know it only takes a fraction of a second to read onward to discover that it's Paula doing the moving, but there's just a bit of a disconnect there.
It's not that important, but we're given no indication of who says this.
Haha! I love it because it's so true. I feel like only Asians ever get this "where are you from/where are your parents from" kind of thing. No one ever says that to a European fellow, to investigate whether he's from Romania or Moldova or Slovakia. It's so strange.
Another great line. Though, more realistically, he would probably say, "I haven't been to Asia since Vietnam" because it's rather a given what old American men mean when they say "Vietnam." Or even "Nam" if they're so lazy and versed in "the lingo."
By the way, the "Tatai" thing seems strange to me. This guy's a "full-blooded" American sort, right? Judging by the Vietnam War thing. What's up with "Tatai"?
Just quick note. "Permeate" means to "spread throughout." Like to permeate a room. Or permeate a bodypart. Or permeate a towel. But things don't permeate from things.
I like the little dietary-habit jabs at him.
Oh, and also, between this and "colour", I know it doesn't necessarily have to be written by an American to be about Americans. But to read a story about this stubborn, old American guy, it's strange to see the spellings with the U, since Americans would be caught dead before spelling it "favourite" or "colour."
We've got a bit of a "talking head" situation here. Especially with 4 people, it adds to the juggling act. Anyway, what I mean by talking heads is that we get a ratatat of dialogue without a sense of scene or reactions or human beings.
Not capitalized, since they don't refer to a specific one. Like "her Aunt Jemima" is capitalized. But not "her aunt, Jemima."
Again, just a bit of floating dialogue. We infer from the "Mrs. Phillips" who it is, but it still kind of just floats up.
Hmm...depending on how you want this section to function, it could be rather throwaway. On one hand, yes, you're showing that Paula is hospitable and kind and that Ung-So isn't a fan of alcohol (though you get to do that later, with the whiskey). But on the other, it's very dry and boring to read. Especially the "red or white" "either" "Merlot". It's akin to writing out the dialogue for an order at the Waffle House.
"I'll have the egg platter."
"How do you want your eggs?"
"Poached."
"We don't do poached."
"Scrambled."
"Butter or jelly?"
"Do you have strawberry jelly?"
"Yes."
"Strawberry."
"He laughed too loud" is okay, because it illustrates an actual thought the narrator has.
"I couldn't not converge my brows and scowl" isn't okay, because he wouldn't actually think that in his mind, would he? He wouldn't actually say to himself, "I can't not scowl." Instead, he might list off more things he dislikes about Ung-So. His feminine wrists, the build of a prepubescent boy, etc etc.
It makes it sound like she never said anything in the conversation before then.
Eh, if I were Tatai, I would say, "We'll sit by the fire and not talk, then."
Not really clear on what you're saying here.
The wording suggests that his eyes were framed and hung. Similarly, "Out of breath, I stumbled to the finish line" or "Bored out of my mind, I counted the ceiling tiles." But not "Beaten and bloody, the cop looked at the victim."
Again, weird disembodied body parts. And this one is the most violent of them all o_o
Great.
I think the official ruling is that "sir" isn't capitalized. Don't ask why, since one might think given the proper pronoun rules or whatever, but because it's a simple courtesy, it's treated differently.
Can you at least give us a frame of what he was in the act of doing? This seems rather sudden and forced.
The "heart came on fast" suddenly makes this scene startlingly important. Granted, it's important. But the reader's immediate impression is akin to a gasp, or a heart skipping a beat, or something.
Paula's chair? Why is it Paula's chair?
So, overall. The dialogue is great. Just mind the talking heads, and give the characters a little play when dialogue is occurring. I might have liked to see a couple deep lines at the end. Something honest exchanged in words as an offering, instead of just the silent fire stare.
The action is good. Paced, thoughtful. It just gets a little awkward sometimes. Like trying to figure out what to do with your hands while you're talking to someone. Just trying to put them somewhere. Not let them hang limply but feeling terribly weird if you cross them or put them in your pockets. Oh no. Now I'm thinking about what I should do with my hands while talking to someone! Anyway, what I mean is to have a purpose. Have a goal or a mood or an idea you want to convey instead of just conveying what is happening. Usually, you do, so good! But there were times when it faltered and just seemed to be there because it was there.
I read it, and WOW. This seriously felt professional, and actually a lot better than most books I've read. I have no criticism, except what's with the Christian theme near the end? It just seemed random- almost weird- in an otherwise effortlessly awesome piece.
I don't normally read these sorts of storys but i found it was really well written and I think this type of writing is defenty for you! Keep writing
Wow!! this isn something i wud normally read bt it is so profesional an so hard to stop reading, so good work joshua
Oh Confetti, you have ousted me. It's my nemesis, capitalized words mid sentence, so allusive under my careful editing eyes. Thanks for the nitpicks, I will amend it now.
blue- suggestions
green- comments
red- grammatical
Not sure why you capitalized kitchen.
Made me chuckle. So true.
boys' would mean that there's more than one boy.
Like with the kitchen, not sure why you capitalized dinner here.
You lost me a little here.
Feeling a tad nitpicky today.
The first line of the story did pull me in, I mean, how many stories start with the death of a lamb? But I found that the next couple paragraphs were bland compared to the rest of the story. This was a very enjoyable read - a simple plot and beautiful, well-flowing writing. I found the ending interesting, (I'm not sure if I completely understood what you were getting at, but I'm sure it was just me), the way you left it practically wide open.
This was very well done, I aspire to write this well in the future, hope this review helped. Cheers.