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Post by Freedom on Aug 2, 2012 0:49:13 GMT -5
Do your worst. This is from a dream too.
I came in and saw the thing I couldn't do without.
It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the wall vivid deep magenta and on the wall slid a river of lights over a black horizon under a flaming sky. I looked and saw that a tin cabinet hung there and the river of lights lived in the mirrored door.
I knew that outside the reflected window the black highway topped the black shoulder of the hill beyond, and in the living square the lights in clustered pairs appeared at the skyline to slip down and down the slope and make the turn and then glide silently across the bottom of the picture and away. Ever moving, ever changing, always new, always the same.
I knew that in daylight I would see the chrome wink and the glass flash under the sun; and all through the black night, after the color had gone, I still would see the clustered pairs of lights slide down their never ending curve.
He could not see it. He was a blind man. Yes, an old blind beggar, the classic figure tapping through our history and our nightmares, stick in one hand and the other out to catch a coin or our compassion or our guilt. He'd caught mine. I was here, in his place, where he lived, to continue our sidewalk conversation and provide him some company. I was here to help him, no sneak-thief I -- not yet. He feared me not at all. My voice is gentle, womanly -- he had nothing, or so he thought, to steal.
". . . tea?" he was asking and I knew he'd asked before.
"Oh, yes, thank you." He wanted to display his prowess in his dark kitchen, how he could reach down his teapot, set his kettle to boil and his cups on the counter and all by touch, me watching.
I watched him and I watched the moving picture on the magenta wall, a shade darker now. The window reflected on the wall was in his kitchen, to the left through a flat-topped archway, and his head occluded it as he passed and re-passed. I moved to look through it but the angle was not so favorable -- it was the mirror that made the picture.
"I've got it." He thought I was behind him to help him. "Just another minute."
"Nice place," I said and moved away from him again to his living room, sat on his sofa. Watched the magenta deepen to violet. These are my favorite colors. The lights in silent pairs moved down around the black curve and along the bottom of the picture on the wall.
"Thanks. I'm lucky to have it. Thank the good Lord for rent-control."
"Rent control," I repeated. "I'm not from here," I said. "I don't understand what that means. Rent control."
"Means just what it says." He came out through the dimness bearing a tray with two cups. "They can't raise my rent or evict me or tear this old place down until I'm gone. You don't have that where you're from? Where's that?" He put the tray down on his little coffee table, took a cup and stepped to the other chair in the room. "Must not be many people?"
"No," I said. "Not many. But that's what I thought." That's what I was afraid of. "Thank you for the tea."
That was a year ago. I come and go. I carry a cane -- his cane, actually. I wear his dark glasses. I wear his clothes and it took me forever to get his smell out of them; a person's smell is very like his ghost, it -- you know -- lingers. I buried him in the yard, in the dark. He wasn't very big.
I have no fear he'll ever be found, they don't allow dogs in this building. No one missed him, no one ever came looking for him. No one misses me. I disappeared from my apartment and no one ever found me. I never went back to my job. What I bring home from the sidewalk, from the guilt of others just like me, pays my rent. And every night the sun stains the wall a deep and vivid magenta for me, and the river of lights slides over the black horizon.
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Craving
Aug 3, 2012 18:14:43 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 3, 2012 18:14:43 GMT -5
I really, really like this. You've done an excellent job of creating this character. They stay true to themselves through out. The story fills me with questions. Is he/she a ghost? Did they take his shape? Were they a ghoul? Reaper? What was the thing they wanted? The man? The apartment? The mirror? The POV just seems so alien and cold--I love it! I would much rather be filled with questions than have all the answers. Don't change this at all! You should enter this in a horror contest, but on a different month than me because I think you'll win! My favorite line was: "He wasn't very big." It's so inhuman and practical! As if the reader was concerned he might have been hard to lift, ha ha. Excellent characterization!!! I was a little confused by two parts, one you may have done on purpose and if so that's fine, I just wanted to check. The first was: "I came in and saw the thing I couldn't do without. It took place on the wall opposite the door." Either I just don't get it (which is fine, sometimes I'm slow ) or did you mean: "It was on the wall opposite the door"? The one I was genuinely confused by (and therefore others might be as well) was this: "'Not many. But that's what I thought.' That's what I was afraid of." I don't understand what's being referenced. It sounds like they are saying they thought there weren't that many people? Even without understanding this line, the story is excellent. It's my favorite thing of yours so far and it's shaken me up a bit and made me feel like I need to try harder (a good thing ;D) Anyway, I love it! Glad you shared ;D
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Craving
Aug 3, 2012 19:58:57 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 3, 2012 19:58:57 GMT -5
Thank you, I much appreciate this I was a little confused by two parts, one you may have done on purpose and if so that's fine, I just wanted to check. The first was: "I came in and saw the thing I couldn't do without. It took place on the wall opposite the door." Either I just don't get it (which is fine, sometimes I'm slow ) or did you mean: "It was on the wall opposite the door"? This I did on purpose, and I'll tell you what I was going for. What POV sees, and now can't live without, is the moving picture in the mirror, on the wall being stained by the sunset. I used 'took place on' to reference the non-static nature of 'the thing' -- the moving lights in the mirror and the changing light / color on the wall. This I saw totally clearly in a dream -- not the plot, just the wall, the magenta light, the moving headlights in the black mirror and the flat-topped arch to the left. In the dream I knew the mirror was part of a kind of medicine cabinet hung on the wall, and that the 'picture' was the reflection on the mirror from a window to the left of the arch. And in the dream, I really wanted to just stay there and watch it. I need / tried to make that picture clear WITHOUT 13 pages of description. It's much easier for me to write MORE than LESS. OK, and something just occurred to me. Mr. Kipling advises us NOT to 'write short' -- he says, write it out in whatever tedious detail it comes to you, and THEN tighten it up. And that's what I was doing here, writing short. I wasn't sure this part worked at all... The one I was genuinely confused by (and therefore others might be as well) was this: "'Not many. But that's what I thought.' That's what I was afraid of." I don't understand what's being referenced. It sounds like they are saying they thought there weren't that many people? Yes, this needs fixed. They've addressed two topics at once, rent control and why s/he doesn't know what that is. Awkward. The important thing is that the apartment is rent-controlled, and the trivial thing is why s/he doesn't know that.
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Craving
Aug 3, 2012 20:01:54 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 3, 2012 20:01:54 GMT -5
lol, thank you, you made me laugh: My favorite line was: "He wasn't very big." It's so inhuman and practical! As if the reader was concerned he might have been hard to lift, ha ha
;D
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Craving
Aug 3, 2012 20:08:13 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 3, 2012 20:08:13 GMT -5
I think a compromise for the first one (not that you have to do this, just a suggestion) is:
"I came in and saw what I couldn't do without.
It took place on the wall opposite the door."
Or something like that. I think the idea of a "thing" is what threw me.
I really loved this story =D
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Craving
Aug 9, 2012 14:56:23 GMT -5
Post by thecatsmother on Aug 9, 2012 14:56:23 GMT -5
Terrific story. Haunting, scarily plausible and definitely one to enter in a competition.
I've read it several times now and I think ReadilyGrey's suggestion regarding the start, to rephrase it as: "I saw what I couldn't do without" is a good one. It makes the lead-in smoother - and somehow "thing" doesn't seem quite the right word for the constantly changing illusion in the mirrored cabinet.
I also felt confused as to what the narrator was afraid of during the discussion on rent control. I wondered whether it was necessary to have the discussion about rent control at all, but I can see it's important to make the point that the tenant can never be evicted or priced out the apartment.
I think the sentence where you talk about how lights from cars on the highway create the moving image is slightly long. It took me a couple of readings to be quite clear about what was happening, and I think it could be made sharper by splitting the sentence or making it shorter.
I enjoy how you keep referring back to the river of lights, emphasising it's irresistible pull for the narrator. I can see it in my mind's eye, dreamlike but so real.
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Craving
Aug 9, 2012 22:22:29 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 9, 2012 22:22:29 GMT -5
I went back to my first draft. It was better. I so agree about the change to the first sentence, and if you can think of anything better still, share Also I think the dialog is fixed, let me know. Also I'm working on using shorter paragraphs... Craving I came into his apartment and saw what I could not do without. It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the wall vivid deep magenta and on the wall slid the river of lights that was the highway outside -- a tin medicine chest hung there and the mirrored door presented the moving picture. In the living square, the lights in clustered pairs topped the black rise opposite his building and dropped down around the curve described by the highway, and then turned again, along the bottom of the picture, and slid away. Ever changing, never stopping, always the same, always new. I knew that in daylight I would see the chrome wink and the glass flash; and that all through the black nights, after the color had gone, I still would see the clustered pairs of lights slide endlessly down the curve. He could not see it. He was a blind man. Yes, a blind beggar, the classic figure tapping through our history and our nightmares, stick in one hand and the other out to catch a coin or our guilt. He'd caught mine. I was here, in his place, where he lived, to help him. No sneak-thief I -- not yet. He feared me not at all. My voice is gentle, womanly -- he had nothing, or so he thought, to steal. ". . . tea?" he was saying and I knew he'd asked before. "Yes, thank you." I knew he wanted to display his prowess in his dark kitchen, how he could reach down his teapot, set his kettle to boil, his cups on the counter, and all by touch, me watching. I watched the moving picture on the magenta wall, which darkened as I watched it. The actual window reflected on the wall was in his kitchen, his head occluded it as he passed and re-passed. I moved to look through it and found the angle unfavorable -- it was the mirror that made the picture. "I've got it," he said, thinking I was behind him to help him. "Just another minute." "Nice place you've got here." I moved away from him again, out to his living room, sat on his sofa. Watched the wall deepen to violet. These are my favorite colors. The light pairs moved around the curve and along the bottom of the picture on the wall. "Thanks. I'm lucky to have it. Thank the good Lord for rent control." "Rent control. Explain that to me." He stepped through the dimness balancing a tray bearing two cups, placed the tray quite precisely on his little coffee table, and took a cup to his comfortable-looking chair. "Means just what it says -- where you from? Means they can't raise my rent or evict me or tear this place down 'til I'm gone." "That's what I thought." That's what I was afraid of. "Good tea." That was a year ago. I come and go. I carry a cane -- his cane, actually. I wear his dark glasses. I wear his clothes and it took me forever to get his smell out of them; a person's smell is very like his ghost, it -- you know -- lingers. I buried him in the yard, in the dark. He wasn't very big. He'll never be found, they don't allow dogs in this building. No one missed him, no one ever came looking for him. No one misses me. I disappeared from my apartment and no one ever found me. I never went back to my job. What I bring home from the sidewalk, from the guilt of others just like me, pays my rent. And every night the sun stains the wall a deep and vivid magenta for me, and the clusters of lights slide over the river.
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Craving
Aug 11, 2012 10:52:20 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 11, 2012 10:52:20 GMT -5
I still enjoyed this; I actually didn't notice where the changes were, so good job! The changes flow well in the story. At times it almost seems like the writer isn't human; other times, simply someone foreign to city, and carrying a strong lack of morals! LOL. It's a good story, and I still enjoy reading it. Thank you, Freedom.
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Craving
Aug 12, 2012 0:41:11 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 12, 2012 0:41:11 GMT -5
The second (original ) version is much clearer. I can see where you made the writing tighter and to a good effect. My only complaint (I'm so hard to please!) is that I miss this line: "I looked and saw that a tin cabinet hung there and the river of lights lived in the mirrored door." The blue part is my favorite. Would it be possible to incorporate it back in somehow? Possibly in here: "The setting sun stained the wall vivid deep magenta and on the wall slid the river of lights that was the highway outside -- a tin medicine chest hung there and the mirrored door presented the moving picture." Also this is basically perfect. I think shortening it actually sacrificed some of the poetry: "I knew that outside the reflected window the black highway topped the black shoulder of the hill beyond, and in the living square the lights in clustered pairs appeared at the skyline to slip down and down the slope and make the turn and then glide silently across the bottom of the picture and away. Ever moving, ever changing, always new, always the same. I knew that in daylight I would see the chrome wink and the glass flash under the sun; and all through the black night, after the color had gone, I still would see the clustered pairs of lights slide down their never ending curve." This really is a great story. I think you should enter it in a contest. I'm actually a little intimidated by it, heh. It's one of those stories where I start thinking am I ever going to be that good?
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Craving
Aug 12, 2012 10:56:09 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 12, 2012 10:56:09 GMT -5
readily, in my opinion, you are that good! just different! so far, everyone here seems to me to be different flavours of ice cream. (thankfully, everyone is a flavour I can enjoy!) Everyone is good, and complete, but each person is different. (not to say a little sprinkles won't improve things, because we all have things to learn)
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Craving
Aug 12, 2012 19:09:09 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 12, 2012 19:09:09 GMT -5
Readily, thank you for this -- I can't tell you how much I appreciate the followthrough input, and your kind, kind words. /blush I'll revise and post again, thanks to you Also, what Liz said! And, I think the same thing when I read your stuff -- dangit, we all rock!
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Craving
Aug 12, 2012 22:37:12 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 12, 2012 22:37:12 GMT -5
I came into his apartment and saw what I could not do without. It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the stucco a vivid deep magenta and on a black square slid the river of lights that was the highway outside -- I looked and saw that a tin cabinet hung there and the river of lights lived in the mirrored door.
Outside the reflected window the black highway topped the black shoulder of the hill beyond, and in the living square the lights in clustered pairs appeared at the skyline to slip down and down the slope and make the turn and then glide silently across the bottom of the picture and away. Ever moving, ever changing, always new, always the same.
I knew that in daylight I would see the chrome wink and the glass flash under the sun; and that all through the black nights, after the color had gone, I still would see the clustered pairs of lights slide down their never ending curve.
He could not see it. He was a blind man. Yes, a blind beggar, the classic figure tapping through our history and our nightmares, stick in one hand and the other out to catch a coin or our guilt. He'd caught mine. I was here, in his place, where he lived, to help him. No sneak-thief I -- not yet. He feared me not at all. My voice is gentle, womanly -- he had nothing, so he thought, to steal.
"... tea?" he was saying and I knew he'd asked before.
"Please."
He smiled to display his prowess in his dim kitchen, how he could reach down his teapot, set his kettle to boil and his cups on the counter, and all by touch, me watching.
The picture moved on the magenta wall that darkened as I watched it. The window reflected in the mirror was in his kitchen, to the left through a flat-topped arch, and his head occluded it as he passed and re-passed. I crossed to look through the glass but the angle was not so favorable -- it was the mirror that made the picture.
"I've got it," he said, thinking I was behind him to help him. "Just another minute."
"Nice place you've got here." I moved away from him again, walked across his living room, sat on his sofa. Watched the wall deepen to violet. These are my favorite colors. The light pairs moved around the curve and along the bottom of the picture on the wall.
"Thanks. I'm lucky to have it. Thank the good Lord for rent control." He stepped out balancing a tray with two cups on it, placed the tray quite precisely on his little coffee table, found a cup with his fingers and sat down with it in his comfortable-looking chair.
"Rent control. Explain that to me."
"Means just what it says -- where you from? Means they can't raise my rent or evict me or tear this place down 'til I'm gone."
"That's what I thought." That's what I was afraid of. "Good tea."
That was a year ago. I come and go. I carry a cane -- his cane, actually. I wear his dark glasses. I wear his clothes and it took me forever to get his smell out of them; a person's smell is very like his ghost, it -- you know -- lingers. I buried him in the yard, in the dark. He wasn't very big.
He won't be found, they don't allow dogs in this building. No one missed him, no one ever came looking for him. No one misses me. I disappeared from my apartment and no one ever found me. I never went back to my job. What I bring home from the sidewalk, from the guilt of others just like me, pays my rent. And every night the sun stains the wall a deep and vivid magenta for me, and the river of lights slides over the black horizon.
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Craving
Aug 12, 2012 22:38:56 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 12, 2012 22:38:56 GMT -5
Thank you from the bottom of my heart /hug .
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Craving
Aug 13, 2012 1:39:53 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 13, 2012 1:39:53 GMT -5
I came into his apartment and saw what I could not do without. It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the stucco a vivid deep magenta and on a black square slid the river of lights that was the highway outside quick question...stucco inside??? here in canada, stucco refers to the exterior of a building; it's cement with small rocks (usually white) and sometimes peices of coloured glass mixed in. It's always on the outside of a building here. Is it different in the states??? Maybe using the word plaster, or paint??? again, that could be a cultural thing.
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Craving
Aug 13, 2012 13:45:29 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 13, 2012 13:45:29 GMT -5
I came into his apartment and saw what I could not do without. It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the stucco a vivid deep magenta and on a black square slid the river of lights that was the highway outside quick question... stucco inside??? here in canada, stucco refers to the exterior of a building; it's cement with small rocks (usually white) and sometimes peices of coloured glass mixed in. It's always on the outside of a building here. Is it different in the states??? Maybe using the word plaster, or paint??? again, that could be a cultural thing. Akkk! think I mean plaster -- going to research..... ty *later* Well, thinking aloud here -- what I saw in my dream was a thickly painted-over stucco or plaster wall. Stucco would be more textured ... and it's common-ish in early mid-century when arches were common ... this is an old building, many coats of paint, yellowed probably originally white ... I'm ascairt to stick in more description ... I came into his apartment and saw what I could not do without. It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the heavily painted-over stucco a vivid deep magenta and on a black square slid the river of lights that was the highway outside -- I looked and saw that a tin cabinet hung there and the river of lights lived in the mirrored door.
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