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| Acmlm's Board - I3 Archive - Writing - (Short Story) Faith and Foxes |
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Toxic 250 TOX4ADMIN                   Since: 11-17-05 From: I'm keeping a list. Last post: 6299 days Last view: 6299 days |
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| This is another short story I wrote, maybe a year ago.
James Day was falling. He has been aware of this for quite some time, but cannot stop his descent. He sat in his driveway, staring at his house, and sighed. It was Tuesday and Tuesdays are board meeting days. He sighed again, and turned the key in the ignition. “I fucking hate Tuesdays,” he said to no one in particular as he backed out of the driveway. James Day hated his job, his wife had not spoken a kind word to him since their honeymoon, and he could not feel any farther away from his kids. James Day was balding, pushing forty, and his career had yet to go anywhere. In short, he was the worst nightmare of every middle aged working man. Driving down route 6, he couldn’t help but notice gas had gone up once again. It had cost him almost forty dollars to fill up the other day, and that didn’t even fill the tank all the way up. This was not good news for Day, as his wife had an unquenchable thirst for spending despite the hard times they were going through. Day went home time and time again to find his wife with a new purse, new pillows for the guest bedroom, another lamp from IEKA. He had tried to talk to her, and she always said the same thing. “Oh, I’m sorry for trying to spruce this house up a bit, give the family some class. Maybe that’s why you aren’t going anywhere with that job of yours? Maybe if you bought some new clothes, and looked presentable in the office…” Traffic was bad on the Benway Bridge, and Day would probably be late for work again. Sitting in the traffic, he had a strange desire to open the windows, even though it was raining. The local oldies station was playing the Grateful Dead, and it just seemed like there was something better outside. There was something worthwhile and meaningful in the river under the bridge, or in the woods running along the banks. James Day arrived thirteen minutes late to work, but was not worried, as he had seen a fellow co-worker’s car in the traffic, and wouldn’t be the last person into the office. Strolling casually into his cubicle, Day was met by his boss waiting for him. “Jim, how are you?” James Day hated bullshitting, and his boss was a king bullshitter. “I’m doing well Mike, how about you?” “Oh, hanging in there, you know.” In fact, Michael P. F. Rhys-Davids was not simply hanging in there. During the past six months, after a series of layoffs, his stock had increased over thirty seven percent, and he was a finalist for Business Today’s Top Small Corporation Owners. Michael P. F. Rhys-Davids had a new house, a small mansion actually, in upper Fairview, a trophy wife, a new BMW, and a salary that was rapidly approaching seven figures. Michael P. F. Rhys-Davids was doing slightly better than he previously alluded to. “Listen, Jimmy, we have to talk about your attendance.” In a very slow and deliberate manner, Michael P. F. Rhys-Davids pulled his sleeve back, revealing a brand new Rolex. “It’s now 7:46; you were supposed to be at your desk and working sixteen minutes ago. This isn’t the first time either. I’ve tried to be lenient with you; you know what a laid back guy I am.” James Day, in fact, did know how lenient he was. On one particularly memorable occasion, Michael P. F. Rhys-Davids had lifted up an office PC, and thrown it clear through a wall, because “The internet was acting up.” Michael P. F. Rhys-Davids was a pretty laid back guy. “Listen, I’m really sorry Mike,” said James, “but there was serious traffic on the Benway. You know how it is during the morning. Just ask Todd, I saw him stuck in it too.” Exactly twenty two seconds prior, Todd Jeffries had stumbled in the door, and noting where the boss was, quickly got to work, and blended in quite well. “Alright Jimbo, I’m gonna let it slide this time, but this is it. You gotta answer for your actions from now on.” Breathing a sigh of relief, James Day went to work, punching away at his computer. He worked quietly for a few hours, before taking his lunch break at 12:30. Sitting in the cafeteria, he opened his brown bag, and took out his sandwich. Without thinking twice, he took a huge bite, and came up gagging. It was bologna. James Day fucking hated bologna. Ever since he was six years old, and a neighborhood bully called him “Bologna Breath,” he had loathed the prospect of eating the meat. It crossed his mind to go out to McDonalds or Wendy’s to get something, but it only made him feel worse, thinking he’d be taking money from his family. Closing his eyes, he had hoped that his wife had got it only because it was on sale. Realizing how ridiculous this thought was, he bitterly ate the rest of his sandwich, and went back to work. James Day worked late, not only because he wanted to get back on his boss’ good side, but because he loathed going home. Only the cleaners were still in the office when he left around ten, and he highly doubted that his boss even took note of the hard work he had put in. The commute home was cathartic. Blood, Sweat & Tears poured their silky smooth rhythms and harmonies from the speakers. There was no one on the Benway, but James Day took his time going over it. The Fenale River ran underneath it, and provided its own concert of water gently running over rocks, producing bubbles, and a faint gurgle. He could see the evergreens on the banks of the river swaying gently in the breeze. The ride home was the best part of James Day’s day. When James Day arrived home, his wife was gone. There was no note, no messages on the cell phone or answering machine. His son, when pressed, revealed that she was “out.” The worst part was that this was not uncommon for his wife. James Day secretly thought that his wife was having an affair, but was too ashamed to actually believe it. He felt it was just his way of getting back at his wife for all the things he had done. James Day lacked conviction. Most people wake up every morning to go to work. James Day wakes up every morning for the five minutes spent passing over the Benway Bridge on his way to work. James Day woke up feeling a bit different. His wife’s spot next to him on the bed was empty, the sheets untouched. Out of habit, he reached over and looked at his cell phone. One new message, from his wife. “Listen James, we’re through. I’ve found someone else.” There was a rustling in the background, and someone was speaking in what sounded like a different language. “James, don’t try to find me, I’m taking Donnie with me, don’t come looking for me, because you won’t find me.” After hanging up, James Day checked for his son, finding his room bare. Apparently, he left in the middle of the night with his mother. James Day did not shout out in anger, or cry tears of sorrow, but simply got ready for work, and set out the door. Once again, traffic was bad on the Benway, only today, there was something different. He wasn’t agitated about being late, or looking for other people that he could use as a buffer. Looking out across the river, he couldn’t help but stare intently at the beauty that surrounded the Fenale. James Day sighed, but there was something different about it. It was a content sigh, a sigh of relief. Weaving his way through traffic, James Day pulled his car off to breakdown lane, and got out. He stood behind the barrier, gazing out across the river. James Day stood there for a full thirty minutes, until footsteps brought him out of deep thought. He turned to see a woman standing next to him, in obvious distress. “What are you gonna do it for?” she asked, looking at him with such sad eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” James Day tried to explain to her. “I lost everything,” she said, “I took out a mortgage on my house, sold my car, everything in my house that wasn’t nailed down. You probably saw me on TV. I thought I was gonna win it all. I thought I was gonna get lucky.” It suddenly occurred to James Day that this woman here was planning to commit suicide. “So why are you here?” she asked again. “Well,” began James Day, “for starters I’m thirty nine and I haven’t gone anywhere with my job. I still have the same salary as I had when I first started, as a hotshot straight out of college, not a care in the world and my whole life ahead of me. My boss will probably fire me within the month because I get stuck in traffic every morning on my way to work, and always misses the fact that another coworker of mine comes in even later. My wife, excuse me, my ex-wife left me yesterday and took my child to some foreign country. Oh, and I forgot to pack a lunch.” The woman simply stared at James Day, who said nothing else, and stared out across at the Fenale. “So I guess I can see why you wanna do it,” he said to her, “with all the problems you have.” “Yeah, I don’t really see the point any more. I got nothing.” “Do you have any family?” he asked her, still not taking his eyes off the river. “Yeah, three little ones, and my husband, Donnie. Next month will be our 15th anniversary.” “And you’re about to kill yourself?” James Day said, now staring through her, as if she were invisible. “You say you have nothing, but you have your family. You always will have your family.” The woman said nothing, and just looked at James Day. “My son was named Donnie. I don’t even know where he is right now, or if he’s even ok. I mean, I guess I wouldn’t mind if whoever my wife ran off with was a good father to him, took care of him, taught him how to be a man…” James Day broke off, and looked down at his feet, and his tattered shoes that he had for five years. “I never got to play catch with my son, and you want to jump off a bridge because you lost your money on the lotto.” The woman opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. “If you’re gonna do it, get on with it.” James Day said in a harsh tone, “At least I’ll have a reason to be late for work,” he said without remorse. With a sigh, he looked off into the forest, and spotted a fox weaving its way through the brush, in search of its prey. It’s grey fur shone brightly across the river, and revealed its muscled body. It stopped for an instant, and looked up at the bridge, and at James Day, who gave the smallest of nods. The fox did not return the gesture, and darted off back into the woods, trying to regain the trail of its foe. James Day stood for another thirty full minutes, before he became aware that the woman had left. Without saying another word, he simply walked back to his car. He turned the ignition, and sighed. It was Wednesday, and Wednesday’s were Productivity, Planning and Performance meetings. James Day fucking hated Wednesday’s. |
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Hiryuu Sword Maiden Retired Admin    Since: 11-17-05 From: Nerima District - Tokyo, Japan Last post: 6299 days Last view: 6299 days |
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| Aside from the tense issues, it's a good piece and probably very true to life for a lot of people that are going through hard times. Doesn't surprise me with his attitude either, with the backing of everything. Honestly, though I was mildly surprised it didn't end like I figured it would but then, given the title, it kind of makes sense of what you could expect.
Good stuff. |
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Silvershield  580  Since: 11-19-05 From: Emerson, New Jersey Last post: 6311 days Last view: 6299 days |
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| Not bad. The character shift seems a little abrupt to me, but it's a short story and you generally don't have too much space to work with when putting that kind of thing together, so I can't fault you too much for it.
One remark I'd like to make: in general, my personal preference leads me somewhat away from profanity in fiction and creative nonfiction. That's not the Puritan in me speaking, deeply offended at every usage of the f-word - hell, I use it several times a day, myself. I just tend to object to it in writing. It seems to me to be "cheating" in a sense, using a contrived mechanism to create an effect in a reader rather than doing so simply through effective writing. That's not to criticize you or say you are an ineffective writer, just that it sometimes pays to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of resorting to profanity in a given situation. Let me reiterate, it's not some Puritanical urge of mine that is leading me to point this out, but instead the firm belief that many writers - and, I reiterate this as well: I am not making a direct criticism of you - will take the f-word or any other curse and just throw it in there to create the same effect that a horror movie director is aiming for when the murderer pops out of the shadows and the soundtrack suddenly gets very loud. That is, it's a cheap way of scaring (in the case of a horror film) or emotionally affecting (in the case of written text) the audience, whereas taking the time to create a truly frightening atmosphere (for the former) or instilling the effect of that profanity without actually using the dirty word itself (for the latter) shows more skill. |
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Hiryuu Sword Maiden Retired Admin Since: 11-17-05 From: Nerima District - Tokyo, Japan Last post: 6299 days Last view: 6299 days |
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| Maybe, but at the same time it wouldn't be as realistic or down-to-earth in that sense without using them. It's more or less a commonplace for people to use swear words in real life, which this is the case here every so often.
There's a difference, as well. I'll take it up a notch, provided you won't get offended but let's say you were needing to take a punch line such as: "I fucked your dog and shit in your purse..." You could do the same as: "I had sexual relations with your dog and defecated in your purse..." Now, which one sounds more realistic? :\ In comedy, with stuff like this let's say, there's a difference between getting something like a respectable laugh and a belly laugh in that regard provided you know when to use the words. Now, am I saying it's a necessary to use swear words? Of course not...but I believe it to be a good personality setter when it comes to defining a character and anything you can give in difference to another person makes them that more unique. You could have the same character spread who didn't use the swears; it wouldn't be the same. Pays to be a bit more open in that regard, I think. Course then I have a co-worker that chides me every time I use the words 'god damn' in real life as it is anyways and we go rounds on philosophy as is. XD |
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Silvershield 580 Since: 11-19-05 From: Emerson, New Jersey Last post: 6311 days Last view: 6299 days |
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Originally posted by HiryuuBut, of course, creative writing isn't about imitating life perfectly. If you want to accurately depict a realistic speech pattern, you won't just be using profanity but you'll also be using a lot of devices that will really not add to the text at all. Take this example once provided by a teacher of mine: In fiction, a typical phone conversation tends to get straight to the point. Especially in short fiction, you don't have the space to waste on people going through all the formalities that a "realistic" portrayal would call for. So, no matter how realistic the following exchange may be, you'll never see it in good fiction: (phone rings) Person 1: Hello? Person 2: What's up? Person 1: Nothin' much. Person 2: Me neither. Person 1: So, whatcha up to? Person 2: Oh, nothin'...you? Person 1: Same. And so on. You see, as a fiction writer, you can't expect to make every single aspect of you characters and your story realistic. It's not practical, for one thing, and it damages your story. I've used the analogy of a developer creating a video game: sometimes the developer needs to sacrifice an aspect of gameplay that is more realistic because it is simply no fun. In most games, characters don't have to eat and drink and go to sleep, because it's simply not enjoyable. It's realistic, but it does not contribute to the greater work. Likewise, a writer will often sacrifice realism for the greater good of the story. Originally posted by HiryuuWell, in the first place, I'm not too sure how much value a story with that sort of humor has in the first place. Good humor is not funny for its shock value, but for something more clever and premeditated. But that's beside the point. It's one thing when some foul language is absolutely required, as in that punchline above. It's another when the author's purpose could be ideally served by normal words, or by having a bit more style and learning how to create a desired effect in a reader without resorting to that shock value. (Again, that analogy I love so much: a great horror film is not comprised of scene after scene of the bad guy popping out of the shadows, accompanied by an enormous boom on the soundtrack, and surprising everyone; the best horror movies have just a generally creepy atmosphere and rely rarely, if ever, on such cheap effects.) Originally posted by HiryuuAs I've been saying, profanity is often a stand-in for skillful writing. That is, why carefully and meticulously craft a character, painting his picture through dialogue and actions and narration, when I can just have him curse left and right? In both cases the reader will realize "this character is a crude person," but I think the effect is created both more colorfully and more valuably when it is done through legitimate writing. Originally posted by HiryuuIt's not about being open-minded. Like I said above, I have the mouth of a sailor in my day to day "real" life. It's not about being offended by the language - very little offends me, in honesty. But face-to-face dialogue and the written word are two very, very different media, and what's tolerable for one is less so for the other. |
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