Something strange... unknown mental origin.

Blush_01

No title for this one. Feedback, once again, more than welcomed.

“Starlight, Star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” Floating among the faces and debris of good times lies and lingers a sort of sad, hopeless hope. It quavers like a candle in the darkness or a pure note hanging on a soft breeze. It hums and twists and heckles a lone performer as the audience stills, barely breathing. They’re caught in the moment, imagining the taunts to be part of the performance. The player knows better. Down in his bones, under layers of flesh and skin and hair are seeds of doubt that this uncaring hope provokes into fruition. With a sudden gasp he falls upon his own sword, and the pool of burgundy released is applauded as a magnificent feat for the make up department by some. By others, the realistic depiction of the obscene is too difficult to stomach.

His shallow gasps evaporate in a hale of applause and cheers as the pool grows and grows, infecting the air with a heavy scent of metal and a spray of minute droplets that spattered first, before the flood. As the applause disperses, the curtain lowers and rises on an unmoving body, and fresh, demanding panic begins to settle on the crowd. Crowing in the background, this hopeless hope beckons a co-star to the corpse and the static tension - prickling on people’s skin - bites with a new vigour.

As the curtain falls once more, some family members and friends storm the stage. Disbelief is a common trend, as nobody expects the loss to have been real; it has to have been a joke. It’s just a gag, right? Just a gag. Not really the loss of someone dear in such a futile manner. Never futile. There has to have been a reason, there has to be some value, no way could this loss have been a needless waste with absolutely no real reason behind it. Some mother tears at the heavy hanging velvets and twists of cord, calling a name to no response. Some father follows in hot pursuit. He catches her as she begins to fall, spilling into a molten pool beside the tragically pointless one. As she weeps openly, his heart tears and bleeds into his chest cavity, filling the empty hole made deep and naked by this unreasonable loss.

Outside, a girl waits patiently. Work has finished for the evening; she’s late but just in time to continue something barely started, something that might never stop. That scares her… but secretly thrills her more than she’ll admit. The faces pouring from the doors of the theatre don’t bear the joyous looks she expects. Jubilant, she waits for the crowds to cease, so she can go and claim tonight’s sweet prize. One phone call to alert people to her intentions, and she is a free agent for the night. Worried teachers begin to split the panic riddled crowd into manageable groups. Now she starts to worry.

She has felt how a heart breaks. Inside her chest, fragments beat in unison, but they are all independent and individual. No longer is that organ a complete whole – it is merely a sum of its almost pointless parts. He still supports her, but she is now on her feet. Her eyes beg for lies, placid, placating lies that tell a truth or two, one that can be hidden behind falsehoods until she is strong enough to deal with them. Who can she blame? Someone has to be culpable; this cannot be nobody’s fault.

Backstage, a peal of tears can be heard, beating with the rhythm of an old pendulum clock. Inhalations and exhalations are carefully choreographed, completely in sync. This is senseless, but the willingness to embrace the obvious spins a mother into a passionate frenzy. Nobody is safe, nothing is sacred as her barrage of pain rains down on the heads of the weeping and the blind, those who should know better and refuse to, despite her demands.

Outside, tears have started to flow in earnest. She wonders what has happened. She hears sirens, and really begins to worry. What has happened, what’s going on? Frantically her eyes and ears fill with savagery as she tears her way through the crowds to the entrance door, claws her way to the corridor, forces herself through mobs of weeping women and comforting men, appalled teens and confused children. She doesn’t stop to question that something is wrong – she knows it and feels sick in the pit of her stomach. She stops suddenly, hunches down and hugs her knees, curling into a foetal ball. This is bad. Very bad. Unfixably so, and she’s powerless to make it stop, make them tell her what happened, what’s going on, why is everyone upset and leaving so quickly. Like the mother, she wants lies, sweet, well behaved lies that avoid the evil truth at all costs.


Today, I stood stiff, black and white at a wooden podium. I addressed over a hundred people, each one eaten by grief. A single inconsolable girl, a red-eyed family and tear-stained friends. Tortured teachers. At the service, a guard of honour was made, a broken bridge of hands rising at an uneven angle to brush the sky, a last attempt to touch the absent. A sleek black coffin, a single blue rose, red and white carnations and pinching black shoes. Nobody knows how anything happened – the sharpened metal, the width of the blade, the rapidity of the disintegration, a blatant disassociation of flesh and whatever stands for a soul.

Tonight, nobody sleeps easily. Tonight all is still: livid and bleeding, but still. Each inhalation smarts, bites, crucifies, but peace will descend, while memories live on. The pain will never die, just fade.

cjs19

I like it. I'll be honest it took two reads for me to extract something from it, but that's because I see evrything in two right now. Anyway I like the idea behind it, has an American feel to it. Ever read Saki? Particularly liked the opening,___Starlight, Star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” Floating among the faces and debris of good times lies and lingers a sort of sad, hopeless hope. It quavers like a candle in the darkness or a pure note hanging on a soft breeze. It hums and twists and heckles a lone performer as the audience stills, barely breathing.___maybe even try work with that a little more. That whole celestial theme, stars, darkness and floating conjure space imagery for some reason, which gives it an ethereal quality. Thats what I imagined when I read it. Could possibly set an image for a theatre backdrop or something if you know what I mean. The stars against the black and then pan down to the character. Just a suggestion. No criticisms really ___"a broken bridge of hands rising at an uneven angle to brush the sky, a last attempt to touch the absent"___ that's English at it's highest quality, simple phrasing with paramount effectiveness. Very Impressive.

McFiddler

I also had to read this piece more than once which makes me grateful that it's a short story and not a novel. This piece is quite abstract and I got the impression that there is a lot happening and a lot suggested. The writing is of such quality that I definitely didn't mind re-reading it again and again. The dark and dreamy nature of the piece really captures the reader and the imagination is held hostage by the nightmare.
I don't have any critism just a few comments and questions. Also I thought you might be interested in finding out what meaning the reader gets from your writing so I have written my interpretation of a few lines.

Some mother tears at the heavy hanging velvets and twists of cord, calling a name to no response. Some father follows in hot pursuit

Are you describing here the performers parents as some mother and some father or are they members of the audience who both have children? If they are the performers parents I don't dislike or disagree with you describing them so, as it seems to fit somehow, but I was just wondering why you did?

His shallow gasps evaporate in a hale of applause and cheers as the pool grows and grows, infecting the air with a heavy scent of metal and a spray of minute droplets that spattered first, before the flood. As the applause disperses, the curtain lowers and rises on an unmoving body, and fresh, demanding panic begins to settle on the crowd. Crowing in the background, this hopeless hope beckons a co-star to the corpse and the static tension - prickling on people’s skin - bites with a new vigour.

The imagery used in this paragraph is outstanding in my opinion and perfectly describes the confusion and absolute horror of the scene. Excellent.

Backstage, a peal of tears can be heard, beating with the rhythm of an old pendulum clock. Inhalations and exhalations are carefully choreographed, completely in sync. This is senseless, but the willingness to embrace the obvious spins a mother into a passionate frenzy. Nobody is safe, nothing is sacred as her barrage of pain rains down on the heads of the weeping and the blind, those who should know better and refuse to, despite her demands.

Don't really understand what is happening here. Why are the inhalations and exhalation choreographed? Has it something to do with the way people feel they ought to behave in certain circumstances? 'Nobody is safe, nothing is sacred' Does the grief of the performers mother offer some threat to the people present or is it just that since the death of the performer is so simple and meanlingless that it could happen to anybody and she is so consumed by this grief that absolutely nothing else matters ?
Who are the blind? Who are those who should know better and what is she demanding from them? Are these just the desperate, panic stricken, disorganised thoughts of the mother trying to make sense of what has happened or do they hold some truth in describing the people at the scene.

Outside, a girl waits patiently. Work has finished for the evening; she’s late but just in time to continue something barely started, something that might never stop..

What is this girls relationship with the performer? I get the impression that they have recently become lovers but for some reason I'm not sure.

It seems to me that throughout this story you want to convey the idea of pointlessness, hoplessness and desperation to the reader which are three words which sort of describes the whole teenage angst thing, This is interesting as you have already expressed in a different thread that you are somewhat disgruntled by so many other writers adopting the teenage angst style of writing. The fact that you effectively express these feelings in this imaginative way without adopting the mundane style is brilliant, refreshing and somewhat cheeky

I've never read any of your material here before today! I'm looking foward to more.

P.S. poor little miss

Blush_01

Ok, firstly in response to the "Poor little miss thing"... the reason I've come down so hard on her is that I flogged a dead horse for a long time too. I can see what she's doing, and I think it's a waste... she's jumping on a bandwagon, when she probably has potential she's never thought about realising because she's super-glued into poetry and it upsets me. She could be fan-bloody-tastic if she gave herself a chance but poetry is not for some people, and I'd love to see what she'd come up with if she posted explorations of prose etc. here, because she owes it to herself. What she writes isn't bad, it's the medium she writes it in. I'm angry that poetry is eating people up again... it doesn't have the right. I just really don't want to see her (and there are so many people here like her) selling herself short. If I had shown people the rubbish I wrote at that age, I'm sure I would have received the same criticism, and it would have been deserved - I say what I feel because I think it's all part of the learning process for a writer - writing for yourself is all well and good, but if you're putting it on the internet it's not just for yourself, and therefore the audience's opinion counts. For that reason, you need to listen to what people say, take it on board and assess how useful what they've said is and work the good points into your work to improve yourself. You never stop learning. That's why I keep posting here - because although it's rare that people actually respond to the pieces I post( or was until recently anyway), I put them up to improve myself, to get feedback and build up my skills. I'm not trying to post for my friends, I don't want people to massage my ego, that's not what this site should be about.

Secondly, thanks for your questions and comments. To start at the beginning...

The some mother and some father thing just shows that it's no particular person who's lost, it's a mother and a father of an actor, it could be anyone's. I thought it would allow people to develop the dead guy and his parents in their own heads, give the reader an attachment to the characters because they aren't prescribed, they're their characters.

About the choreography of the breathing - if you've ever watched someone breath, I'm sure you'll probably have noticed that there's a distinct rhythm to it, almost like a complex and individual dance that your lungs and ribcage engage in completely subconsciously. The mother's need to lash out is also subconscious - she's not attacking people because she wants to: she's no longer herself, she's more animalistic than she would ever consciously allow herself to be. And in her eyes, the "weeping and blind" are responsible - they allowed the blade to be used when unsafe, they're ultimately to blame. If she was in her normal state of mind, she'd never act this way.

Yeah, you got the girl thing in one. It's like they were at the beginning of something and it was so new that nobody else knew about it yet, so now she has nobody to mourn with because nobody knows the significance of her as part of the actor's life except her and the actor, and he's dead.

Teenage angst: To my mind, teen angst is no more about pointlessness, hoplessness and desperation than it is about Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. It's about selfishness, poor-little-me-nobody-understands-me-or-what-I'm-going-through nonsense, blaming people for the fact that you have nothing to rebel against, or that they don't listen when you're not willing to tell them what's going on anyway, because when they do ask you just think it's better for them to figure it out on their own, after all, they should know you. That kind of crap. That's teen angst. Teenagers who have problems have problems, but slathering them all over the internet etc. is angsty, if it's just attention seeking - which is what teenaged angst is centrally about. ATTENTION. The only pointlessness, hoplessness and desperation in teen angst is the contrived and assumed pointlessness, hoplessness and desperation that said teenagers revel in.

I have no problem with people having genuine problems, but attention-seeking for the sake of it is irritating. I know it's a phase that millions of teenagers go through, but there's more to writing than telling everyone about the person who bullied you as a seven year old (done that one myself) in a really crap poem (and it was, just nobody ever saw it... which is how is should stay with angsty bs).

Have I explained myself?

BEAT

how did criticising littlemissprincess work its way into this thread? I was reading the post above correctly was I not?
As much as I may agree with what has been said,
I dont think thats what we want to do here so lets not.

As far as your own writing, I do enjoy it and hope to see more.

cjs19

Beat: I believe criticising lilmiss is precisely what lilmiss let herself in for when posting on the board. If she is determined to be a poet, she will take the criticism and refine her work. This filtering of what you as moderator specifically think is pc should be kept to yourself, until you deem something highly inappropriate. There have been no wholly negative remarks on the girls character, only criticism of her poetry. My work is here for all to judge also, and I can take criticism and debate it. This is precisely what we are here to do.

BEAT

cjs19 wrote:

Beat: I believe criticising lilmiss is precisely what lilmiss let herself in for when posting on the board. If she is determined to be a poet, she will take the criticism and refine her work. This filtering of what you as moderator specifically think is pc should be kept to yourself, until you deem something highly inappropriate. There have been no wholly negative remarks on the girls character, only criticism of her poetry. My work is here for all to judge also, and I can take criticism and debate it. This is precisely what we are here to do.

You just earned yourself a 1 week ban. I fyou dont understand why then read the charter I dont have time for the likes of you.

If anyone else takes this thread out of topic it will be locked.

McFiddler

Blush_01 wrote:

About the choreography of the breathing - if you've ever watched someone breath, I'm sure you'll probably have noticed that there's a distinct rhythm to it, almost like a complex and individual dance that your lungs and ribcage engage in completely subconsciously.

Ah I see... I took it to mean that the people were sort of breathing in sync as if choreographed. Makes perfect sense now though.

Cheers

P.S. I wasn't at all saying that critism is a bad thing. It's just you have such a mastery of the English written language that you have the ability to use it as a whip. Whipishhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!