The Flies

JumpJump

Revised version of an older short story.
I've gotten advice from published writers and others, so just looking for a general reader response really (from a native audience, too).


THE FLIES

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I took it again, inhaled. Deep and slow. I felt the rush surge through my body and reach my head. My head swam in its relaxing grip; exhaled. I tilted my head upwards against my tattered shadow of a couch. My fingers fell asleep and I dropped the joint. It fell onto my bare feet and burnt. I jumped alert, cursed and picked up the remains, threw them in an ashtray. Then I sat.

I sat some more and thought slightly. I thought I smelled myself, and it wasn’t good. It was a deathly, putrid, hopeless stench. I ignored it and looked around. Clothes, cans, bottles, paper bags, plastic bags, empty beer crates, and a cat, somewhere. A mountain of stale party waste lay there in my living room. And a cat, somewhere. I hadn’t seen that cat in quite a while, now that I thought about it, and I wondered if he or she was doing as well as I was.

Rent was two weeks overdue. I hadn’t worked since I’d attacked that manager over an un-tucked shirt about a month ago. He hadn’t appreciated that. The attack, I mean. I sat and stared and did nothing. Technically, I existed. I hadn’t had a woman in too long though. Women didn’t like me, they took issue when I treated them like subterranean devil creatures. They didn’t know, but I treated everybody like subterranean devil creatures. Returned the favour. I sat and breathed and considered getting up. There is something comforting about being a bum sometimes, something soothing about that void. For a moment, I felt content. I didn’t get up though.

The thought hit me again. That cat. I glanced left to right, looked for life. I stayed still and waited for movement. Minutes passed and the mess looked back at me, static. I sat up. A week, I thought, a week and no cat. Not one cat sound, not one cat $hit. Maybe two weeks. A dead cat couldn’t be hard to find. The mess looked back at me. The smell alone; dead animal smell would take over a room. I tried, but couldn’t smell anything stronger than myself. I leaned forward, paused a moment, and said: “CAT.”

A knock on my door. Hard, desperate. Wrong door friend, I thought, waited. Another stutter of taps. I pushed some socks and shorts off my lap and forced my body to its feet. I removed the latch, opened the door. George’s face. It looked at me and trembled. “Come in.” I said. He made a nervous path through my collection of filth, sat down. My best friend, right there in my flat. Its general ambiance of chaos and despair seemed to wake him for a moment from whatever was happening in his life. “Jesus, Luke.” he said.
“Yeah. Jesus.” I said. He put his face in his hands like a heartbroken cinematic mother and began to cry. I watched him a moment, standing, made my way to the fridge, got two bottles of Miller, gave him one and opened the other. Still standing, I said: “Can you smell anything?”

George and I had been friends forever. I mean forever. We had everything in common when we were young. Unshaped by the world. We were born very similar people, but lead opposite lives since. He was friendly with most corporate bosses alive, had a reputation in that circle, some amount of respect. An eager young fellow, this is what I heard. He made money and looked happy. I looked at the man, all tears and snot and emotion, and wondered where it had all gone wrong for him.

“She left me.” he said.
“Sharon?”
“Sharon.” he trembled with the spasms of a child crying too hard.
“F uck her. Look…”
“I loved her, Luke. I really loved her.”
“F uck her,” I said, “drink your beer.” He raised the bottle slowly, and burst into another fit of distress, dribbling and sobbing. The bottle dropped onto the floor near his feet. I rushed to pick it up. Stood it on a table. “Jesus, George,” I said, “You’re wreckin’ the f uckin’ place.”
“She said she never wants to see me again. Over f ucking nothing, Luke.” he said, looking at me, “I feel so $hit. I’ve never felt this bad. Not once. Seriously. You have no idea. I mean it’s like…you know how happy I was?” I nodded, but I didn’t. “Yeah, well it’s like that happiness…reversed. I feel as bad as I felt good, you understand?”
“Yes.” I said. “George, is your cat still alive?” He frowned, still crying.
“You couldn’t understand,” he said, head lowered again, shaking, “You can’t feel $hit.”
“Just as well, look at the state of you.” I said “Look, George. How long before you smell a dead animal?” He stared at me for a moment, blankly, and broke down again.

“I’ll never be able to feel that again,” he said, “She’s f ucking everything to me. She’s perfect. She was it, she was it. There’s no way out of this way I feel…” he shot me this look and said: “Suicide is the only positive thing I can think of, Luke. That’s the only ray of f ucking light. I’m serious. I can’t live without Sharon. I can’t…” He went on and I sat there. Numb. None of it made much sense to me. A woman had destroyed him. I felt a hint of wisdom amidst my squalor. The Devil consoling the God.

Flies gather around corpses, I thought. They’re known for that. “George,” I said “listen, there might be something dead in here, and I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to find the f ucking thing. This is important.”

“I need to sleep.” He got up slow, and walked across my living room and into my bedroom. I went to the kitchen to get another beer. The fridge light looked inviting and warm. A sharp sound shot past my ear. I grabbed a cold Miller and followed the fly to my bedroom door, left ajar. It disappeared inside. The light was on but the room was empty. It gave a dead silence. I scanned it, squinted. No George. A cool breeze swam across my face and reminded me how the outside felt. I saw it: my large, glass window, gaping open. I walked towards it, and looked at a mound of human six stories down. Still. Peaceful. I took a swig of beer and, for some reason, I smiled.

Another knock, calmer. I walked towards my front door, opened it. “Hi, Sharon.” I said. She wasn’t very upset. She was slightly more nervous than usual, but not upset. “Hi…” she said, hesitated.
“Luke.”
“Luke,” she said, “Is George here? We had a fight. He’s being an idiot. But I’m worried, he’s been gone a good while. You haven’t seen him have you?”
“Do you smell that?”
“Jesus. Yes. What is it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Is George here?”
“He just left.” I said, and closed the door.

I made my way to the bedroom, closed the window, and sat down on my bed. A cat peered out beneath me. Meowed.

“Oh thank f uck,” I said, touched it, “you had me worried, you know.” I took a good look at it, fell back on the mattress, and didn’t do a thing.

JumpJump

Anyfink?

JumpJump

I'm going to try one more time, to appeal to ANYONE to give a response. A sentence, whatever.

Of all the writing sites I've ever visited, this one consistently gets f uck all responses -- unless your work is absolutely appalling, then you'll get slated/criticised for weeks.
It seems pointless posting anything here anymore.

Meh.

skateing dragon

I read it and I actually really likeed it. You had some great sentences although the story lacked a bit in description and flow.
Did Luke jump out the window? Because that part confused me. I liked the character thouhg, the Bum. Very interesting to read and learn about him.

JumpJump

Cheers for the feedback.

Luke? Luke is the bum/protaganist. His friend, George, jumped out the window: "I walked towards it, and looked at a mound of human six stories down. Still. Peaceful."

As for lack of description; it's how I always write. The bare minimum, skeletel prose. I prefer writing that give snippets of description over long, redundant, self indulgent descriptive passages.

Thanks for reading.

Earthhorse

I think you write quite well for the most part. I don't want to knit-pick because I think it would be pointless. However, some broad points, the first of which is writing in the first person is really difficult to carry off. The reason is that the reader pretty much has to believe that the story actually happened to you, which I don't. Not even for a second. You mightn't think that's a huge deal but it's worth bearing in mind.

Also, the first two paragraphs are littered with "I"s. I did this, I did that, then I did the other thing. Not healthy. It's like hitting the reader on the head with a little hammer, over and over again. The problem pretty much dissipates after that and it is a product of first person narration which you should try and overcome if you choose to stick with it.

Second point, and I don't usually comment on story but there's little else to critique, is that I didn't really buy your reaction at the end. Don't get me wrong, I realise the piece is meant to be a little over the top, a joke essentially, and an absurd one at that, but I don't quite think you pulled it off perfectly. I think this could be fixed quite easily, perhaps by dropping the reference to George as your best friend (clearly a lie in light of your concern over the cat) and, if that doesn't manage it (though I don't know how you're going to judge that), toning down the importance of your past friendship with him.

But these are minor points. On the whole, the piece reads well, has a healthy pace, is enjoyable and, with a little tidying, could be almost perfect, so kudos to you and keep it up.

JumpJump

Thanks for reading.

Interesting that you didn't fully believe the narrative; I haven't been told that before. It is (intentionally) absurd and comic, so I suppose it's understandable.

Yeah I know what you mean about the response. But, the response is the point of the whole story. Interesting aswell that you advised dropping the 'best friend' bit. It used to say 'best friend', but doesn't anymore...for this very reason. It just says 'friend'. But the impression must still be the same. Maybe I'll remove the friend reference altogether, or edit.

Cheers.

Earthhorse

JumpJump wrote: »

He made a nervous path through my collection of filth, sat down. My best friend, right there in my flat.

Nope, it still says best friend.

JumpJump

Oh $hit, you're right. :rolleyes:

Mustn't have put up the most recent revision.
And now I can't edit the bleedin thing...

nervous_twitch

I think people are more driven to respond when they have a criticism rather than a compliment, which is why it can occasionally be disheartening to subject your creative works to the internet.. all the same, its a learning process, and who knows, you might actually learn something constructive.

I actually thought the writing style was endearing; first person is difficult to pull off, but certainly in parts you spoke credibly, and I found it easy enough to drift into the narrative. Sometimes though, it sounded a little contrived - I mean, you say you write with 'skeletal description', and occasionally this bare sort of despondence almost seemed forced. I dont have huge time for indulgent descriptions at any rate, but that doesnt mean I do have time for the indulgent lack of. Trying to connect with the reader and at the same time writing with a certain elusive quality can be difficult.

Also, on a general note, there was too much static; just for a short story, there was too much going on. I felt the random tragedy at the end wasn't really neccessary - a story can be terrible, and miserable, and effective without somebody dying at the end, particulary when we are lead to believe (with the appearance of Sharon at the end) that the death was unjustified. It seemed to come out of nowhere, like some sort of quaint melodramatic conclusion. Adding to this; the whereabouts of the cat, the obvious problems in Lukes life (the job, the women, the drugs), the mess, the flies, George.. it was just a little too packed, which I think is better suited to a longer piece.

OK, thats my rant over (which is all just personal opinion you should remember..!) Just to offset all that moaning a little bit, I enjoyed reading it. Thanks

Earthhorse

nervous_twitch wrote: »

I think people are more driven to respond when they have a criticism rather than a compliment

Agreed, and I should point out that I only respond to stories where I can see the writer or piece has potential. I wouldn't be bothered with constructive criticism if I thought I was wasting my time.