OFFENSIVE CONTENT

54321Dave

This is the first short story I ever wrote. It's pretty dark and vulgar and I consider it an imperfect work. I got tired of working on it though so this is the final copy. It's too much for some so please don't read it if you're a bit of a softy. Thanks, Dave.

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~ CHANGING LANES ~

Mid-July, summer of 1995. We were about to go big time with the arrival of the expansion Jaguars. I was in my early thirties and in poor health, although mentally I was still fairly sound. 5 o'clock had passed and the night had bade it's farewell with an embarrassed whisper. An ascendant sun spilled down molten lava rays onto the tarred rooftops of the city's brown bricks - along which they pranced like homosexual gingerbread men. Cinnamon sprinkles shimmering. The heat wave that had set upon Jacksonville was to continue into a twelfth day. Fierce as any thus far.

But the daytime was a world not of my concern. I worked the evenings of Orange Park taking blasts of sour semen across my bow with hate-filled raw dogs thrust up neath my poop deck. As usual, I had finished at the diner with toast and eggs before administering myself Clonazepam, 6 milligrams. Wound down some, I lumbered along decayed pavement to my building like a desiccating slug having come in contact with garden pellets. I grimaced as my pig leather whoring costume chaffed without mercy against my bruised cum-dried thighs.

Through the haze that hung over town like a pustule ridden leper, occasional shurikens of white light struck my naked eyes adding to the sum of torments with which life greeted me. I turned my head about and caught glimpse of the home for those of special need. Through the eyes of the building I had become ensnared in the gaze of a young mongoloid. A slow arm raised to wave. The hand flopped wildly like a carp freshly plucked from a muddy creek. The child grinned, grim news fortold.

I mounted the steps to my apartment and with much relief did I turn my back on the infant morn. To it my ass bequeathed a fart. The hot gas hissed as it burst from my anus and hence squelched aloud as it mingled with the salty perspiration that welled between my cheeks. Now free it dissipated into the street, welcome amongst its constituency in the city's sick perfume.

Upon this emission, the state of my anus made swift return to my mind. It glowed brilliant red as if scalded by hot steam. Sodomy made great demand of its ventricular nature. Traumatized much were my sphincter ani internus and externus. I cursed the nature of my work.

Clasping the rusted iron railing, I heaved myself upwards. From atop the stairs, the shadows produced a figure as if it were a native of the darkness itself. I rubbed my eyes and refocused. Garry my neighbor: “Are you working?” He exposed an oily penis.

I reasoned that the following day's cigarettes and drink would be free if I were to take this one last load. I think most - including those not involved specifically in street work – have probably rationalized their actions in a similar way at some point in their lives. Perhaps it is universal. I slunk to my knees, my face held the expression of a stunned cow. Again I farted. His musty scrotum began to daub at my face. He molded it into the craters that housed my eyes and patted his shaft atop my forehead and about my ears before engaging his thrust within my wet gob.

Soon my mouth flooded as Garry jerked and shuddered. He cut his engines and a great quandary was heard to exhale overhead. He disappeared back into the darkness as if it had eaten him.

***

I unzipped and sprawled about my bed. Springs near death groaned beneath my whale of a frame. I lit a cigarette and released a stream of blue vapor into the air. I felt a great rush come over me. My breakfast had spontaneously began to erode and my bowels quickly filled with diarrhea. I had a minute at most.

Atop the toilet, I covered a finger in baby oil and gently inserted it into my butt, coating the raw skin to protect it from the blast of gastric acid that was to ensue. Once prepared, I relaxed and allowed the watery stool to depart. Unexpectedly, the load was slight - as if my ass had merely spat at the toilet. The oil had provided some defense, but the assault had been successful enough. The lesions that lined the membranous walls of my colon began to scream out as if in concert. A terrific crescendo of torture emanated from my ass. I began to cry.

When one sobs gently it is often the mark of spiritual despair. Yet it was conspiracy of both physical pain and mental anguish that brought the tears that ran down my face. I thought wistfully of my youth. I remembered birthday candles. I remembered Ms. Ruddlesticks writing out the ABCs on her chalkboard. I remembered the sensation of being loved: I had once been someone's child. With great strain I tried to recall exactly when I had made my transition, but the memories would not come. There was only the state of my ass to remark upon the destination at which I had arrived. I pulled the lever and my waste disappeared fan-like. The drain gurgled and the pipes within the walls rattled their cruel applause.

***

Trembling fingers searched the knobs aside my clock-radio. I thought that it might be the day that I would go. Then the eponymous classic Life is Life cut through the sound of my despair:

And you call when it's over
You call it should last
Every minute of the future
Is a memory of the past
'Cause we all gave the power
We all gave the best
When everyone gave everything
And every song everybody sings
Life is life

Hearing the tune anew, it occurred to me that perhaps Opus implicitly disagreed with Bacon’s famous dictum that “chiefly the mold of a man’s fortune is in his own hands.” Sleep came over me like a fog.

THE END

brendansmith

Jesus Dave. Thats a disgusting story.

54321Dave

I'm happy that you are disgusted (I think). I really tried to capture the spiritual experience of being a low tracks prostitute. It's a sordid place where any sense of dignity or self worth is long vanished.

pickarooney

Do you actually want comments on it? If you're going to leave it as is there's no point going into detail or pointing out mistakes, but overall it's a decent effort, nicely paced and certainly not dull. It's clearly overwritten as the narration of a low-rent strumpet so the intriguing question of why exactly someone who speaks/writes this way is slumming it at as two-bit whore hangs there. Which is not a bad thing.

54321Dave

Well of course comments are great. I don't see why not. I meant for it to be clunky and I've embraced american english, but there's always awkward parts to be ironed out. I prefer to just carry on and have a collection of short stories than fuss over one. I find that after a few decades of bad writers and pretentious literary rules, its fun to just write. This particular tale was heavily inspired by my time with certain prostitutes.

Boston

You clearly spent a lot of time picking out just the right words but as a whole I think its that bit too clever and looses shock value at a result. It isn't jarring it isn't raw, its clearly well polished and pristine.

DRakE

tries too hard

54321Dave

No, I just finished The Road so it was actually a spoof of that kind of style. Things are a lot more fluid when you don't try at all.

weiming

I'm not a professional, or even particularly well read, but I thought perhaps the original poster would appreciate some specific input on his post.

Specific criticism (in the original sense of the word, that is, specific observations):

I understand this minimalist, "in medias res" beginning style, but I'm still a little confused by

"We were about to go big time with the arrival of the expansion Jaguars."

I may just be out of the loop but, what does this mean? I'm a little thrown off by most of the slightly skewed imagery. I understand unique metaphors and imagery are the goal, but this was perhaps a little over-done in the interest of making the work more "artistic"? I had to read a couple of sentences twice to make heads or tails of things.

You might consider removing or changing things like:
"my pig leather whoring costume"
"occasional shurikens of white light struck my naked eyes"
"a great quandary was heard to exhale overhead."

The first is so unlikely as someone's way of describing themselves, the second simply doesn't seem to work as a metaphor, and I'm not sure what is meant by the use of "quandary" (predicament/difficult situation) in the third.

I also think you could totally lose the last two sentences, or better yet, replace them with something more down to earth, more likely to come from someone like the protagonist. In my opinion, a plain, simple observation on her situation from her would hit much harder.

General criticism:

There seems to be some confusion between omniscient narration and first person limited narration in this first paragraph.

I have to agree with >pickarooney's comment. The Poetic, post-modernistic style with which the protagonist describes the world around her, and her identity simply don't match at all. I think you would do well to separate them clearly into a narrator painting the background, and perhaps omniscient observations for the protagonist.

"She felt her clothing chafing and thought..."

Having said that: This piece purports itself to be a rather grim and fatalistic reality as seen through the eyes of the somewhat pathetic protagonist, but it actually reads as someone's rather cold and derogatory observation of such a character. The dissonance between the character's identity and her voice makes it impossible to believe in her and the whole concept of the piece: "What goes on in her head"

It seems to me, people tend to seek a psychological equilibrium, where they adopt a positive or neutral view of themselves as a kind of defense mechanism. Does a filthy whore think of herself as a pathetic filthy despicable whore? Perhaps deep down, but not overtly. That's what other people think of her. She might see herself as an unfortunate victim, or a survivor, or an empty shell just trying to make it through the day, but her overt opinion of herself will almost always be positive or neutral. Even people who commit unspeakable acts or crimes often see themselves in a victimised/helpless or even positive light, not as negative.

As a result, I don't experience and sympathise with the protagonist's woes, but stand apart feeling superior, simply disgusted by the protagonists situation.

Final thoughts:

I think (personally) what was attempted was a juxtaposition of a very ugly and degenerate world, the severe beauty that can sometimes be seen in decay, and compassion for one who was once like ourselves but has fallen.

Only to be honest, I think the author got it totally backward (sorry). I think way too much time was invested in playing up visual imagery that is supposed to induce revulsion in the reader (eew, dried semen), and not nearly enough in developing the ruined state of the protagonist's soul, one paragraph of vague memories is just not enough.

Ultimately, a spirit that has been crushed, great evil that has been visited upon innocence will haunt the reader much longer than any snapshot of a scarred anus or feces sliding down the bowl.

These things may make the work seem "gritty", but focusing on them also makes the work a little empty.

Having said all that. I think the author has real ability. I didn't dislike the piece and particularly enjoyed where the distinct style of metaphor seemed to work rather well as:

"Through the eyes of the building I had become ensnared in the gaze of a young mongoloid. A slow arm raised to wave. The hand flopped wildly like a carp freshly plucked from a muddy creek."

I do think the piece could have much more impact if:
(a)The issue with the narrative style could be resolved by separating it into omniscient narration and the private thoughts of the protagonist, or simplifying the narration to something in step with the protagonist's identity.

(b)certain metaphors were reconsidered and made more consistent with the rest of the work.

(c)The focus could be changed 180 degrees to closely analysing the protagonists mental state, her emotional reaction to her surroundings, her deeper and more real opinions of herself and her situation, including the thin facade she's put up to get by, and the deeper, real disappointment and sorrow running beneath.

Finally >54321Dave, please let me know if you've written/write anything else, I would very much like to read it.

dr.bollocko

54321Dave wrote: »

No, I just finished The Road so it was actually a spoof of that kind of style. Things are a lot more fluid when you don't try at all.

You mean you used a stream of consciousness style? Just sort of let it flow? One cut? No editing? Is it On the road you had just read?

54321Dave

No, no, it was "The road" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbLgszfXTAY by Cormac McCarthy that I had just read. Strictly airport literature these days.

Thanks for the input guys. Some explanations:

“We were about to go big time with arrival of the expansion Jaguars.”

In 1995 the NFL expanded to include the Jacksonville Jaguars. I think some lonely people take an interest in these kind of civic advancements in order to feel part of the community. Joining the big league was supposed to put them on the map.

“pig leather whoring costume” Prostitutes tend to wear cheap pig-leather outfits. That's why they squeak when they walk. And I think you could only really wear that kind of stuff while out whoring.

“occasional shurikens of white light...”

I know ninja throwing stars are a ridiculous metaphor for sun light, but again, it was McCarthy spoof. Same thing with the gingerbread men. I know its terrible but I wrote strictly for myself. I don't think I can stand to read another description of a sunrise/sunset. Here's a particularly awful one:

“Above the heat and improbable skyline of the city a brass moon has risen and the clouds ran before it like watered ink.”

“A great quandary was heard...”

Now satisfied, her neighbor is overcome with guilt. She can sense his uncertainty about how to feel about his actions in the way he exhales. He vanishes in shame.

I don't think I could lose the last two sentences (not least because I wanted to abruptly end the story), because she states at the beginning that her mental health is still fairly sound – suggesting that it has since deteriorated. After reaching her threshold for emotional despair, she is beginning her descent into schizophrenia: her suicidal mood is brushed aside by a philosophical examination of a horrible Opus tune.

I also realized that it made the title make sense. I originally chose “Changing Lanes” as a lark because it sounds pretentious, but then:

someone's child > whore/outcast > crazy person.

Changing lanes?

I kind of prefer the sad chapter about Ms. Ruddlesticks to be short and sweet because it stands out from the rest which is pretty much a juvenile fart joke. Also I think making half the story about it would be more for the female reader.

As far as being awkard and annoying to read, here's a sample from one of his other books (Suttree):

“Old tins and jars and ruined household artifacts that rear from the fecal mire of the flats like landmarks in the trackless vales of dementia praecox. A world beyond all fantasy, malevolent and tactile and dissociate, the blown lightbulbs like shorn polyps semitranslucent and skull colored bobbing blindly down and spectral eyes of oil and now and again the beached and stinking forms of feotal humans bloated like young birds mooneyed and bluish or stale grey.”

I used to live down the hall from a fat prostitute that would be coming home just as I was going off to uni (don't worry I'm not Garry). I just felt like writing 1000 words about what her life might be like – McCarthy style.

pickarooney

I can't quite get my head around what you're trying to achieve. I've never read any Cormac McCarthy books but I think if you're going to spoof anyone you need to get a firmer grasp of their style and exaggerate it in a more obvious fashion, e.g. an extremely elaborate description of something mundane like pouring a bowl of cereal.

Here, you've involved the reader with this curious character and the writing style gets in the way of what the reader is naturally inclined to want to discover - who she is and what she's doing. If the story itseld is immediately of no interest, the reader can better appreciate that the absurdly overblown style (if this is what you're lampooning) is itself the focus of the piece.

weiming

>54321Dave, it's been a couple of days, but I did not ignore your response.

Thanks for the explanation about some of those points. I didn't mean to suggest that you lose the ending of the story, which is key of course, especially in making the story hang together, but to try to accomplish that end in a slightly different way. As it is, the end felt greatly out of sync, because of the omniscient/first person limited cross in narration, where the omniscient voice is philosophical and the first person voice is self-hating e.g.

"I lumbered...like a slug..."

"My whoring costume..."

"My face held the expression of a stunned cow..."

I understand the meaning of "whoring costume", I　just can't imagine the protagonist saying "so I bought this whoring costume the other day..." or "what do you think of my whoring costume..."

This is what I meant by the dissonance caused by the narrative style, it's hard to believe these descriptions are the way the protagonist sees and describes herself.

H. Flashman

Hilarious

H. Flashman

Okay read the lot don't think much of the ending. Also don't think much of some of the obscure references "Expanding Jaguars?" Personally I'd drop stuff like that. Too many similes along the likes of of "like a postule ridden..." They loose any sort of shock value after a bit I'd save stuff like that for when it might have an impact.

But the good news is I was laughing, "homosexual gingerbread men!" But regarding the ending we're back to more obscure references etc. Why not end with a bang rather than a fizzle? Have your character performing some other disgusting feat that reveals him to be a man or something.