Total Write Off - 1.2 (War) - finished

pickarooney

The second match of the first round sees WHITE take on MAGENTA on the theme of War. For more details on the competition, see here.

Voting is by poll, anonymous and open for 5 days. As far as possible, please try and give some feedback for the story you vote for and the one you don't vote for.

pickarooney

MAGENTA

Unwrapped, I sit like old dough on a cold chair. I am ugly, naked, a large file spread across a desk. A former me would not have sat here half baked and waiting. I resent it as passively as I can, playing with my hair. The minutes tick by with slow sterility. The second hand strolls around the clock face, searching for some deeper meaning in its life. My disconnected skin begins to sweat against the smooth plastic. I am lost inside my exterior. Soon the doctor’s brisk footsteps in shiny black shoes will return. He has a spot of dried blood on his left toe. Its flat brown sheen reflects nothing. It is also useless in this situation, which is strangely comforting. People and things scud past the door, their silhouettes flashing by the frosted glass letting shadows dance into this darkening room. I exhale slowly. I am waiting – I told you that already? Well, I am waiting. I have no idea how much longer I might sit here, alone. I barely remember why I am waiting in the first place.

Occasionally I glimpse myself in the mirror on the long counter top that contains a sink and medical paraphernalia. Overhead, the rows of cabinets have a bump bar at the lower edge. I have the same ones in my kitchen. That’s depressing. Although, my cabinets don’t have the bump bar. I am not here to discuss cabinetry, however. I am here to discuss events. Things that have happened in the past, that I had hoped would be left there. Perhaps if I am still and absolutely silent while sitting here, naked on plastic like a cheap, tasteless lunch from a generic cafeteria, this will all fade away. Frankly, I wouldn’t hurry to meet me either. The things I’m here to discuss aren’t pleasant. I can’t find the words to describe them, though I can give you other details.

His height: about two inches shorter than me, maybe 5’8”.
His hair: speckled grey, prematurely. Greasy. Thick. A rough bowl cut, like his mother had done it in a fit of impatience.
His breath: smelled of whiskey and the many hours since he brushed his teeth.
His clothes: brand named, but dishevelled, and disgracefully worn shoes.
His hands: clammy, like warm, damp rubber. Wandering. Forceful.

I need to stop there.

That too was a situation I thought I could just wait out. I curled up small in the dark and listened to the thunder overhead. Glasses smashed. Something metal tore apart with a terrible groan. When he walked away I wondered who this shell he’d left behind was. She smelled like him, his foul breath and lank hair. Her eyes were hollow - the same blue as before, but empty now, or maybe too full of emptiness to hold the old spark she had before. The worst part was her silence, even after the door banged closed behind him. She jerked like she’d been slapped then. Her mouth fell open. It hurts my heart to remember this.

I don’t know how long she sat there, with her back to the broken coffee table, tights torn. At some point she got up and left the entire mess behind her, with the exception of small chunks of broken glass that lingered in her hair from the coffee table. At that point one fragment was still embedded in her scalp. She just climbed into the shower fully dressed and turned the water on. She stood there for hours under the cold rain, shivering, being beaten senseless. Her teeth played a dirge, mournful little castanets beating to the rhythm of the water. One of the girls found her there, mascara and tears streaming down her cheeks. I sometimes wonder how so little mascara, not even a gram, could stand the onslaught of that water for so long.

The next morning when the girls had found her they wrapped her in towels, dried her off. They hushed her like a baby. She never said a word, just sobbed, dry heaves of the shoulders and soul. She knows his name, his parents’ occupations, his fusty old-fashioned snobbery. She knows how many freckles he had on his left arm. She knows how many grey hairs he had in his eyebrows. She knows the pressing weight of him, the pressure of his thumbs on her throat, the struggle to breathe, the inability to scream, the clawing claustrophobic closeness of him on her skin. She remembers this like a victim, like he was a warrior but not a hero. He had been swift, persistent, like most warriors. A small little maggoty feck of a man, that’s how her personal guilt remembers him on good days. He’s also known as the overwhelmer, the victor, the wrecking ball. He took his umbrella before striding down the hall and out the door. By then she was someone else’s mess.

The living room is now a battleground. It takes her breath hostage when she walks through the door. The sofa has been moved. The TV now faces the window. Nobody speaks of the coffee table’s absence. Even the room’s colour has changed, from bright white to a dusty mushroom. The girls called it modern. It makes her think of a wasteland, something used and dirty. She hates it and wants the crisp white back again. She is exhausted.

The doctor finally arrives, shuffles through the door and past the strange equipment on the left to get to his seat. He rifles through some papers awkwardly. Beginning his form filling, he asks me some basic questions. He already knows the answers. I mumble my replies – name, address, date of birth, all already on the charts in front of him. I’ve waited here naked and alone for this? I pick at my cuticles, stare at my feet. I don’t look up.

After some time, I realise he’s asked me another question. He’s coming closer. Words clutter on my tongue, gluing together and blocking my mouth, filling it with what I should have said. I see his shoes approach, the dull brown stain on his toe edging forward.

“Get the fuсk away from me you prick.”

pickarooney

MAGENTA

Dear Abigail,
Hope you and the kids are well. I wish I could have been there for Jack’s birthday – I’m hoping to be back home real soon. Half the time, the squadron captain seems to think I’d be of more use back home anyway! The weather is almost a hundred degrees, you’d love it here. Tell Jack and Sarah that I love them, and that Daddy will see them real soon.
Love you always and forever,
Tommy.

Dear Mom and Dad,
I was passing the squadron captain’s room this morning, and I saw his lip trembling as he wrote his letter home. Maybe I was imagining it, but something tells me I needed to write to you. I love you both dearly, and I know that if anything happens you’ll take care of Abigail and the kids. Tell them nice stories about me.
Your son,
Tommy.

smcgiff

MAGENTA

One was very well written, but a little joyless - although in keeping with the title.

The other was very clever, but far too short to be a contender.

Oryx

MAGENTA

White is very well crafted. Some great phrases put together there and the story is intruiging. You can see a bit of work and some headscratching gone into getting it right.

Majenta. What can I say? It was two opening paragraphs, not a story. Bit of a half-hearted effort.

azzeretti

MAGENTA

I like WHITE. It is a little over elaborate at the start but gets going really well.

Majenta - clever but way too short.

pickarooney

MAGENTA

The Aftermath is a very strong piece. There's just enough detail to satisfy the reader yet leave questions unanswered, even after multiple reads. Honestly I can only see one winner in this one.

Magenta - I have to agree that there's too little in this. I guess you're taking a sort of Hemmingway less-is-more approach and for what it is it's rather good. Let's say it would have been a serious contender in a 150 word flash fiction competition.

Insect Overlord

MAGENTA

Magenta needs at least three more letters. Lovely idea, but more suited to a flash-fiction exercise. It reminded me of a poem I heard on the radio yesterday. There was a show on RTÉ about world poetry, and a six-line Saudi war-poem was read out. It told a lot with very few words. That works nicely in poetry, but not so well in fiction.

White? Awesome stuff. Great use of imagery. Powerfully real.

Turtyturd

MAGENTA

As a first timer I feel a bit unworthy commenting on other peoples work, but White was powerful stuff. Created some great images, flowed so well, and left me wanting to read more. Only flaw was I needed to read the middle section a couple of times in order to piece together what was going on but that was most likely just down to me.:D

As for Magenta, found it good but really could have done with another letter or two, perhaps from the parents and wife and kids to flesh it out a bit more. No complaint about it other than the length.

Two enjoyable reads.

Slow Show

White was very good, I was hooked in right from the start and it was just very well done, lovely use of language and flow to the story. As for Magenta...while I'd like to read more, it was just far too short to even qualify as competition to be quite honest.

Killer_banana

MAGENTA

White was very good. a little overly elaborate at times and I had to reread a few bits but over all it was very very good and wonderfully written.

Magenta, good idea but not as good as it could be. As already said it seems like an opening and nothing more. Pity since it really is a clever idea.

Memnoch

White was very well written, but I felt the author cheated a little as it didn't really seem to tie into the theme. More like they already had a story they wanted to write and tried to make some cosmetic changes to make it fit the theme.

I'm not saying that this kind of story can't portray the theme, I just don't feel that THIS one in particular does.

It's a good story though.

Magenta was short but intriguing, enjoyable as well and really made me think for a bit. But overall a high standard by both.

diddlybit

MAGENTA

Really enjoyed White, there was some effective imagery in it, and enough room for expansion in it. Maybe a little more narrative action and less detail especailly in the first couple of paragraghs.

Magenta had an intriguing format that is a great concept, especially for the theme. Little short though.

Hrududu

MAGENTA

White for me too. I liked the jump from first person to third person when talking about what happened. Like she had to put distance between her and the event, she couldn't describe it as happening to 'me' but to 'her'.

Magenta really didn't have enough to make a judgement on.

Also Starring LeVar Burton

I thought WHITE was very well structured, fantastically written and will probably win this match up by the looks of things, however it just wasn't my cup of tea - a bit too dark for my liking.

In this particular case short but sweet worked for me... I don't agree with the idea that the longer the piece the more work went into it, therefore it should win... As far as I remember the rules state a word limit, but I don't remember seeing anything about a minimum requirement... This was a case of a taking a simple idea, running with it and I thinked it worked and really hits home with me, so my vote went with MAGENTA.

Blush_01

MAGENTA

Once again, difficult to know which to go for - the bitter pill, or short and sweet? Parts of WHITE were far too wordy, maybe if WHITE and MAGENTA had come together to share the words, rather than WHITE hogging them all people wouldn't think that MAGENTA's is possibly too short?

That said, although I enjoyed MAGENTA's, it does feel like something someone threw together at 11:50. I'm having a Zoolander moment ([it] has to be at least 3 times bigger than this. ). WHITE could possibly have been edited to make it less OTT in places, I don't really know.

Two good efforts.

OOh, this is fun. Picka rocks!!

Mr E

MAGENTA

White was really well written and chilling in parts. I'm not sure the last line fit the style of the prose though.

I agree with another poster about magenta - another couple of letters would have gone a long way towards fleshing out a clever idea.

Tough call, but I went for white.

Aoibheann

MAGENTA

WHITE's first two lines instantly reminded me of a Hopkins poem (I wake and feel the fell of dark), in particular the lines from the poem:

I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours.

Not quite the same, but it's what instantly came to mind - and I rather love Hopkins, so it was the perfect beginning for me. Overall, it really created some wonderful (if chilling, as Mr. E accurately puts it) imagery, and I thought the switch between first and third person was very well executed.

I think MAGENTA could have been a really interesting story if we'd only had a few more letters, as the others have said.

Antilles

MAGENTA

Magenta
Points for participation, I guess!

White
Very well written though I'm not qute clear on what I'm reading. I thought the narrator was a corpse at one point. The war theme - he's a soldier? Its never explicitely said.

I'm voting for white.

pickarooney

MAGENTA

Congratulations to WHITE, our second quarter-finalist!