Post by uglypigmonster on Aug 16, 2009 20:21:48 GMT -5
So Ben, it just dawned on me that despite our musings at the SUB, we never actually discussed my story.
your edits definetly made it much more concise and to the point with shorter sentences and less detail.
i just wonder if at certain points, especially like the beginning and end, does this kinda writing make the story kinda robotic or stiff?
i welcome advice from anyone with an opinion ;D
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Wasted Time
John Hamil pulls back his dark green sleeve to check his watch, for a moment expecting to find the time. He is flustered and red in the face. He rubs his damp palms along the sides of his sharp-creased pants. The last time he felt this nervous, he was being presented with his first uniform. His thick hand finally turns off his jeep’s ignition. It’s been twenty-five years.
“I see people coming out,” exclaims his wife Jennie. “Shouldn’t we go in?”
She picks a hair off of his burly, rounded shoulder.
“Okay.”
“Are you alright? Do you want a minute?”
“I’m fine.”
He takes off his sunglasses and fumbles them into their case. More and more, he realizes, conversations with Jennie have been going this way: harsh and dismissive, just like conversations with his dad since he left home. He looks down: name tag, brass cufflinks, two gold bars on his sleeve. Jennie’s baby bump is beginning to show. She takes the case from him and places it steadily on the dash.
“Thanks honey,” he manages, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek.
She smiles in return, but he is already glassy-eyed, looking past her out the window. His old neighbourhood. His Dad’s old house is still the last house on this street, the only paved road in sight.
“Could you read me the schedule again, please?” he asks, leaning his head back and trying to relax.
She reaches into her purse and opens the stiff yellow paper of the crumpled schedule. It had come in the mail just like every other normal envelope, addressed to Captain John Hamil, 260 Ceremonial Avenue, Drumont Air Base, Guelph Ontario. The return address in the top left corner, however, caught his attention: in a small smudge of blue ink were the words “Nova Scotia.” He had expected this, but still— Now that it was finally here he somehow couldn’t manage to open it. Thank fuck for Jennie. She starts to read:
“At 4:30 pm, the casket is open to the community. Then at 5:00 pm, the room is reserved for the next of kin only. Finally, burial at the community cemetery is at 5:30.”
He looks at the time on his cell phone: 5:02 pm.
“Let’s go,” he says, motioning for her to lead the way out of the Jeep.
His knuckles on the door handle are deathly white, punctuated here and there with the ominous darkness of scar tissue. Most of them had come from combat training. Most of them.
John looks up at the house and takes a deep breath. 5:03. His watch was a high school graduation present from his Dad. The greenish silver band made his skin itchy and bumpy whenever he wore it, but Jennie had long since given up trying to buy him a new one. Her attempts would simply gather dust on a shelf somewhere beside forgotten medals and gifts.
His old basketball hoop catches his eye: the old, red painted rim; the bare pavement where the offensive line chalk-marks used to be; the dangling white strings, long since rotten. Dry leaves crumple beneath his feet. The last time he and his dad played hoops, just before his high school graduation, he had played defence while his dad played forward. They never switched positions. John had gotten dominated well into the evening.
Whoosh, went the ball, again and again. John’s legs had felt like lead.
“Geez Dad, I’m beat,” he had whined. “To be continued, eh?”
“No way,” his dad had replied, ripping off his sweaty white T-shirt. “This ain’t over until you take the ball from me.”
They had lined up and started over. John had bitten on his Dad’s circle manoeuvre and missed, falling to the ground. He had looked up just in time to see his dad make an easy lay-up.
Whoosh.
They had lined up again, this time with John’s hand dripping blood from a small, but ugly pavement gash. This time around he had been more pissed than tired.
“If you want something, then take it,” his dad had repeated.
“I can’t,” John had replied, through gritted teeth.
Whoosh.
“There’s no I can’t! Only I won’t! If you want the ball, then take it from me! TAKE IT!”
Whoosh.
His Dad had lunged to the right. John had tried to keep his angle. They had pushed for positioning and as his dad had jumped up to shoot, John had lashed out with his fist and punched the top of his dad’s shooting hand. Both his Dad’s sports watch and the basketball had gone flying into opposite directions. John had scooped up the ball and limped painfully into the house. Neither of them had spoken.
John slowly strides through the same back entrance and finds Jenny already kneeling on the cushion set out to protect your knees from the hard floor. He stops in front of the casket and stops, staring blankly. Jennie takes his hand and gently pulls him down to the floor to join her. He doesn’t know what to say. The coffin is much smaller than he expected. Jenny kisses him on the cheek.
“I’ll be in the car whenever you’re finished,” she tells him.
The rickety screen door slams behind her, and he stands up, rubbing his sore knees absently. Soon he is pacing: back and forth between the coffin and the coffee table. Finally he goes to the coffin and examines the shrivelled cancerous body for some trace of the man he remembers. Nothing. He tries to speak, but his throat has gone dry. He notices his Dad’s old watch, black tape slightly more glossy than the armband and the face that it was bridging. He lifts up his Dad’s right hand: 5:27.
“5:27,” he murmurs out loud. “5:27, 5:27.”
He slowly undoes the watch strap, trying not to disturb the rudimentarily repaired band, and then replaces it with his own. He compares the shiny silver in the coffin with the dull darkness on his own wrist. He takes a deep breath.
“Thanks for the watch.”
your edits definetly made it much more concise and to the point with shorter sentences and less detail.
i just wonder if at certain points, especially like the beginning and end, does this kinda writing make the story kinda robotic or stiff?
i welcome advice from anyone with an opinion ;D
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wasted Time
John Hamil pulls back his dark green sleeve to check his watch, for a moment expecting to find the time. He is flustered and red in the face. He rubs his damp palms along the sides of his sharp-creased pants. The last time he felt this nervous, he was being presented with his first uniform. His thick hand finally turns off his jeep’s ignition. It’s been twenty-five years.
“I see people coming out,” exclaims his wife Jennie. “Shouldn’t we go in?”
She picks a hair off of his burly, rounded shoulder.
“Okay.”
“Are you alright? Do you want a minute?”
“I’m fine.”
He takes off his sunglasses and fumbles them into their case. More and more, he realizes, conversations with Jennie have been going this way: harsh and dismissive, just like conversations with his dad since he left home. He looks down: name tag, brass cufflinks, two gold bars on his sleeve. Jennie’s baby bump is beginning to show. She takes the case from him and places it steadily on the dash.
“Thanks honey,” he manages, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek.
She smiles in return, but he is already glassy-eyed, looking past her out the window. His old neighbourhood. His Dad’s old house is still the last house on this street, the only paved road in sight.
“Could you read me the schedule again, please?” he asks, leaning his head back and trying to relax.
She reaches into her purse and opens the stiff yellow paper of the crumpled schedule. It had come in the mail just like every other normal envelope, addressed to Captain John Hamil, 260 Ceremonial Avenue, Drumont Air Base, Guelph Ontario. The return address in the top left corner, however, caught his attention: in a small smudge of blue ink were the words “Nova Scotia.” He had expected this, but still— Now that it was finally here he somehow couldn’t manage to open it. Thank fuck for Jennie. She starts to read:
“At 4:30 pm, the casket is open to the community. Then at 5:00 pm, the room is reserved for the next of kin only. Finally, burial at the community cemetery is at 5:30.”
He looks at the time on his cell phone: 5:02 pm.
“Let’s go,” he says, motioning for her to lead the way out of the Jeep.
His knuckles on the door handle are deathly white, punctuated here and there with the ominous darkness of scar tissue. Most of them had come from combat training. Most of them.
John looks up at the house and takes a deep breath. 5:03. His watch was a high school graduation present from his Dad. The greenish silver band made his skin itchy and bumpy whenever he wore it, but Jennie had long since given up trying to buy him a new one. Her attempts would simply gather dust on a shelf somewhere beside forgotten medals and gifts.
His old basketball hoop catches his eye: the old, red painted rim; the bare pavement where the offensive line chalk-marks used to be; the dangling white strings, long since rotten. Dry leaves crumple beneath his feet. The last time he and his dad played hoops, just before his high school graduation, he had played defence while his dad played forward. They never switched positions. John had gotten dominated well into the evening.
Whoosh, went the ball, again and again. John’s legs had felt like lead.
“Geez Dad, I’m beat,” he had whined. “To be continued, eh?”
“No way,” his dad had replied, ripping off his sweaty white T-shirt. “This ain’t over until you take the ball from me.”
They had lined up and started over. John had bitten on his Dad’s circle manoeuvre and missed, falling to the ground. He had looked up just in time to see his dad make an easy lay-up.
Whoosh.
They had lined up again, this time with John’s hand dripping blood from a small, but ugly pavement gash. This time around he had been more pissed than tired.
“If you want something, then take it,” his dad had repeated.
“I can’t,” John had replied, through gritted teeth.
Whoosh.
“There’s no I can’t! Only I won’t! If you want the ball, then take it from me! TAKE IT!”
Whoosh.
His Dad had lunged to the right. John had tried to keep his angle. They had pushed for positioning and as his dad had jumped up to shoot, John had lashed out with his fist and punched the top of his dad’s shooting hand. Both his Dad’s sports watch and the basketball had gone flying into opposite directions. John had scooped up the ball and limped painfully into the house. Neither of them had spoken.
John slowly strides through the same back entrance and finds Jenny already kneeling on the cushion set out to protect your knees from the hard floor. He stops in front of the casket and stops, staring blankly. Jennie takes his hand and gently pulls him down to the floor to join her. He doesn’t know what to say. The coffin is much smaller than he expected. Jenny kisses him on the cheek.
“I’ll be in the car whenever you’re finished,” she tells him.
The rickety screen door slams behind her, and he stands up, rubbing his sore knees absently. Soon he is pacing: back and forth between the coffin and the coffee table. Finally he goes to the coffin and examines the shrivelled cancerous body for some trace of the man he remembers. Nothing. He tries to speak, but his throat has gone dry. He notices his Dad’s old watch, black tape slightly more glossy than the armband and the face that it was bridging. He lifts up his Dad’s right hand: 5:27.
“5:27,” he murmurs out loud. “5:27, 5:27.”
He slowly undoes the watch strap, trying not to disturb the rudimentarily repaired band, and then replaces it with his own. He compares the shiny silver in the coffin with the dull darkness on his own wrist. He takes a deep breath.
“Thanks for the watch.”