Although I’m glad you liked this, it would be much more helpful if you could point out some specific passages that you thought really worked well to achieve the effects that you describe. It would be even more helpful if you could point out things that didn’t quite work. Thanks :)
Short Story / Nice Things
She was kneeling on the carpet. Her long, blond hair was bound in a bun. Her thin, stringy frame quivered with the violence of her scrubbing. Her long fingers tingled at the edge of burning from exposure to the chemicals which lay strewn about her: a Stone Henge of brightly colored bottles and cans of bleaching, foaming, color-restoring sprays and solutions, some upright, and some fallen where they had been cast away after failing the woman. Their lack of utility brought tears of frustration to her eyes.
Her husband sat in his chair, with his feet resting on a matching ottoman. This was no ordinary piece of furniture: it was a sturdy and beautiful shrine to comfort. Dark red upholstery was fastened with bright brass studs to a heavy, majestically curving mahogany frame. The man’s tall, fit frame was supported and cradled-rather than swallowed-in its luxury. A touch of grey hair and a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses gave him an elegant look that contrasted sharply with the dingy surroundings that his immense, reclining height seemed to fill. One of his hands held open a paperback military-adventure novel, and from the other dangled a glass of scotch-on-the-pebbles.
“Martha,” he said. “You should see to the Boy.”
She paused, and raised her head toward her husband, careful not to look directly at him, as he spoke to her. She resumed her scrubbing, her fingers turned red and cracked, and perspiration ran down her forehead. Her eyes looked as though they may have been watering from the fumes, or possibly a tear dripped off her nose.
The Boy sat on the tattered and stained couch. Chocolate ice cream ran down his chin and the sides of an over-full bowl that tipped precariously next to him as he wiggled contentedly with a spoon in his mouth. A bright red model airplane left a smear of still-wet paint on the cushion where it sat next to him. He had “flown” it through the house earlier. The fresh paint had been running and dripping onto the carpet, the furniture, and had even been flung on the walls as he had performed quick aerobatic maneuvers to defeat the “terrorists” in a display of dog-fighting prowess, accompanied by the dopplered droning noise of a passing propeller as interpreted by an eleven year old. Nothing had been spared the indelible touch of red enamel, except his father’s throne.
The Boy’s fat arms quivered, and his smiling mouth sprayed a mist of brown globules as he nearly shouted, “Yeah, mom! You gotta distill some discipline in me!”
Father said, “The boy’s got to have a father and a mother, Martha.”
“Yeah, mom! You gotta be here for me.” the Boy whined.
“You can’t go running off again.”
“Yeah, mom! Dad says you’re a whore.”
The spray that Martha was currently using promised to clean with “the power of sunshine.” So far, like every other cleaner she’d used, it only turned the sharp, red drops and streaks of paint into a diffuse pink cloud. Although the power of sunshine did not work, her tears cleaned no better.
“Don’t you see, Martha?” asked Father, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
Martha sat on the toilet, fully clothed, with her hands clamped around her head, pulling it down towards her knees. The locked door to the bathroom barely muffled the sounds of jubilant laughter and shattering dishes. She flinched with each crash that represented the death of a rare piece of china.
A car pulled into the driveway. The quickly fading rumble of the car’s shut-off engine heralded the last reverberating crash of broken ceramic. The front door opened and shut, and Martha could hear Father speaking through the thin walls of their pre-fabricated home.
“How could your mother have let you do this?”
“I dunno, pop. I guess she’s just a lazy slut.” The Boy said.
“Well, you look like you need some cheering up.”
Martha heard the freezer door open and shut, and the soft clink of spoon on bowl.
“Martha!” Father didn’t quite yell, “Come clean your mess.”
She didn’t want to leave the inadequate sanctuary of the bathroom. Her hand trembled as she got up and reluctantly unlocked the door. Her breath quickened to a low pant, and the knob rattled as she forced herself to turn it.
She had to turn it, because she remembered the last time she’d refused to clean one of the Boy’s messes. She remembered the police. “She’s not taking her meds, officer.” He’d said, “Look at what she’s done.” She remembered the hospital: its white walls decorated sparsely with posters of pastoral and wilderness vistas, insipid “inspirational” quotes attached to them. She remembered the staff that tried to act interested, but treated her as though she were a mentally deficient child.
The door creaked open onto the scene she’d expected. Father sat in his chair, which had been spared the shards and crescent fragments of nearly translucent, white ceramic which were densely sprinkled across, and embedded in, the carpet, couch, and other furniture in a razor-sharp field of moons and stars.
She knelt, wincing as she felt a sharp edge cut open her knee. Slowly, painfully, with shaking hands and shuddering breath, Martha began to pick the remains of her mother’s heirloom china out of the pink polka-dot carpet.
“Don’t you see, Martha?” asked Father, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
The Boy had rushed in the door after school, dropping his backpack carelessly on the floor as he entered the living room. Martha had prepared a snack for him: cheese and cheese crackers, how he liked them. She came into the living room holding the tray and a glass of soda, bringing them to him so he wouldn’t have to get up from his video games. She dropped the tray to the carpet with a muted thud, and some soda splashed out of the tall glass as she barely caught it when she saw what the Boy was doing.
He had his father’s hunting knife, a large, wickedly barbed and serrated thing. He had cut to ribbons the lamp-shades, the curtains, the wallpaper, everything which could be sliced with its finely honed blade, everything but Father’s chair.
He was busy stabbing the couch, pulling out handfuls of stuffing, emitting a high-pitched growl, “Die! Die!”
Martha’s heart shrank from the daunting task in front of her. She had no idea how to repair this damage, how to repair her son. She began to weep, approached her son quietly from behind and softly held him, not to restrain him, but to simply be near him. He did not give any indication that he noticed the embrace, and continued to slash and growl.
Although at times it was easy for Martha to forget that he was her son, holding him she remembered all the times she had cradled him in her arms, how beautiful he had been, how the sweet sounds he made were the music of her own heart. That had been before he’d learned the power of words: words that had the power to acquire the things he’d wanted, vile words that had the power to break his mother’s heart. Words his father taught.
She kissed him on the back of his neck, and rested her cheek at the base of his spine, a tear rolling off of her skin and on to his. The boy let out a shout and spun, slashing Martha with the knife. She gasped in pain and surprise; it was a superficial slash on her forearm, but it immediately welled up and a thin stream of blood flowed to drip off her pinky to the floor.
“Don’t touch me!” The child yelled, “Dad said you give me herpes with your slut mouth.”
Surprising herself, Martha slapped the Boy backhand with enough force to knock him back to the couch. He dropped the knife in surprise, but immediately bounced back up and began to punch and kick his mother, his over-fed bulk adding real force to his blows.
His fist smashed into her nose, and Martha dropped to the floor, feeling a cold pressure in her sinuses. She could barely see the knife that her hand found at the tips of her fingers under the coffee table. She clutched the handle, and whirled the blade around, screeching “Stop!” intending to intimidate the child. The handle was nearly wrenched from her single-handed grasp as it met with unexpected resistance.
The Boy began to scream. She began to slash again, and again, yelling “Stop!” with each flailing stroke of the blade. Sweat and tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision enough to allow her to deny what she was doing. She felt like she was speaking for the first time in years, asserting herself for the first time in her life. Regaining that small bit of power felt good, right, and undammed something forcefully primal inside of her: a desire for self-preservation. Instead of screeching “Stop!” it became a triumphant yell.
With a spray of bright blood that reached to the ceiling, the walls, and across Martha’s face, the Boy’s screams turned to a wet gurgle. Martha’s exalted yelling turned to sobs as she realized what she’d done. She dropped the knife, and tried to grab onto his spasmodic body, to close her hand around the slippery rent in his throat, through which his life was painting the room.
After some time, the thrashing and the pulsing fountain of blood subsided. Martha knelt on the floor, her limbs exhausted and slack, her head resting in the cooling lap of her son’s body as her tears dried, and her chest calmed. The blood which was running down the walls and staining the furniture congealed and turned sticky.
Martha heard the front door slam, and lifted her head wearily to watch as her husband rumbled into the room. He strolled into the kitchen and took several minutes to prepare himself a drink. When he returned to the living room, he sat in his chair which had remained miraculously unstained despite the struggle which had taken place so near it, and calmly opened his paper-back.
“Don’t you see, Mar…” Father began to ask, then leapt up in surprise, examining a dark red stain on the back of his pants. The color of his chair had hidden a splash of blood.
”God damnit,” he growled.
Martha uncurled from her crouch, standing straight, her chin high, and gripping the soiled knife in her fist. She grinned as she strode towards father, covering the small space quickly.
”Don’t you see, Father?” asked Martha, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
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trident reviewed Version 4 -
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A very sad and moving story. Well named too.
I shivered at the end – I can imagine the torment and feel very very sorry for any mother who feels the need to kill her own progeny.
There’s little to add to this, except perhaps that it seems all too sudden. The breaking of the plates seems to be a random event rather than the result of a progressive build-up of abuse, culminating in the destruction of the last memories of her mother.
I’m not a big fan of short stories that jump from point to point – it can be very confusing, and in this case entirely unnecessary. This could’ve started with her in the toilet crying over mom’s plates, (and the earlier events staged as flashbacks) before going out to face the music.
Also, rather than a knife, a shard of fine bone china would be a more emotive weapon.
BTW Stonehenge is one word.
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Caroline24 reviewed Version 4 -
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Excellent story. Great build up of suspense and, even though I saw the ending coming, I still enjoyed it.
A couple of things: “Stonehenge” didn’t work.
”...tingled at the edge of” take out “of”
The word “frame” is repeated too close together.
The boy’s dialogue doesn’t sound realistic. It does in places, but in others simplify it, a little.
“Martha” and “Father” Why not give him a name?
When Martha is sitting on the toilet, it is a bit unclear that this is happening at a later time. In other places where some time has passed, it is clearer.
“Cheese and crackers…” This is the only run on sentence I found. Change the , to a ; and it will work.
This is very close to submission quality. I suggest you send it to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.
occupational_hedonist reviewed Version 4 -
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This was fantastic! It kept me hooked until the end. Excellently executed, I can really empethise with Martha from the start and feel dislike and hatred for the husband and son. It made me cringe, and very uncomfortable at times – a good sign as the descriptions are really good.
derekosborne reviewed Version 4 -
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Better ending. I had no trouble with the flow of words but did see a couple of awkward constructions in the beginning of the story. It flows very well during the last half.
“A touch of grey ….. seemed to fill.” This one tripped the tongue a little. I would edit as follows:
A touch of grey hair and pair of silver-rimmed glasses gave him an elegant look, contrasting sharply with the dingy surroundings his immense, reclining height seemed to fill.
Might want to look for similar instances.
“Although the power of sunshine did not work, her tears cleaned no better.” Change to:
“The power of sunshine did not work; her tears cleaned no better.”
My point is this. I see what you are going for in the beginning of the narrative and it is a good choice, but when the prose gets too dense or busy it starts calling attention to itself and the reader loses a bit of momentum. Though reviewers incorectly called this “run-on” in the first draft i think they were probably trying to identify this issue I am addressing.
The kid’s dialogue is excellent. I want to kill the little shit, too.
aliciapie23 reviewed Version 4 -
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I have not read this story before, so I can’t speak to the changed ending. I thought that the ending was satisfying in a Burning Bed kind of way. The story was well written and kept my interest throughout.
I did not find any issues with run-on sentences, but you may not need as many commas as you have in some places.
“She paused, and raised her head toward her husband, careful not to look directly at him, as he spoke to her.” would probably be fine with one comma between husband and careful and no other commas.
I would have been curious to know a little more about how Martha came to be in this situation to begin with. How long had she been married to “Father”? Had he been abusive before the child was born? Would it be worth it to have her recollect him as she recollects the Boy as an infant?
Most good short stories leave the reader wanting to know more, so I suppose that is a good sign!
roguescholar reviewed Version 4 -
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wow. This was well written, but somewhat disturbing. It did a great job of painting a desperate place for Martha, and the ending was clever and witty. I think I would have preferred the destruction of the chair over murder, but that’s where the story went. Well done.
GVaughn reviewed Version 4 -
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I read this story a day or two ago with the idea to review it. I decided against it because it was too disturbing. But I will repay the “favor”.
The opening scene is a good one, visually and sensually. I can see Martha- maybe attractive at some point - but appearing to be beat down, physically and mentally. You immediately want to know what is her living situation, who is her “captor”. It is completely refreshing to see that it is not really her husband but her son. Refreshing in that disgusting, horrifying way – I mean. Okay, this is not your formulaic abuse story. The father is smart, controlling – ego mad really and the son is totally his creation. You can’t help but feel absolutely horrible for the mother’s plight. And though she has a history of “supposed” mental illness, I wonder why she hasn’t left to get help. Okay, she could be to far gone to help herself and according to CNN these cases actually do happen and go on for years…but still…
She calls him “father”. Is this a case of incest? A tad confused, if it is not.
The ending is completely disturbing and horribly violent. The son needs his ass beat in a “spare the rod…” kind of way, not murdered. I kept waiting for her to slap him into the next week. That would have been more satisfying than him dying and confirms that she is actually crazy. Maybe the husband should be murdered. (not that i am advocating murder, of course.) He’s an adult. He should know better. The boy is what the father made him into.
Your writing is polished, I don’t really see anything here to critique except to say that Stonehenge is one word. So I’m just discussing the story content. Great characterization and description of the setting – and that chair and ottoman set and all that it stands for.
oknapp reviewed Version 4 -
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“stringy frame.” Maybe thin, bony, frame. It needs revising, please.
“fingers tingled at the edge of burning from exposure to the chemicals which”..
Her fingertips tingled and burned from her exposure to the chemicals. Does this sound better to you?
“Stone Henge of brightly colored” ... What does stone Henge mean? How does it relate? You might find a better way to describe it, ok.
Who called the police on the woman, and why was she scrubbing at paint that requires a paint thinner or remover? How old is the boy?
Who is the narrator of this story? When you say “father” it sounds as if the boy is telling the story. To solve this problem, tell it in third person. Call the man by his name,instead of father. Also, when one writes in third person one is telling the story as an unattached observer. Meaning, all is seen through his eyes.
Oveall, a dark story. the ending surprised. Me. I think the title goes well. You need to tell just a little more about this family’s life. Was Martha always beaten doen by her husband? What had caued her to finally have a breakdown? You alao need to give the child a name and tell how old he is. You could flush this out and m,ake it a good story. Mom is a victim of domestic violence, and she finally cracks. I will be looking for another draft of this. Ok. Sandi
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malapropist reviewed Version 4 -
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I’m having a difficult time getting to the meaning of this piece. I want to read it as violent satire, something akin to Natural Born Killers. If I were reading this story as “sincere,” meaning that it was supposed to make me feel sorry for Martha and glad that the child and father were murdered, it’s way too heavy handed and didactic. But as satire, this almost works. The scene with Martha in the bathroom should go. Add a scene with Martha and the husband where he’s actively participating with her and not just saying “This is why we can’t have nice things.” For satire, you don’t want to make her completely pathetic. I’d also cut the explanation of what she’s feeling when she’s killing her son. Stay out of her head and describe it more like a person watching, i.e. cut “She felt like she was speaking for the first time in years, asserting herself for the first time in her life. Regaining that small bit of power felt good, right, and undammed something forcefully primal inside of her: a desire for self-preservation.” It’s over the top, taking some of the bite away from the satire and/or really heavy handed if you’re trying to write a straight story.
I hope I’m not misreading the piece and apologize if I am. I suggest taking the commentary out and making it a little colder. The father’s and boy’s characterization are good—make Martha more like this and it will be an interesting, macabre piece. If you’re trying to write a sincere story, then you need to be way less heavy handed and invasive in the explanations of Martha’s downtrodden life. Good luck with the revisions.
Marvin reviewed Version 4 -
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“She was kneeling on the carpet.”—how about, She knelt on the carpet? simply for the sake of economy. Nothing wrong with the line.
“a Stone Henge”—interesting choice but i’m not sure if it works well.
“scotch-on-the-pebbles.”—cute. i like.
“still-wet paint”—how about just “wet?” or “tacky?”
“shut-off engine”—this sounds awkward.
...so far, you’ve painted a nice picture of family dysfunction in which a clean freak housewife is degraded by her misogynist husband and son. It’s funny at times, particularly the banter between father and son. But i feel bad for mommy. even if she is a whore….
“the slippery rent in his throat, through which his life was painting the room.”—nice line. it’s a good throwback to the earlier paint mess. only this time it’s a blood mess. from the brat.
ha ha! dark yet very funny. Emotionally abused wife breaks out and slashes up her own son and then Daddy, as we are led to believe. It’s a fine piece of demented female empowerment that i don’t think we’ll ever see on the Lifetime channel, but it’s effective.
Well written, more often than not. I didn’t come across any sentences I considered to be run-ons, simply a word or a phrase here or there that kind of jarred the ride.
Overall, fun ride. thanks for sharing.
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