Well, for a first review this is pretty good. I appreciate your commentary on what you saw working in the text, this helps me become aware of what I am doing and whether the story is flowing and effectively conveying the characters and situations. Cheers.
Novel Treatments / The Sound of the Dying Universe, Chapter One (Analysis)
If you strain your ear hard enough to the heavens and wait for that moment when the wind dies down and traffic stops, you can hear the sound of the universe dying. Not a moan like a dog’s whimper or a groan like a man sucking out his last breath, the sound of the dying universe is a perfect b-flat note. Playing for twenty billion years, I often imagine that celestial note hanging like the reverberations of a piano gasping out Chopin’s Sonata No. 2 in b-flat minor, Op. 35. Though it brings me to tears, on dark nights when I pour back red wine and watch the river pass by my window, I listen to Chopin and wait for the universe to end. So far, it hasn’t happened. When it does, I will surely miss Chopin.
The first time I heard Chopin I was six. My thirteen year old sister, Karen, pounded out the Sonata No. 2 on the upright grand piano in the living room. Soft light filtered through the floral drapes hung in the kitchen, where mother cleaned up after Sunday morning breakfast. The smell of bacon and eggs, pan fries and pancakes clung to the kitchen walls for the rest of the morning. I sat at the kitchen table with a rainbow of Crayolas splayed around me, scribbling on a note pad father had brought home from work for me. I must’ve drawn the Jasone rocket ships a hundred times, choosing only slight variations in the shade of red for flames and blue for sky. The moon a stark yellow orb was always full and always carefully set in the left hand corner of the page. The brown tones of the earth below never changed, although occasionally a house would appear in the bottom next to a leafless tree. Even then I associated the mysteries of space with Chopin.
My vision of space was challenged at ten years of age thanks to Kubrick’s 2001. It ran as a late night movie on TV one night. My brother Jason and I sat on the couch with a soda each and a bowl of popcorn in front of us. I’d never thought of J. Strauss or R. Strauss in connection with the beauty of space. Watching those scenes choreographed to the Strauss’s exploded the firm view of space I’d constructed in my mind for the past four years. When the pulsating embryo drifted across the screen to Also Sprach Zarathustra, I covered my eyes with my hands and gasped. I would not feel such dread again until grade 12 biology, when Mr. Ferris made us dissect a pig fetus. It scarred me! When it ended my brother asked what I thought, and I told him in no uncertain terms I’d thought it shit. I’d been using that word a lot at that point, savouring the way it rolled off the palate. Shit.
”You’re stupid if you think it’s shit, shit head,” Jason told me, shoving me off the couch with a kick that bore the wisdom of his thirteen years, the boot of the authority that came with his birthright.
As I fell to the floor, falling into the brown pile of the carpet with a thud, I screamed at him, “Asshole. I can think it’s shit if I want to.”
”You wouldn’t know your ass from a hole in the ground,” he retorted.
At that moment I realized black holes weren’t limited to space.
In the middle of the night, when moonbeams cast thick bars of light on the bedroom walls, I rubbed my St. Jude medallion and prayed for Jason to be sucked away by a temporal vortex, a black hole. Such prayers made me smile. Mornings were always disappointing. “Mom says it’s time to get up!” said Jason, pounding on the bedroom door. Cut adrift from the certainty of my faith, I tossed the covers off my bed and outstretched my rail thin arms above my head. I would face the world with the reluctance of an atheist. On the way to breakfast, I tossed St. Jude into the trashcan.
I turned away from Chopin and the wonders of the universe until a week before my twenty-first birthday. A sudden drop in barometric pressure marked the coming of a snowstorm, which was not unusual for the last week of January. I wandered about the university campus looking for a hot cup of coffee, to fortify my body against the chill that would bite into my exposed face and hands. From the parking lot I cut through the arts building, deciding to take a pee in the men’s washroom next to the concert halls. When I stepped back into the hallway I heard a piano pounding out the rich textures of Chopin’s Polonaise in A flat major, Op. 53 from one of the small auditoriums. I stopped outside the open door, resting my book bag against a table, and listened to the pounding octaves and short trills. Surrendering to chromatic notes – free, bold, and honest – I slipped into the auditorium and took a seat at the back. At the piano a young woman ran her delicate fingers over the keys, conjuring up the brooding voice of Chopin. At first she didn’t notice me watching her, but when she did the gentle curve of a smile creased her soft lips.
In that moment of absolute clarity I had only known before from a drug-induced high, I believed the universe a wonderous place again. Oh, how I longed to live in that moment for a hundred years, curled around the dancing octaves and enraptured in the smile of a pretty girl. Oh, how my whole world was complete in that instant! That memory of Allison, my future wife, playing the piano would echo in my head all the rest of my days. The way the light glinted off her long red hair, though clipped back, dazzling me as her hair cascaded down her shoulders, partly across her back and partly across her breasts. The intensity of her gaze, locked on the flurry of fingertips rolling over white and black bars. The gentle rocking motion her upper body made hunched over the keyboard. But it was the way she grimaced when she misplaced a note that I loved the best. I often wondered if I hadn’t stopped to pee on my way for coffee that afternoon, what fate might’ve left me?
Just as the melody descended back to the dramatic octaves I stood up quietly from my seat, so as not to disturb her, and made my way toward the door.
”Hey you!” Allison called after me. She’d stopped to look up at where I stood frozen to the floor.
“Yes?”
”What’s your name?” Allison swiveled her body away from the piano, her hands clasped in the lap of her jeans.
”Tom,” I stammered back.
”Tom, come here.” She beckoned me down to the stage with a gesture of her hand, and I, more than willing to follow.
I made my way down the stairs to her. As I stepped up onto the small stage platform, I noticed the warm contrast between the rust of her hair, tied back with an olive hair clip, and the steel blue of her eyes.
“Do I know you?” she asked, looking at me as if she could see right through me, a skill she became more proficient at with time.
”Sorry, no. I don’t think so.” I gestured to the door at the back, explaining my actions away like a disobedient child. “I just heard you playing out in the hallway and I stopped in to listen. I hope I didn’t disturbing you.”
”What did you think?”
”Sorry?”
“What did you think of my playing?”
“It was beautiful.”
”Thanks.” She pushed out her long fingers at me. “I’m Allison.”
”Hi, Allison,” I answered, feeling the warmth of her soft hand in mine.
”Well, thanks for listening, Tom.”
”Thanks for playing so beautifully,” I said.
She blushed. “Thanks.”
”Well, I better get going,” I muttered, pointing toward the door, but I couldn’t stop staring into her eyes.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Tom.”
“I better go.”
“Bye.” She waved.
When I hit the first row of stairs I stopped and turned back around. “Listen, what are you doing after?”
Allison perked up. “Nothing. Why?”
”Well, I was just on my way for coffee. Can I buy you one?”
”Sure.”
In the cafeteria we swirled coffee in plastic cups and talked for hours, revealing just enough of ourselves to be witty and interesting without exposing our vulnerabilities. A game of hide and seek with our souls, shown in the subtle movement of our hands, our long gazes, and our quick smiles. I noticed a slight gaelic lilt in her voice, so I asked her where she was from. She told me, Cape Breton, where she grew up watching the sun rise out of the ocean, and listening to the rhythmic percussion of surf along the rocky cliffs. In October the shoreline glowed with bright red, orange and yellow as maples trees flared out their last moments before dreary November grey settled in. The steady rumble of the sea inspired her love of music, but it didn’t hurt that her parents played folk music on weekends in the local pubs down in Sydney. At ten she amused bar patrons with Irish diddies on a beer stained piano for pocket money. I was glad to have her company; drinking coffee alone was a bore.
At six she had to hurry off to the concert hall for a recital, so we drank down the last of our coffee and left the cafeteria through glass doors. She invited me to watch her play, if I promised to be kind and only give her glowing remarks about her performance. I told her I could lie, if it made her feel any better, but my lay opinion wouldn’t make a lick of a difference to her professor. Right there we made a pact: if her professor gave her a bad grade we would drug and kidnap him, put him on an eastbound bus in a dress, and report him to the police as a child molester. With that invitation we left for the arts building just as the first flakes of snow slipped from grey skies.
Her performance of the Heroic was brilliant, of course, so there was no need to kidnap her professor. When I watched him congratulate her at the end of her performance, I thought, you’re a lucky bastard tonight. Graciously, with both hands wrapped around his she thanked him with a smile.
Later, we shot pool and talk about the drudgery of campus life and our dreams for the future over beer and pizza at the campus lounge. What a bore it had all become she said with a sigh, searching for answers in the bottom of her beer glass. “Can’t wait for graduation.”
“What? And give up all this?” I replied, waving a gooey slab of pizza in the air, and then pointing at the drunk frat boys pounding down shooters by the bar, “Or that?”
In the background, Prince and Bruce Springsteen blared from the jukebox, partially drowned out by the din of voices all around us. Over at the bar the frat boys were cheering on their buddy, who stumbled to the floor with a loud crash. As one of them tried to lift his limp body from the pool of beer he was lying in, the others roared with applause and sang some frat song I didn’t recognize. Shooter glasses wobbled on their table, spilling their contents onto the black and white linoleum floor.
“Here’s to graduation,” she said, raising her beer glass.
“And freedom,” I added, clinking my glass to hers.
When she laughed and flipped her hair back, and the light from ceiling lamps softened the curves of her face, I fell in love. The hours passed with just the two of us, locked eye to eye among a room full of strangers. We both had early classes the next morning, so we poured back the last of our beer and left the lounge shortly after eleven. I walked her to the dorms, where we said “goodnight”. I promised to call her the following evening, so we could commiserate on the shabby state of post-secondary education again.
She laughed. “It’s a date then.”
Kicking through a skive of fresh snow on the sidewalk, I shoved my cold hands in my jacket pockets and made my way back to my car. Above my head, Orion, the hunter, chased a hare across the sky, and the cloud of the Milky Way seeped into the impenetrable darkness of space. Despite the cold and dark, I felt warm; I was not alone in the universe. Under the soft hum of parking lot lights, with only twinkling stars above me, I heard Chopin’s Prelude in B-flat major lift my soul, opening the heavens like tulip petals to Spring rain.
That’s how I remembered it. That’s how I chose to remember it.
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jeells reviewed Version 1 -
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Good work. It works as a first chapter, as I wanted to keep reading. Just a few concerns:
Note on the dialogue- 9 times out of 10, “Jason said” is the best way to put dialogue cues. “said Jason” sounds 19th century and words/phrases like “told me” and “retorted” should be obvious from the dialogue itself.
Also, a new paragraph when the speaker changes. This might just be a formatting issue.
Some minor grammar things, for example, “I hope I didn’t disturbing you.” There were one or two other misplaced ‘ing’s and the like. Nothing major. Probably just normal first draft syndrome.
I enjoyed the work. What happens next?
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oneshot92 reviewed Version 1 -
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I thought you did a wonderful job here of developing characters and setting a beautiful scene. However, I am unclear as to what the title has to do with the story that you have opened up. Thus far I see this as a love story, in which case I don’t think you should give too much away with the future wife bit.
I noticed that you tabbed portions of the paragraphs in the beginning and stopped at the end. I think you should continue the tabbing. I see this playing out as a beautiful story. I’m left curious to see more.
I hope that I’v been helpful. Thank you for the oppertunity to review.
bonsoirdollface reviewed Version 1 -
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I like the way you write. The flow of the story was very good, word wise, but the beginning- talking about the end of the world- doesn’t quite seem to fit with the end. Rereading, I understand that you’re talking about how you’ll miss Chopin- the story, I’m guessing, is about why- but it seems more like several short stories than one cohesive piece. While they are, individually, very good, I think it needs to be tied together a little more- maybe a return at the end to what you discussed at the beginning.
frankay26 reviewed Version 1 -
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I find your storytelling very appealing. You use vivid visualization. The only two suggestions that I have for you are these. Review your rules of punctuation and other grammer mechanics. (...my watching..) not (me watching).
The other is that you should not feel obligated to use rough, vulgar language. It clashes with the elegance and sophistication that you display by exhibiting your knowledge of classical music.
Good luck and keep writing.
jamie101 reviewed Version 1 -
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As this is my first review I won’t get bogged down with highlighting spelling or grammar issues. These can be dealt with when the story is finished.
I think you have a great title. It catches the eye and is interesting. If you liken scrolling down the gallery page of Urbis to standing in a book shop and running your eyes across the shelves, which books do you pick up? The ones with titles which stand out or appeal to you in some way.
I also like your opening paragraph. I hold an MA in Creative Writing and all the agents and publishers I met said that when they are reading a manuscript submission a strong opening paragraph and then a strong first page are what perusades them to keep going. Your first paragraph grabbed me and pulled me in. I like the description and that you say a great deal in a concise way.
I liked the scene where Tom is watching Allison play the piano. You convey his interest and shyness very well and I felt the scene was well paced i.e. you allow Tom to almost leave and it is she who calls him back and then, as he makes to leave for a second time, he finds the courage to ask her to join him. I also think the scene where the couple share coffee is well written. Readers of all ages will be able to appreciate this as everyone knows how it feels to share that first drink with a new friend whom we find attractive.
I thought the bar scene as a whole was well drawn. I went to university in England but I could still appreciate the drunken guys at the bar and the noise of voices fighting with the music for attention.
I assume this is going to be the start of a novel although it does have the feel of a short story. The ending certainly adds weight to this idea as it feels quite final. This is by no means a bad thing as the material here is engaging and entertaining.
DCAllen reviewed Version 1 -
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I’m not sure how this is a novel treatment. It feels like a short story. The motif of Chopin works IMO, but the “dying universe” idea at the beginning of this story is lost along the way. If this is important, I would rewrite the ending to make a stronger connection. Could this constant b-flat be rather a symbol for Allison’s love in the story? A positive metaphor?
perfect b-flat note (not sure perfect is right word: either it is a b-flat or it isn’t). Constant? But then, if it should represent the dying universe, shouldn’t there be a sense of degeneration in this metaphor?
“The first time I heard . . . space with Chopin.” This paragraph begins and ends with Chopin, but the child could hear Chopin more in the scene. By the time I got to the end of this paragraph I wondered why he would relate these mysteries to his music. Also, you begin the story with a “dying universe”, but now it’s the mysteries of only the earth.
When the narrator meets Allison, the dialogue could be less normal. Her forwardness is pleasing at the beginning, but then the dialogue that follows is bland in comparison. There could at least be a stronger sense of the narrator’s nervousness. If he’s not nervous, make him nervous. It will be better dialogue.
Proofreading notes:
thirteen-year-old sister . . . left-hand . . . rail-thin . . . beer-stained (with hyphens: prenominal compound modifiers)
the Strauss’s (plural, not possessive. Should be Strausses, but, while correct, this also looks odd. Recast? Also, if you decided to make this a possessive, it would have to be Strausses’ because it’s both plural and possessive.)
b-flat but A flat (needs to be consistent. Hyphen or no?)
did the gentle (insert comma after did to prevent misreading. If the comma bugs you, I’d recast this to put the subordinate clause “when she did” somewhere else.)
wonderous = wondrous (wonderous is considered a variant)
gaelic = Gaelic
maples trees (typo)
around his she (insert comma after his to close the parenthetical)
tashka reviewed Version 1 -
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A sound and promising beginning, but not really enough to go on for a thorough review. The main character – the retrospective narrator – is well drawn. Honest, clear and steadily developed throughout the piece. He is easy to relate to and this gives the story some pulling power.
Some memorable scenes here. The introduction of the wife – well handled. Her breasts, the music, red hair. Great symbloic stuff that resides in the mind after the reader has moved on.
Is there more of this?
oknapp reviewed Version 1 -
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How about if you strain “your ears.” We listen with both.
s I fell to the floor, falling into the brown pile of the carpet with a thud,
You could just say, “I fell onto the soft, brown carpet with a thud. You don’t need the word “falling.”
would face the world with the reluctance of an atheist. How are atheist’s reluctanct? Explain.
I absolutely love your verbage.You have a very descriptive tone. Your parallels of music to the dying universe is lovely, graceful and enchanting. I am a paino player. I love Chopin, Bach—all classical music. When he encountered his future wife playing the piano, it was like that of a poem. I could see it: big hollow room, a grand piano, a graceful lady sitting primly, upright, the reverberation of the music filling the hollow room. The story with it’s lovely atmosphere of snow and the sea, and rocky cliffs is like pure magic. The ending was lovely and well-poetic. This should be published. SANDI
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