Thanks for the input, I think you have some great suggestions and I agree, the piece does need to be a lot longer… Thanks again!
Short Story / To an Athlete Killing Young
To an Athlete Killing Young
By Seth Harrington
I can not crack the code of life – and even if I did, I’m not sure I’d like what I found. For the last few years people have told me to try and make up for lost time; but that is not possible when I myself am still lost, wandering, struggling everyday not to throw myself from an 8th story balcony or drive my car off a wharf into the fresh, vast, welcoming Pacific. Life is always worth living, the same people say; but every night when I come home from work, slip prescriptions down the back of my throat, and wander aimlessly around my empty apartment, their statement slips further from my reality. Sometimes I’ll pick up the phone and realize I have no one to call, and no one calls me. Even my relatives – so quick with advice about life and living – do not go out of their way to make contact. On the good days, I’ll cry for hours in solitaire; on the bad days, I won’t. There are far more bad days than good.
It has now been two years, one month, and seventeen days (of hell) since my brother died. My brother, David Collins, was a good kid. He was born partially deaf in 1992 with serious heart complications (some sort of irregular heart beat, and a diminutive left ventricle). He was kept in and out of a children’s hospital for the first decade of his life. It was there, during a one hour block of time which he referred to as “the highlight of my life”, that he met Desmond Wilkinson, star outfielder for the San Francisco Giants. Desmond, along with several of his teammates, visited the hospital to talk to the kids, sign a few autographs, and hand out memorabilia. David was one of the lucky few who sat and listened to these mountainous men talk about their lives in Major League Baseball. A month later, returning from the hospital for the last time, he gloated to me and our mom about his experience. He even showed off an autographed baseball card which Desmond had given to him. We couldn’t help but laugh at his excitement (maybe, since we weren’t sports fans, we didn’t fully understand) but we loved the fact that Desmond Wilkinson was having such a positive impact on David’s life. To be honest, David wouldn’t shut up about him. He wanted to be Desmond; David started emulating his stance and swing during junior high; he wore the same fielding glove, just a few sizes smaller.
Two years or so later, I graduated from San Francisco State University and moved downtown to a two bedroom apartment. I started to work as a software technician at a downtown programming cooperative and my life slowly began to separate itself from my younger brother and my mom. And then, in the summer of 2006, my mom died of a heart attack.
Her funeral was rough. I took it harder than David; I cried so much I lost weight. My mom and I always had an unexplainable connection, and I loved her to death, as any daughter should. The night after her funeral, moving the remainder of David’s stuff into my apartment, I came to a realization: David and I were now orphans. Pondering this thought triggered my emotions and I started to bawl like, well, like a daughter who was running out of people to love. David, hearing me from his bedroom across the hall, came to console me. As he put his hand on my shoulder he pulled out a small object from his back pocket and handed it to me. “Here,” he said, extending the autographed baseball card, “I always keep it with me. It helps when things get bad. If need be, I can always take it out of my back pocket. Just holding it calms me down.” I told him thanks but folded his hand back over the card, “I have my own way of dealing with things,” I told him. “Suit yourself,” he replied, clearly offended. Leaving my room he turned around in the middle of the hallway. “Hey sis,” he said, “I love you.” “I love you too buddy,” was all I could muster mid sob.
Over the next few months work began to siphon more and more of my free time. David suffered. I could tell he felt cooped up in the city; he preferred the endless landscape of the San Francisco suburbs. He would frequently liberate himself with casual bicycle rides. Everywhere he went he would ride his bike: school, the market, the beach, you name it. He had friends across town and was constantly out past midnight. This scared me; my apartment was not in the safest neighborhood and the late night air was constantly filled with marijuana smoke and loud music from the nightclubs nearby. If he didn’t come home until late, I would stay up and worry, much like our mom used to with me. I never talked to him about it, though; I should have, I know I should have, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.
David’s pattern of behavior continued even after school started, and so followed my worrying. And then, one crisp September night, three in the morning rolled around and David hadn’t come home – he had never been later than two before. I called his cell, no answer. I dialed his friend Emmanuel, no answer. Emanuel’s house was a 15 minute bike ride away; David should have been home by now. It was a Tuesday; very few places that appealed to David would be open late. Naturally, I began to freak out. Dressing and putting on my fleece coat I walked down to my car. I pulled out of my curbside space and began to drive in the direction of Emanuel’s apartment near Sutro Heights; I frequently strained my neck from side to side, trying to spot my little brother.
Driving for less than a minute I heard ambulance sirens infiltrate the world around me. My arms were shaking as I clutched the wheel. I pulled over, an ambulance and a cop car whipped by, sirens screaming, lights blazing. Navigating back onto the road I kept towards Emanuel’s apartment, my nerves in disarray. A block or two later, my car shrieked to a stop in horror (or maybe it was I who was shrieking, now that I think about it, I don’t remember). Maybe one hundred feet in front my car I saw the ambulance and the police lights. Next to the cop car was what I made out to be David’s bicycle, or at least what was left of it. The front tire had been separated from the frame; the bicycle lay twisted and warped as if it were a piece of black licorice. It was a scene right out of a tragic movie: the victim’s sister having to be restrained by police officers as paramedics tried helplessly to resuscitate her younger brother.
Pushed back behind the wall of spectators and police tape, full of anger and emotion, I caught sight of the culprit. He was leaning against his black Cadillac Escalade, hands in his pockets, being interviewed by an officer. From what I could tell his responses seemed casual; he frequently smiled, and his relaxed stance leaked carelessness. I walked towards him, looking for confrontation, but twenty feet away I abruptly stopped. This man, this criminal, I had seen him before. I felt like I knew him, but from what? I closed my eyes, trying to scan my memory in the midst of this horrific situation. And then it hit me, I knew this man from a piece of glorified cardboard: David’s baseball card. This man was Desmond Wilkinson, only several years older.
I was right; the man who had struck and killed my brother was in fact Desmond Wilkinson, now veteran outfielder for the San Francisco Giants. What a tragic, sick circle God had planned for my brother’s life, to be killed by the one man that meant the world to him. Desmond of course contended that David’s death was an accident; he in fact blamed David for failing to properly ride in the designated bicycle lanes. The jury, neglecting Desmond’s .04 BAC and several previous citations for reckless driving, gobbled up the excuses he spoon fed them. Oh, and it gets worse. Two weeks after Desmond was acquitted of reckless driving and manslaughter, two of the former jury members were seen in box seats at a Giants playoff game. Laughably horrific, right? There is no way those jury members, an elementary school librarian and post office worker according to the newspapers, could afford those outrageously priced seats; unless of course, they received some sort of generous donation from an anonymous donor. I don’t want to speculate, but I do think this occurrence transcends mere coincidence.
For two years now this mistrial has hung over my head. How this man was acquitted of his crime, well I dumb that down to the stupidity of the American judicial system. But how this man can live with himself afterwards, well, that I do not understand. In my opinion Desmond Wilkinson, who little boys see as a role model and who parents see as a philanthropist, should be behind bars for the rest of his life.
Since that horrific September night when my younger brother died on a San Francisco street, my life has spiraled downward. So I sit here, flipping my brother’s baseball card between my fingers, draining myself of options. My bank account is dwindling from the psychotherapy sessions and the medications I’ve been given; my heart has all but imploded from a combination of sadness and anger. Worst of all, I have run out of people to love. I hope that when I am discovered this letter will be published and that somehow – ¬ because God owes me one after taking away my family – ¬ it will find its way to the ears Desmond Wilkinson. And then, Desmond, I hope you walk to home plate at AT&T Park with your chest out and your head high, and hit a home run for my baby brother. And afterward Desmond, I hope you go home and put a bullet in your head – for me.
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CiannaSkye reviewed Version 1 -
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To be perfectly honest, I have to say that this story is quite cliche. You also have a number of grammatical errors such as sentence fragments and dangling modifiers, as well as typos. The narrative is also inconsistent. Sometimes the story is told from a first person point of view, and sometimes it is told from a third person point of view (for example, the sentence that begins “It was a scene right out of a tragic movie”). Then we find out at the end that this is actually a letter that the sister is writing. In order to improve this, you really need to consider the situation from the sister’s point of view and express it in a consistent tone of voice.
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burnvictim reviewed Version 1 -
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This is written like a memoir, but reads pretty dry. Compare to David Sedaris if you want to know what I mean. The opening paragraph are just lists and lists of facts. I don’t see a signature style or creative phrasings that might make your insights on the events more intriguing. For instance, David is born deaf and with a heart defect. He was in and out of the hospital. But how does that make you feel? How does that affect the family? How does it affect David? It seems this piece needs to be at least twice as long as it is now in order to really deliver the full scope of all the events and characters. You have way to much significant action crammed into way to few words. If you can make us FEEL more for the characters, explain things in terms we can consider emotional, then the ironic ending could actually be pretty effective.
“fresh… Pacific”
Not a usual descriptor for a body of salt water.
“to make contact”
‘to contact me’, would be clearer.
“He was kept in and out”
‘He was in and out’ makes more sense as a recognizable idiom. Unless you mean to say he was intentionally kept out at points, like they were discriminating against him.
“my life slowly began to separate itself from my younger brother and my mom.”
I think you can phrase this a lot better. But, if you want to keep it as is, you need to say ‘from the lives of my younger brother and mom.”
“He would frequently liberate himself with casual bicycle rides.”
Okay, this is an example of a well phrased sentence. It sheds some perspective on things – liberation – rather than simply stating “David rode his bike a lot.” More like this one!
“used to with me”
‘used to do over me’ would be my suggestion.
“Dressing and putting on my fleece coat I walked down to my car”
This sentence literally says you are getting dressed while walking to your car. Do not overuse participle (-ing) phrases as a way to avoid ‘and’ -- ‘I got dressed, put on my fleece coat and walked down to my car.’
“my car shrieked to a stop in horror”
Your car was not in horror. You may have slammed on the brakes in horror.
“full of anger and emotion”
Okay, you list one specific emotion and then list emotion in general. I’d say you should tell us which emotion you are full of.
Hypernormal reviewed Version 1 -
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Hi there,
This comes across more as reportage-cum-biography than a fictional short story. I think I would find it more interesting if it were actually reportage, that’s to say that I would be shocked (not entertained). Please understand that I certainly don’t wish anyone to lose their life just to satisfy my pigeon-holing.
On a purely fictional level it is lacking a twist, a kick or a punch. We know from the outset what will happen to David…although not how. The Whom, which could have been the twist, is the first thing that’s given to us…in the title. This leaves us reading a story whose conclusion we mostly know within the first two paragraphs…which is why I say it is more like journalistic piece.
Here are some things I picked up:
(I can not crack the code of life – and even if I did,) – ‘and even if I could’. You started with can, so the conditional should be ‘could’.
(as any daughter should.) – this is the first mention that the narrator is a girl. By this time I had already subconsciously decided it was a boy (my bad) but to avoid that, and to avoid a reader consciously waiting to hear whether the narrator is male or female, you should probably drop this info in a little earlier…perhaps along with an earlier clue to the ages of the two main characters as well.
( like a daughter who was running out of people to love.) – I like this whole sentence very much. There’s definitely the sense of her depending on existing love and being utterly incapable of forming new relationships.
(and began to drive in the direction) – this implies that you pulled away from the curb…and then stopped. ‘I drove in the direction’ is brief and to the point. Be careful with giving far more information than is needed. Good writing comes from saying more with less. The sentence before this can be eliminated altogether…we know she’s not that distressed that she would leave the house naked, we would also know that she went to her car by you simply telling us that she was driving. The same thing applies to pulling out of the curbside space. Putting distance between the reader and the bones of the story is deadly.
I think you have the material here for a ripping short story, but you’d have to change the title, or create another twist and do some serious re-organisation. If you feel enough for the story it should be easy.
This smacks of being based on a true story…I sincerely hope it’s not so.
All the best.
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