Thanks for the well-thought review. I like your advice and will definitely take these things into consideration for the re-write. One thing stays though and that is the basement kitchen. I want it to be like a cave of subconscious secrets. It is not unheard of for kitchens in old southern homes to be in the basement. That is how the house that based the Dalton Mansion on is laid out. I agree with you on everything else though. Thanks again.
Short Story / Baby
Baby
The first hint of daylight tiptoed like a mischievous vaudevillian across the black and white surf of the Atlantic seaboard. The hazy luminescence crept like a slow moving blanket, propelled by unseen hands, across a tiny costal village, finding its ways without trepidation through the eight tiny portal windows that lined the fourth floor of the Dalton Mansion. Inside that fourth floor nursery of the 18th century home, small dusty cradles lined the eastern wall, separated by knee high portals, giving children a view of the picturesque town below. The east side of the room permitted only the earliest rays of dawn to enter in thin bands that fanned out before quietly dissipating on the wooden floor as if this were the morning’s final breaking point before swallowing itself all over again like an ocean wave.
Cora Dalton was a frail woman in a black dress. Her hair was silver but her face, though pale grey, maintained youthful eloquence. Her skin appeared soft and her eyes flitted about, not wanting to miss anything. Her posture and grace betrayed her age with forgiveness. Cora watched the floor as she carefully moved from cradle to cradle, stepping only on the bands of light that splashed across the nursery floor, eschewing the chasms of shadow with nimble feet. The woman stopped at each tiny bed to place a pile of ancient tomes on the floor. The books had been in the family for years and bore titles such as The Iliad, Beowulf, and a folio of one William Shakespeare.
After straightening each blanket and looking down at her work with hopeful anticipation, Cora Dalton moved on to the next bed to repeat the procedure. Her path led her to the far end of the room where two chairs sat divided by a small table on which stood a silver lamp, a sewing basket, and a looking glass. The chair on the east side was a wooden rocker and sat vacant awaiting the weight of Mrs. Dalton to initiate its persistent rocking. The opposite chair was occupied by Charles, the man who brought the Dalton name across the Mason Dixon line shortly after the war had ended.
Mr. Dalton gazed, as if to be reading, at a large book, the title of which he had not taken notice of prior to opening it’s pages. The silence of the room was broken as Cora sat in her rocker and began the slow gentle motion that was accompanied by a feint rolling sound and a tiny creak at the crescendo of each roll. Cora looked one last time at her nursery before taking up her sewing basket.
“Oh, Charles”, she said after several moments. “I do wish you would have a talk with Auggie and May. It seems that every time I get the books out for the children, they come and take them back downstairs when I am out of the house. You needn’t be harsh with them, but a reminder may be in order.”
Charles Dalton spoke without looking away from the page beneath him. “Auggie and May haven’t been with us for quite some time, darling.”
Cora looked off in the distance stunned. “But, Charles, where have they gone?”
“Heaven I suppose.”
Cora gasped, grabbing at her chest. “You mean they have passed on?”
Charles sighed as Cora muttered a litany of lives that would be forever altered by the absence of the beloved maid and nurse. “Charles, do you know what I heard last night? I could hear somebody talking downstairs! It was clear as day I tell you. Do you think it could have been their ghosts?”
“Could be, darling”, Charles replied thoughtlessly to end the conversation. “Do you know what I heard them say, Charles? It was so clear I can still hear the sound of their voices ringing in my ears”. She covered her ears with her hands and looked at her husband who paid no attention. “Charles, they said my name. They said I had lost my mind, Charles”.
Charles Dalton thumbed the pages of the book without looking at his wife. “They spoke of me like a lunatic, Charles. It could drive one mad to be thought a lunatic by celestial beings. Don’t you think?”
Mr. Dalton set the book down on the table and began to pack his pipe with tobacco. “Did you say anything back to the ghosts, darling?” he asked.
“Well, no. I was stunned! I have gotten used to sharing our house with people from the other side. They have never tried to hurt anybody, but I tell you it sent chills down my spine to be called ‘mad’ by those creatures.”
Charles’ face lit up with orange light as he held the match to the bowl of his pipe. Smoke clouded around his head in a giant plume then settled to a slow but steady stream of white. After several long puffs, he looked at his wife with sorrowful compassion. “Why don’t we go to the cemetery today, darling? It might do you some good.” he said.
Cora thought about the cemetery and how it seemed to be the only place where she felt like herself anymore. “Alright, dear. We’ll go to the cemetery right after I finish straightening up the nursery. It is still far too dusty.”
Saint James Cemetery stood on the outskirts of the village so the dead may watch over their loved ones below. The Dalton plot was at the highest point in the cemetery and occupied an entire row of eroding limestone markers. Many of the markers towered over the rest within the cemetery gates, memorializing long and prosperous lives. In the middle of the row, a long series of tiny headstones and statues of guardian angels punctuated the long street of regal monoliths. These were the Dalton family babies. Of the fourteen children that Cora Dalton had borne only two survived the first four years of life on earth. Among those two, only one lived to adulthood to carry the family name.
It was true. Cora Dalton had gone insane. Upon their betrothal, she had promised her promising young husband as many children as he could fit beds in their house. She loved him dearly as he loved her, and wanted to spend the rest of her life yielding his off-spring to people as much of the world as possible with tiny Charles and Cora Daltons. Even the ghosts whose paths had never crossed her own in mortality felt nothing but sympathy upon the sight of her.
Cora and Charles walked leisurely to the graves of their young babies who never grew old. There was plenty of time so they stopped by each grave for a very long time. Cora wept aloud for each child in individual mourning. She called them all by name as she threw herself down at the grass before their meek headstones. Finally, they came to an empty space in the grass and the weeping stopped. “How about Simon? I have always liked the name, Simon.”
Cora stared off blankly without answering. “How about it, then, darling? Simon?”
“No. His name is not Simon.”
“Are you sure, darling? It truly is a strong name.” Cora rose without answering and began walking back to their home without a word.
As they walked home, Cora could not escape thinking about what she had heard the ghosts say about her. Charles continued to say the name “Simon” to no audience in particular.
As they approached the house, a familiar stench caught Charles’ nose, forcing him to cover his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Cora seemed not to notice and continued in gentle silence. Charles did not say a word as they approached the house. It was routine. He knew there was no reason to argue about it. Cora would go to the kitchen and Charles, who could not bare the scent any longer, would return to the nursery to wait for her.
Sometimes they could see the ghosts at certain times of day. The faces were always different, all except for one. One face, of a plump older woman with a busy-body disposition, seemed to lead the rest. They could rarely hear what she spoke about, only deciphering short phrases from her speech. She pointed a lot and seemed to be explaining things to the other ghosts who seldom said a word. The ghosts never bothered the Daltons and seemed to fill in the gap between life and death, bringing their lost babies closer to them.
Cora opened the giant wooden door and descended the stairs to the kitchen. With each step, the scent grew stronger, but it did not bother her. She began to weep again as she rounded the corner at the foot of the staircase and saw the tiny body lying on the table. Lighting a candle, she approached the huge kitchen table to look upon her youngest baby who had not yet been named.
The candle light fell on the boy’s face to reveal the yellow gel of decomposition. The body was half digested by worms that crawled out of each orifice onto the table.
Upstairs, Charles waited calmly for his wife to return. He had long ago stopped expecting their release. Every night, she returned to her husband with the bad news that she could still not determine the child’s name. Every night, she wrote a list of names in her pad and crossed them all off one by one. Every night, Charles waited for his wife to join him on the blissful walk to Heaven. Every night was a prelude to another selfsame day.
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KimmyKatt reviewed Version 1 -
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I don’t think you need much help getting back on track. This is great writing! Your descriptions are fluid and artful without being overdone, and the sinister undertone was just right. This just might be the best short story on Urbis. Not having read them all I can’t say, but you’re definitely on the top of the heap. I really can’t offer any criticism because I found no faults. Kudos!
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lord_of_fools reviewed Version 1 -
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cdnsurfer reviewed Version 1 -
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First off, congrats on your sobriety. You use two similes of similar form in paragraph 1 and 2. I think I would change the second linking “like” to an “as” for variety. The descriptors in the opening paragraph were good. Strong.
“a [faint] rolling sound”
This sentence felt out of place “Charles sighed as Cora muttered a litany of lives that would be forever altered by the absence of the beloved maid and nurse.” Probably because there’s no lead in to explain the context. Perhaps a line before to explain who this refers to.
This needs to be changed as you have promise twice as “promised her promising young husband”. Even if you remove the adjective “promising” that would work.
I’m not sure what you’re trying to say here “She loved him dearly as he loved her, and wanted to spend the rest of her life yielding his off-spring to people as much of the world as possible with tiny Charles and Cora Daltons.” Awkward sentence. What do you mean?
“who never grew old” is implied by babies.
“individual mourning” is implied by each child.
This seems awkward “Charles continued to say the name “Simon” to no audience in particular.” Why do we care if Charles’ has no particular audience? It might be better if he says it to the birds, or the trees, or the wind. Define audience.
You have an interesting idea here. It almost works but there doesn’t seem to be a natural tie in between the “ghosts” and what we know is coming, that she has metaphorically “eaten her children” like Saturn did. Also, the exact shape of the ironic ending needs to be foreshadowed.
One thing that bothered me near the end is the reference to the kitchen when clearly she’s going downstairs to the cellar or basement. Why a kitchen? It doesn’t seem to tie in.
Mostly, you have an interesting story here with some loose ends. Nothing that can’t be solved with a rewrite to tighten it up and foreshadow/backstory.
Nice. Thanks for sharing. Good luck.
Goddess2006 reviewed Version 1 -
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You set the scene very well in the first paragraph and maintain very high quality throughout. The end is wonderful. The only thing I might do differently is not have the narrator reveal Cora’s mental problems, instead depending on a conversation or her actions to do so. You have an awesome talent. Please keep writing!
ladymuniz reviewed Version 1 -
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My my. I liked this, I read it twice. A mother no doubt would go insane after loosing so many children. I like the characters; how you can decipher the husbands and wifes personality from their described behaviors. I suspect this writting is just as good as if you still under chemicals. Great job.
tash reviewed Version 1 -
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intreging story. not sure whats going on but eh, I understand where your coming from. you have to learn every thing all over. this perhaps is a warm up to get the creative juices flowing. keep up the good work! I’d love to read more from you.
November 24, 2006
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very good liked the story a little shineing to do untitil the story is perfect but perfect is a one sided view lol good job and keep it up
camawin reviewed Version 1 -
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I really liked this piece, sufficiently creepy.
I’m not sure about the opening line. It is either really good or just a little too over the top. I can’t make up my mind about it.
Other than I thought your descriptions were very good:
the yellow gel of decomposition
gross
good job
bmcquilkin reviewed Version 1 -
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Very well written -- reminiscent of John Irving or John Updike in stlye (but it’s obvious that you weren’t copying them -- you have your own voice and it is strong and good).
You show and avoid telling, and that’s good.
Some things that I would correct—for Cora’s dialogue, start a new paragraph. “Do you know what I heard them say…” should be its own paragraph.
Honestly, that’s the only glaring thing that I saw.
I assume that this is a first draft -- correct me if I’m wrong. Here’s what I would advise you to do, and it’s something that I do with each of my stories. Set it aside for a long time, then pick it up and read it as though you never read it before. Then sit down and retype it -- every word. Start over. Change whatever you feel is out of place or could be stronger. I see things in the story that I would word slightly differently, but that only reflects my own style and not any deficiency with your writing. It’s a good story, very well written; but if you want to get it published, you really need to rewrite it and make it even stronger. Remember to use as few words as possible. I would also reconsider the opening -- this is a short story and while the narrative explaining the sunlight entering the town is very well written, it might be too much for a short story -- an editor might get as far as the sun entering the windows and get bored with that length of description of setting for such a short story. It could probably be written to read a little faster, a pace that quickly takes us into the meat of the story of Clara and Charles.
I hope that your recovery goes well; very much like what your going through and at the same time very different, I’m going through treatment for cancer. We’re both fighting to recover from our pasts; I wish you the best of luck. If you want more help with writing and critiques, message me; I’d be more than happy to help.
November 24, 2006
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This was well written and kept the reader interested because it kept raising questions you want the answers to. The end was a bit grizzly and my only suggestion is the beginning or opening paragraph. It reads a bit slow and it didn’t immediately draw me into the story. It almost works without the beginning paragraph completely. Beginning with the opening sentence, “Cora Dalton was a frail woman in a black dress.” That right there makes you want to keep reading I think, because it raises the question, “why?” Nice job on this.
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