Short Story / Wait 50 Weeks
Barry heard the steady electric whir of the Citroen, the patter of Pirelli over pavers, engine off . . . but no. New cars don’t have doors that slam shut: but not even a polite click? Barry knew they were finishing off a conversation about him, otherwise they’d just come inside. A deliberate, regular breath in for three seconds, then exhale. Repeat five times. A deliberate, regular breath for five seconds, then exhale,
Fucking bitch, torturing me.
Elaine Snow sat in the car with her daughter, Julie.
“You have to be strong with him, alert, or he’ll pull you under.”
“Okay, Mum.”
The car doors open and close, footsteps, and then the front door . . .
‘Thank Christ’, Barry thought to himself. The sound of luggage – rattling and rolling – channeled down the corridor.
‘God, I can’t wait to see her, but . . .’
Julie appeared at the door, her smile clinging onto her father like morning dew.
“Hi, Dad.”
In the excitement, Barry’s hips slid back along the plastic sheet that Elaine now insisted on placing under the covers.
“Hi, Love. Welcome home.”
Julie rushed across the room and snuggled up beside her father, who was propped up in the middle of a Queen Sized bed. She placed an arm over his shoulder, and a kiss on his cheek.
“How ya going, Pop?”
Barry listened to the plastic sheet crinkle under her weight.
Oh, God.
“I’m alright, Bugalugs. How’s the bush treating you?”
“Fantastic.”
Elaine placed Julie’s luggage in her room and began walking down the passage. The door to the master bedroom was wide open. Barry usually insisted on it being ajar, in case one of Elaine’s friends decided to come over for an unexpected visit. As she went past the door, Elaine held her head up high – like a servant or an undertaker.
“I’ve got a lot of video for you to watch.”
Barry could feel himself beginning to slide off the pillows as Julie continued to bounce.
“What of?”
“The kids!”
Julie stopped bouncing, it had suddenly dawned on her what the strange noise was.
“Oh.”
Barry muttered, failing to suppress his disapproval.
Julie looked down the length of the bed. Her father barely made an impression under the blanket. No rounded belly or knees up – to form a bridge to climb over. He looked like a Henson puppet: the big feet and cylinder legs.
“What’s Mother been saying about me?”
Julie decided to look at those crooning blue eyes.
“She said that you were refusing your physio. That you don’t want visitors and outside help.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“No, she said that we are going to go on lots of trips over the next few weeks.”
Barry laughed in a way that he hadn’t for months: a facetious laugh that had been part of his armoury, back when he enjoyed being difficult.
Parade me ‘round like a . . .
He kept laughing until it started to sound like a whimper.
Julie got up from the bed and placed a hand on Barry’s shoulder.
“I’m going to take a look at what Mum’s done in the back garden.”
“Dug me a grave, has she?”
She gave him a little push.
“Dad! Now is there anything you need?”
Barry cleared his throat, to disguise a growl.
“Tell Mother I’ll need to go to the toilet. She was gone a long time.”
Julie fixed the collar on Barry’s pyjama top, then started for the door.
“Okay.”
Barry watched her leave.
Skinnier now, not that it matters anymore.
Julie’s dress hung awkward off her hips.
That bloody dress.
Julie had worn it almost constantly: during her lost years. But while up North, she had unstitched the seams, re-cut the material and had sewn it back together.
Elaine was in the kitchen, cutting up tomatoes and cheese. She also looked at the dress as Julie made her entrance into the back living area.
“You sure you don’t want to take a shower?”
“No, I’m fine, Mum. I’m just going to have a look around the garden.”
“Lunch will be ready in a minute. I’ll bring it out to you.”
Julie cross-referenced her memories of the house, taking in the fixtures on each wall. It was the picture of the ducks that reminded her.
“Oh, Dad said he needs to go to the toilet.”
Elaine nodded, then went back to slicing the tomatoes.
Julie removed the bolts and slid the door back. The yard was immaculate – all shades of vibrant green. Trees pruned and flower beds made geometric with bricks and old railway sleepers. Nothing was in bloom, but everything was in readiness for spring. Julie looked back through the windows at her mother, as she placed things back in the fridge while yelling out over her shoulder.
The new outdoor setting had a bubble-glass tabletop and generous, molded chairs with light, blue cushions. Julie pulled out a chair from its place and took a seat with her back to the house. She would wait, staring at the tree where they had buried Casper, her pet cat, all those years ago.
-—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—-----
“Get out the car, Barry.”
Barry would have dug his heels in, if he had the motor strength.
“I’m not going up there.”
Cars had pulled up at the curb, in the same order that had formed the funeral procession from the church. People were opening umbrellas and making their way up the grassy slope, to where the burial would take place. Elaine looked around at all of her relatives: her sisters, nephews and nieces . . . The niece who had lost her four-year old was already at the grave. Her husband was unable to attend as he was in hospital, still under sedation. He had gone into shock, shortly after reversing their Range Rover 4WD over their only son. George had died instantly.
Elaine looked at all the familiar faces, but she couldn’t bring herself to join them – not yet.
“Don’t do this to me, Barry.”
She held the last sound in a mace like hiss.
“I’m not going up there in a wheel chair. It’s too wet and boggy.”
Julie was at the back of the Citroen, having her own struggle. There was barely enough space to get the wheelchair out from the boot. So she fought with the chair and tried to ignore the argument that was going on at the passenger door. The arguments had been going on for the last week and a half, ever since her return from Tenant Creek. She had no idea how bad things had regressed since her last visit. Back then, Barry had been making progress, making attempts to walk down the corridor with a frame and having intensive physio and hydrotherapy. Elaine had marveled at her husband’s determination.
“You are going up to that grave! And that’s final!”
FUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.
Barry held his head down low, looking at the hands that rested on his thighs, and wishing he could raise them at will.
“No. I’ll go to the Wake, but I’m not going up to the burial.”
Julie gave up on the wheelchair, at least until this thing was settled. Elaine thought about it, though about giving in, giving up. Barry sensed her indecision.
“Please?”
Barry was shocked at how it sounded. It may have been the most pathetic noise he had ever uttered, but he knew it would be enough.
“Okay, Barry.”
Julie slung the wheelchair back in the boot and slammed the hatch back down. Mourners had been taking turns to watch the ‘Snow Show’. The boot slamming shut enticed almost everyone to take a sneak. Julie had shed enough tears at the church, and had only felt a glimpse of her cousin’s pain. It was beyond comprehension that her own, Mother and Father would make such a scene at the cemetery. But there it was. And now she was part of it – banging cymbals at the circus. Julie walked around to Elaine’s side, and they walked up the slope together. Their stiletto heels sinking deep into the grass as they walked past the gravestones, to join the black plume of sorrow.
-—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—-—
The car ride to the Wake was silent, at first. The Citroen made its perfect hum, as Elaine navigated out of the cemetery and down Goodwood Road – back towards the Eastern Suburbs and the comforts of catering and marquees. Julie enjoyed looking over a city that she no longer called home. The bare trees and the old people out shopping made the place somehow more endearing.
“Do you ever shop for clothes around here, Mum?”
Elaine glanced back at her daughter in the rearview mirror with a smile.
“Sometimes, but mainly Burnside Village, and in the City.”
Julie knew she was making herself vulnerable to a shopping expedition before Saturday. At this stage though, Julie was happy to concede – within seconds, her Mother was sitting an inch taller in the driver’s seat.
You’re in for it now, Sweetheart.
Elaine parked a distance away from the house. She told herself she was being polite, to the rest of the family and the other elderly guests. Barry looked up the street, checking if there were any parks nearer to Patricia and Roger’s house.
“May as well park at home, than walk from here.”
Elaine ignored him.
There’s a fucking park, right out in fucking front, you toad.
Julie and Elaine got out of the car and had a momentary glance at each other. Elaine would look after the chair. There were a few cousins that Julie was looking forward to having a chat to – now that the formalities were out of the way. Some of the relatives wouldn’t recognize her, with the years gone by and the weight she had lost. Everyone was instantly thrilled for a person when they lost weight. Julie tried to not let it bother her. She had changed, that was all. The weight loss was an unplanned side effect.
Elaine lifted the wheelchair from the boot and brought it around to the passenger side of the car, where she momentarily gazed at her day dreaming daughter. Julie had always been fascinated by the bark hanging off trees and the green baby leaves that seemed more like lollies that living things. The footpath was paved, right to the curb. That would make Elaine’s job easier. She removed the two armrests and leant them against the car, before pushing the chair back so that it was out of the way. Then she opened the door and reached over Barry to undo the seatbelt.
“You’ll behave yourself.”
She whispered it, more as a statement than a question. Barry nodded, as he smelt the scent of his wife. The perfume was something expensive he had bought for her when they had last visited New York. It was too subtle for a flamboyant night out, but the hint of ylang ylang and vanilla were in keeping enough with grief.
Barry could barely feel the hands wriggling under his legs and at his back. It was a sudden movement. His wife lifting out his limbs, gaining a better grip, pulling the chair forward then dragging him across to the seat.
It wasn’t as bad as the toilet, but Barry still hated it. The armrests were then put back on the chair and he was set to go. There were better chairs out there, chairs they could easily afford, but after Barry had lost interest in making a recovery, Elaine stopped dangling the possibility of a new chair in front of him and used the old chair as a stick.
Barry had finally given up on ever tasting carrot. He even denied that carrots had ever existed in the first place. This argument, about the existence of carrots had broken both of their spirits. Elaine held them up to him, made him sniff them, and finally hit him around the head with carrots: by the bunch – and with a single, fat, juicy carrots taken fresh from the earth. It made no difference. He had given up, so Elaine poked him in the eyes – with a carrot – and then asked if he was satisfied. Barry said that it didn’t matter. He was no different blind, than seeing, as far as carrots were concerned. But a stick was a different matter.
It was a long walk to the house. Barry felt all the vibrations come through the chair as they crossed the street and made it up the driveway. There was a marquee set up in the backyard, but Elaine pushed Barry around to the door and through to what Patricia called the Drawing Room. Patricia was in the kitchen, and Elaine knew she would be expected to help, despite the caterers doing most of everything. She pushed Barry, so that he had a view of the backyard, but was out of the way enough so that he would be content.
Good, if anyone wants to talk to me, they can bloody well find me.
“You’ll be okay here.”
Once again, Elaine made it more of a statement, than asking a question.
“It’s fine.”
Elaine had taken Barry to the disabled toilets at the church after the service. So he knew he’d have to wait an hour or two before he could get things homeward bound.
“I’ll be back with a drink for you in a while.”
Then she headed off, to the kitchen, and Barry was left to observe goings on.
Julie had wandered off to the marquee, to find a friendly cousin and see if there was any alcohol available. Cousin Tania had kept an eye on Julie from the moment she’d arrived. Her side of the family had always been the most religious in the clan, but she had upgraded, and had taken on that smug sense of certainty that only the born again can afford – and she was fascinated by Julie.
“So you’re up working with the Aboriginals?”
“Yes, for the last year.”
Julie had found some Whisky that was set out for more medicinal purposes. Pouring herself a glass just before Tania had pounced.
“I was lucky enough to win a grant, to pay for digital cameras so I could teach indigenous youths how to make and edit film. And I’ve been able to secure more funding, to do it for another year.”
Tania stood that half-a-foot too close for comfort.
“Wow, that’s just wonderful. We should get you to come out and talk to us on Sunday.”
It was difficult, but Julie managed to milk out a drop of disappointment in her voice.
“Oh, I’m going back on Sunday.”
“Oh, too bad.”
Julie looked around, for something, someone so that she could excuse herself. Belinda was inside, being comforted by immediate family. Julie weighed up the option of giving her official condolences, or staying with Tania. It was then that her mother appeared from the house and called her over.
“I think Mum wants me.”
“Oh, okay.”
“How is Auntie Elaine?”
“Good.”
“Coping?”
“Yes, goodbye.”
Julie dashed off towards the house and met her mother by the door.
“Could you take a cup of tea in to your Father?”
Julie looked around the yard, trying to spot a man in a wheelchair.
“I put him inside.”
“Mum!”
“It’s what he prefers.”
Without allowing Julie time to respond, Elaine turned around and went back into the kitchen.
Julie had seen the white china cups and saucers piled up, along with the rest of the tea and coffee making paraphernalia on a table at one end of the marquee. She made her way past a bunch of mourners, then made the cup of tea that her Mother had requested, unconsciously failing to put the lid back on the ornate bowl after pouring in an extra half-spoon full of sugar. As a teenager, Julie had determined that you could find yourself returning to a jar of Vegemite or a tin of Milo at any time, so putting the lid back on was a waste of energy. But the greater satisfaction came from her Mother’s inability to comprehend that an intelligent young woman could repeatedly fail to carry out this most simple of house keeping duties, while still being able to develop her own photographs and master the art of making lead-light windows.
Two children had flung themselves into the room where Barry had been positioned. They were running away from something, and had found sanctuary of the Drawing Room. The old man in the wheelchair was no barrier. They simply ignored him. After surveying the room, they stood, staring out the windows – but this quickly turned to licking the glass, and then drawing pictures in their own saliva.
Little mongrels, where the hell are their parents!
Julie walked in with the cup of tea, just as the younger girl had drawn a picture of a coffin and a cross. They ran away as soon as Julie entered the room. As they passed her, Julie had to suddenly step to her right, to prevent the boy from knocking the cup of tea clean out of her hand. He just didn’t seem to care. Julie and Barry shared a look of horror, before they decided that it wasn’t worth pursuing.
“Mum said you wanted a cup of tea?”
“Oh, did she?”
Julie pulled a face that she knew her Father adored then put the cup out so that Barry could grasp it. It was a task that Barry insisted on still doing, despite the cup and saucer having to perform a kind of juggling act, rather than actually being held. They tipped and slid and rattled, with half the contents going onto the saucer, then onto Barry’s legs and the carpet . . .
It was something that no one wanted to watch, and for Barry, he’d rather it wasn’t witnessed. Julie had only filled the cup two thirds, but this wasn’t going to spare Barry’s trousers, or the carpet, from getting a drink before he was done.
“I’ll just get one for myself and sit with you for a while, Dad.”
Barry held off from taking the first sip.
“You don’t have to do that, Bugs.”
Julie looked out through the smudged windows.
“You’re not the only one who likes to avoid people, Pop.”
“I know, but I’ve got a doozy of an excuse.”
Julie headed back out the door to let Barry get a rattle up. Deciding not to go near the kitchen, where her Mother and Auntie would be competing for space and dominance. She had almost made it outside, when Julie was suddenly faced with Uncle Roger. He had been on his mobile, down the end of the yard, but was on his way back to the medicine cabinet when he almost bumped into her.
“Wow, Julie. Stay right there, I’ll be back in a minute. I really want to talk to you.”
And then he was gone.
Julie wasn’t sure what to do. She was practically in the doorway, so she took a few steps out and to the left. A few years ago, Auntie Patricia had redecorated the al fresco area, ‘a la Mediterranean’: five or six pallets of first grade Italian marble had been thrown down, and one of the largest water features in suburban Adelaide had been installed near the fence. Patricia had drawn up a commission, finally awarding it to a Sculptor from Mildura – to make a life-size interpretation of Cezanne’s ‘bathers’ series.
Julie stared at the statue, trying not to laugh, as she waited for Uncle Roger – though she knew no reason why. Roger was going through the medicine cabinet in the en-suite of the master bedroom. He was checking whether they still had some of the 1mg Xanax. There was no way he was going to put up with his wife and daughter straight, after all the guests had ventured home. He didn’t care who took the Xanax: definitely his wife, maybe his daughter, but preferably they all would. So they could grieve some more in the lounge room while dribbling into a sturdy glass of Cognac or Whisky. Roger found the bottle of pills and stashed them in a pocket. At least now he didn’t have to stress about dealing with the aftermath.
On the way back through the house, he called into the study and put a few shots of Ardbeg single malt in a coffee mug and headed back to speak to his Niece. Roger walked out with a fresh veneer of confidence and was pleased to see that Julie hadn’t gone too far from instructed.
“So, Julie, your Mother tells me that you are making the most of the grant.”
Julie detected the Whisky on his breath.
“Yes. It’s been so rewarding.”
“Fantastic.”
Roger was suddenly struck silent, so took a sip to cover up the lapse. He had momentarily forgotten why in hell he’d wanted to speak to Julie in the first place . . . then it suddenly popped into his head – but he’d have to test the waters first. Julie ached for something neutral to say.
“And things are going well for you, Roger?”
“Fantastic, couldn’t be better.”
There was another, more awkward pause before Roger started in.
“So, any of those kids up there talented?”
Julie could now sense something more than whisky on her Uncle’s tongue.
“Well, they are budding story tellers.”
“Yes, yes, but what I mean is that . . .”
Roger closed his mouth and rolled his tongue around his upper teeth to find the right words.
“Well, if one of them had actual talent, you’d encourage him more than the others, wouldn’t you?”
Julie was still getting over the wet whistling sound that Roger had emitted through the gap in his teeth, whilst giving his uppers the once over. But with a slight tilt of her head, Julie started to see where things were heading.
“It would depend on what they wanted. The ethos of the programme is to extend them all – as far as they want to go. If one of them ends up making a feature film, that would be terrific. But if they just want to film their family, that’s great to.”
Roger sucked a bit of air through the gap again.
“So some of these kids are just using those cameras and the editing equipment to make home movies?”
Julie gave him a quizzical look.
“They’re not just home . . .
“See, I don’t know much about making film, but I remember that your proposal required a lot of money for a portable editing suite?”
Ever since she had found out, Julie had lamented the knowing that her uncle was mixed up with the board of directors for CAFC: The Corporate Arts Funding Cooperative. Julie had been oblivious when she had drawn up her proposal, and her uncle had ‘forgotten’ to inform the rest of the board that she was a close relation, when they had met to consider the various submissions. Julie knew it would come back to haunt her.
“Yes, the editing suite was the big item on the budget.”
“One hundred THOUSAND dollars.”
Roger practically sang out the sum, letting it hang in the air.
Julie’s great grandmother, Beatrice Pringle was ninety-seven years old, but still insisted on wearing bright red lipstick. She had been keeping court in the kitchen, but had decided to shuffle into the Drawing Room for a bit of peace and quite. It was there that she found Barry.
“Oh, Barry, It’s most gracious to see you out on this very, very sad occasion. It does one good to know that family can come to together when such a tragedy takes place, when one of his most precious creatures is taken back into his keeping.”
Beatrice often talked as if God was some kind of cosmic horse trainer.
Barry muttered something indistinguishable.
Oh, for pity’s sake!
“I think that the warmth of family and the . . .
Julie suddenly realised that she could see her father through the window. And that Great Gran-ma had him at knifepoint.
“So what about your business, Uncle Roge? Is it still Car Parks?”
Uncle Roger – well satisfied with how he hit his last note – was more than happy to move onto his favourite subject.
“God no, inner city apartments. Well, for the last few years. But now I’ve just picked up a licensing deal for a fast food franchise.”
Julie raised her eyebrows.
“Really?”
“The figures look solid. Some brilliant Japanese chef dreamt it up last year, and I’ve managed to get exclusive rights in Australia. Duck in a Pond!”
Julie twisted her head back at the water feature, to check if there were some unwelcome bathers.
“No, that’s the name of the franchise. ‘Duck in a Pond’. It’s a range of Asian soups, not just duck, but mainly, and it gets served in a mossy green Styrofoam container that looks, for all the world like a pond.”
Roger had his mouth wide open, smiling, gap and all.
“Duck in a, pond?”
“That’s it!”
Roger winked as he said it.
“The prospectus we’re mailing out promises dynamite returns, and with the new IR laws and other business incentives it’s a sweet, sweet time for making business. Especially franchises. It’s all good for them too. Get the workers in at sixteen, pretty girls, fire ‘um at eighteen. And I’m making a start-up fee of two hundred grand, and then 10 percent of profit for the first three years, five percent there after.”
Julie was trying to express her complete lack of interest, but it just wasn’t getting through.
“And the sweetest part – if they fold, they still owe me a projected percentage of profit for following five years. But man, has my lawyer got that sucker printed small!”
The next step logical move was to crush one of Roger’s big toes with her heel, but Julie managed to hold back, as she tried to compare her own distress, to how Barry was looking – through the smudged window.
“Sorry, Uncle Roger, I’d love to have a look at that prospectus, but maybe another time.”
When Julie was far enough away but still in earshot, Roger let the duck-shit fly.
“I got you that grant, Baby Cakes.”
“ . . . there really isn’t any reason why children can’t keep their father’s name, after divorce. I weep when I see children throw away perfectly good last names: like Mortimer or Pressman or Chamberlain. Oh, except that terrible business up at Ayres Rock, and I do say Ayres Rock with an air of indignation at those so-called tribal elders who Keating licked at like melted Chicos. When my Colbert had three daughters, I jokes about him being Lear and having to divide up his wealth, well my wealth – but it wasn’t so funny after he blinded himself when that damn rifle backfired – but anyway, after the divorce all those girls kept the Pringle name . . . oh, pardon Barry.”
Barry had again mumbled something indistinguishable. Julie arrived in the room, just as her Great Grandmother moved a step closer to Barry. He saw Julie from the corner of his eye, and gave her the faintest wink. Beatrice was all but five-foot one, but in deference, she still leant over to bring an ear closer to Barry as he opened his mouth to repeat what he had just said. His words sounded as dry as his undies.
“I shat my pants.”
Beatrice didn’t miss a beat.
“Yes, I know dear, but don’t you agree?”
Barry didn’t answer, so Beatrice just stared at him, then at her Great Grandchild – with a mixture of disdain and bitterness.
“I’ll go get Elaine then, I suppose.”
Julie waited a few seconds, then let out a blistering laugh that reverberated through the entire house.
After Julie had managed to quash her laughter, and Barry had got the beam off his face, they looked at each other as comrades first and family second. Julie broke the perfect silence.
“Let’s get out of here.”
She was quick to release the brakes and start pushing Barry out of the Drawing Room and through to the kitchen. Roger’s low blow was the farthest thing from her mind as she yelled out to her mother.
“I’m taking Dad home.”
Elaine had already received the news and was happy to see that she had been relinquished from any responsibility.
-—---—---—---—---—---—---—-
With Barry now safely in bed, Julie thought it time to show the video footage that ‘her kids’ from Tenant had put to tape. She sat at the end of the bed, where she could reach the controls, pausing to tell her personal anecdotes about each kid and the making of their films.
“I’m going to need my medication soon, Bugs.”
Elaine kept Barry’s medication in the en-suite bathroom.
Julie looked over her shoulder with mouth open.
“Do you know what you have to take?”
“Yep. It’s in the cabinet above the mirror.”
Julie paused the tape and went into the en-suite and found the box of pills. She put it out on the bed and looked up at her father.
“Which ones?”
Barry looked over the lids and listed off the required doses.
“Two from the red one, one from the green one, and two from the blue one.”
Julie shook out the right number of pills from each bottle and passed them to her father with the obligatory glass of water.
“You want some help?”
Barry looked deep into his daughter’s eyes.
“Nah, I’ll be right.”
He lifted his quivering hands and took hold of the glass and let Julie drop the pills into his left palm.
As soon as he took them, Julie turned her devotion to the TV screen, bouncing to the end of the bed to continue the presentation. Within seconds, the speaker rang out with the joyous screams of the Aboriginal children jumping off a bridge and into the river.
“This one, Benny, he wanted to do another sequel to Mad Max. He wrote a script and everything . . .”
Julie had left the lids off the prescription bottles. Barry knew she would. With the sound up on the TV, he managed to reach down and lift out the green bottle from the box without Julie realising. The hardest part was trying to make sure the bottle didn’t rattle too much as he brought the pills to his mouth. Barry took in as many as he could swallow. Julie was still transfixed by Benny and his friends yelling out to each other from the bridge as they outdid each other with double, sometimes triple somersaults – as they leapt into the murky water. Barry reached down for the red bottle and did the same. He still had the glass of water in his other hand to help wash as many of the tranquilizers down as he could manage.
It took a few minutes before he felt anything. But soon enough he was half dreaming of that river and swimming amongst the children on a perfect summer’s day. When he felt himself fighting to breathe, he decided it was time to say something.
“I’m sorry, Julie. Please forgive me.”
Julie looked over her shoulder in a feeble gesture of paying attention. Barry sensed her lack of awareness, but he didn’t know how much longer he had.
“I’ve waited, it’s been fifty weeks . . . I love you so much, but I just can’t go on, like this . . .”
It was the wrong audio, playing over stock footage. Julie knew something was awry. A simple glance down at the bed and the empty bottles resting by his exhaust-pipe skinny legs was enough. She broke out in tears before it had fully registered.
“What . . .Dad?”
Barry was in the river. His arm were finally still as he started to sink below the horizon of water – though the sun still penetrated the murky depths as he went lower and lower.
“Dad!”
The last thing he felt was a slap to his face, but it may as well have been a caress. Sinking down . . . and then he could see something on the bottom of the river. A wooden chest half open, like the picture books from his childhood. He sank deeper from the sun. Deeper and far away from all respite or pity.
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Delightful. I’m sure there are many errors in punctuation, style and all the other crap that the English teachers amongst us are so quick to point out, but I liked the story and that’s all that matters. The story read like poetry to me in that it painted a picture that I enjoyed viewing. I wish I could write something as good. I think I may have, at times, created similar moments in some of my scenes but I don’t notice them as much as when I am reading something by someone else. I loved the way that life kept going on despite the supreme anguish and sorrow, that nothing could stop it, nothing. This “slice of life” could be published now with minor editing. Or, it could be a part of a movie..it’s that good. So, bravo, my Urbis friend. I wish you all the best. All you need is love, John
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You did a pretty good job i just happen to have a few thing i thought i should point out to you about your story.
First of all i came across this, “A deliberate, regular breath in for three seconds, then exhale.” The fact is that having that in there is more telling us the story as if we were around a campfire then showing it to us as if it were a movie. That is a pretty bad thing to do because it makes it harder for us to visulize the story that you have made infront of us.
Next thing i found was while reading this, “Barry’s pyjama top” Pajama doesn’t have a y in it. If you have problems finding mispelled words then read your story backwards word for word and circle any world you think is mispelled or are unsure about. Then go check the spelling in the dictionary.
Another thing i found was while reading this, “looks, for all the world ” It should instead of all the be the entire. This is because the entire is when you are talking about the whole of something like whole world. all of the is when you are talking about like all of the bussiness or all fastfood places.
Last but not least, “suddenly realised that she could ” Realized is spelled with a z and not an s. Like i said before read the story word for word so that you don’t miss anything important, that may confuse the readers a bit.
Besides that you did a very good job. I can tell you put your heart and soul into writing this story and it turned out very good. I hope that i helped in some way shape and / or form. Keep writing because you have talent all you got to do is polish up the story and use that talent.
I was able to tell when Barry was talking to himself without the quotations. It may have been just me, but it took me a litte while to realize that Barry was in a wheelchair. The ending was pretty sad. Overall, i liked this story.
Oh I do like this quite a lot. I have some questions: what happened to Barry? Did Julie come home for the funeral or did that just happen to strike while she was there?
The change of perspective was sudden in the first shift, but I followed it after that. I don’t honestly know how you could improve that. I like the changing perspectives.
Other than that, I think my only concerns were sometimes moving to places, funeral, after funeral, too quickly.
There are some references that are not revealed but give the characters depth. I LIKE wondering about them: the insight on how people respond to someone who’d lost weight, Barry referring to Julie’s lost years. I like that Julie is a bit of a mystery with these little snippets to give us a piece of her.
You have mastered family tension and the childishness of adults, that everything is a slight revenge between a long-married couple. The part about the carrots is fabulous. I love that you take a metaphor and then make it physical and real.
At first I just thought the bit about the lids was a great insight into Julie, but tying it in at the end was very good and showed that her father knew her well.
The upgraded born again Christian line was brilliant.
There’s a lot of sadness for a piece that kept me smiling. I must read some more of your work!
Wow. This reminds me of an English drama we see in America late night. The imagary is that professional. I’m reviewing this without the benefit of the previous chapters so I can’t say much to the context. That said, it did seem very long to have so little happening in it. I think the entire thing could have been done very well in a third of the length. More events would have filled the word count better. Perhaps a few scenes in which Barry watched others do things he once enjoyed but can no longer do. Maybe a conversation to foreshadow his final decision.
I’d scrap the first paragraph. I read it three times before I got the gist. The following 7 lines of dialogue made it clear but the intro still needs to be there. Just do a complete rewrite. What and who are we talking about?
”...her smile clinging onto her father like morning dew.” loved that line.
wow thats really good. i love the way you write. it takes alot to wriite 5000+ writing, or for me, it can. but anyways, awesome job. that was really good. ill try to read more of your stuff deifinitely. you have definitely got to stick with writing. =)
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