That is what I was interested in: Was the meaning too buried? I didn’t want to over illustrate it, but I had a feeling I had not illustrated it enough. I already have a version 2 which is the same as one, but for some additions at the end that I suspect are needed to tie things up.
Short Story / the hornet fishermen
I wrote this very quickly and I will rework it later. I would be very interested in your views!
The Hornet Fishermen Gary Dorking
It was like a tiny hole, that idea, and Joola Burns peered into the end of it. At the opposite end, the concept raised its collars to form a shadow across its face, and peered back. The collars should have been starched. The idea wanted to hide itself, to be the elusive and artful insect in the hive. The glint of the eye of the idea, peered back at Joola and she wondered if what she saw, was a place to dig or abandon.
It had whispered at her first, as she woke on the day of the unveiling of her work, ‘The hornet fisherman’. It had asked her what she really knew. For even though her back remained on the bed, it seemed she was vertical. Her sheets scratched her and she sensed a change, and that the bed now leant itself upright against the floor, grinning as the wall confronted her, horizontal at her feet.
The fifty-nine foot six inch statue of the hornet fisherman waited, under a grey sheet. The hard-edged golden projection of the window, bending over the folds, snaking slowly over them as the sun moved up into the sky.
She slowly and tenuously lifted her right foot from the bed, touched it against the wall, took a step and left the bed. Her body and the mattress remained parallel. The gap between them widened with each step. Her foot entered a window shaped area of sunlight.
The crowd flowed, in to the huge dimly lit space. Heads tilted back to assess the height of the room; some sixty feet, then tilted back down, to the huge form loitering menacingly beneath the huge grey sheet like an enormous malignant elephant man.
She looked to the window to find its curtains hanging parallel to her body, to the bed and to the horizon.
The concept of a house, that would play such games, that would shift it’s gravity ninety degrees, peered back at her from behind its collars and waited, patient, still and cold for its adversary to make the next move.
The highest point, of the curious mass of the hornet fishermen, could almost have been turning, moving, beneath it’s grey shroud, or it could have been a trick of the light, still solely of a single source ninety two million miles away, too hot to get close, to anything.
The lonely sun made steam rise, from seemingly dry surfaces. And two separate window shaped projections moved: One across Joola’s tentatively stepping feet, the other across the waiting, cold, form of the hornet fishermen, beneath the fabric.
The hornet fishermen waited for those who would unveil it, in a room of flat, grey walls, now lined by expectant viewers and reviewers. There were those that expected, that it was art, that they had come to see, and those who shrugged at anything, that was not of there universe and who never expected that that membrane may be revealed and pierced until it cried, sending a new born glint across the shadow of their narrow minds.
Sixty feet above the floor of the gallery space and six-inches above the tip of the hornet fishermen, on the ceiling’s coat of greyed, once white emulsion, a spot the size of a penny began to ripple and darken, then it split as the head of a drip pushed through, despite the fact that the lead covered flat roof above was desert dry and hot enough to cooked an egg on.
Joola’s walk stopped at what was once the ceiling of her room. She pressed her palm against it and the heat she felt, made the concept take a pace forward, out of the shadows. He lowered his collar slightly and smiled, like Harry Lime, the third man, who seems to know something, and is willing to share, what that sensation feels like, once he sees the recognition in your eyes.
Joola’s house now felt soft to the touch. She pushed and her hand began to slip through the marshmallow like surface of the ceiling.
The drip, left the ceiling above the hornet fishermen and began to ascend, began to pass the sculpture whose apparent movement was now clearly not, just a trick of the light. It wriggled as it sensed the movement of the drip; it felt the light rush of air disturb the fabric. It was impatient for it’s release.
There was no more moisture from the penny-sized split, but the split, enlarged and a finger pushed through.
Joola sensed what the concept had waited for her to see. This was art. She had become art and the notion elated her. A single tear, left her eye, and fell horizontally. It hit the ceiling and pushed through, cracking the paint on the other side, where the loft should have been, and the drip fell sixty feet, evaporating before it could hit the grey floor, on which sat the hornet fishermen.
*
Around the Hornet fishermen, heads tilted upward once more, to a hand, pushing through the emulsion.
*
Harry lime smiled, and whispered, “see the future, be the future”.
“I know.” Joola replied.
*
Another hand pushed through the ceiling, found the shape beneath, and the two hands pulled at the hornet fisherman’s cover, causing the shape beneath, to wriggle, to shiver as if someone had stroked it’s spine, with the sharp end of a quill pen.
The people below began to cheer, as the fabric began to leave the ground, and as the fabric began to disappear into the hole in the ceiling.
A long legged pre-hair let loose, seductive secretary look-alike sucking on the end of her pencil, stilled her lips, and frowned as the hornet fisherman’s base began to reveal itself. It was as grey as the room. It was nondescript; it looked like someone had dropped some wet clay from a few feet above the ground, then some more, then some more. Lump upon lump upon lump, revealed itself as the material lifted higher.
*
Joola pushed one hand right through the wall, then the other, until the marshmallow held her elbow joints, until she felt the gossamer thin edge of a wing, beneath cotton. She pulled her fingers back, until she could pinch the fabric alone, and began to pull.
*
The man next to the pencil sucker looked away when he saw the next stage, then looked back unable to stay his curiosity. The bulbous lumps stopped at eight feet high. The base was thirty feet across. It dipped in the middle, like a bowl lined with offal.
*
Joola’s room began filling with the grey fabric. As it touched the walls, so the walls absorbed it. And as the walls absorbed the cloth, so they themselves, became absorbed, by the scenery outside the house.
*
There were sneers in the gallery space as the fabric lifted further. Whispers of “sensationalist bullshit,” and “This is art?” Above the bowl, the head of an insect, a hornet’s head eight feet wide, appeared to be in a drinking position, as if it were sipping from the empty bowl.
There were also whispers of “far out!” of “Whoa!” and one whisper, from a thin man in a wheel chair. His expensive suit hung off of his bones as loose as the grey sheet that had covered the Hornet Fishermen. “I want it, I’ll pay any price”. This sent a ripple around the room. Other collectors began to twitch nervously. The rich man in the chair had started a feeding frenzy, albeit one of good manners, where no body moved, but synapses jumped and burned quietly like straightjacketed fleas in a locked box.
Joola knelt on a flat lead roof that was to hot for her knees and hands. She was still pulling the fabric through. It was hanging over the edge of the building and was now some forty feet from the ground below.
The drinking hornet’s body was set at an obtuse angle to it’s head, as if it had twisted it’s head quickly, with no time to waste, to assuage a terrible hunger. Around it as the sheet raised further, legs were becoming visible, then other heads, more hornets who had not yet reached the bowl to drink, perhaps the drinking hornet, had first go, perhaps they were waiting there turn.
The sculpture remained grey, from the base, to the highest points, which as they were revealed, caused a further mixed reaction from the crowd below. The hornets all had their abdomens raised high in the air, as if they were doing handstands, as if they were holding there weapons aloft in a victorious stance. Each weapon – a three-foot long spike at the base of the abdomen-stood next to its neighbour directly beneath the hole in the ceiling where the last inches of the fabric were disappearing.
*
Joola pulled at the fabric for another thirty seconds before the end finally showed itself. And as it did, it vanished, and as it vanished, so the roof began to soften further in the heat.
After a moments stunned silence, there were more cheers. The elite crowd of art lovers and critics began to circulate around the huge shape. The hornets weren’t anatomically correct. They looked mutated, as if they were of a hornet mother and a demon father, as if they had been born too close to a nuclear reactor, as if Dali, Max Ernest and Man ray had all used their tools upon them.
The cries of “How much?” And “It’s mine, name the price!” began once more. There were cutting looks being passed between competing eyes and then a question that stopped them all in their tracks: “Where is the artist?”
For a while, no one noticed the hole in the roof. For a while, they looked amongst themselves for the artist. It was only when their faces began to be splashed with light that they looked up.
They applauded at first, as Joola appeared in the hole. But she appeared to be struggling to maintain her position. The ceiling was soft, and given way.
*
There was nothing on the roof to grab a hold of. Nothing to keep Joola from falling in and as she did so, the hole began to shrink. And as she fell onto the lance like stingers of the hornets, as they pierced into her back, and out through her chest, as one caught her in the bone of her leg, ensuring that as she slid down the spikes, she would settle upside down with her foot in the air, the hole in the ceiling stopped shrinking, at the size of a penny.
The bowl, from which the hornet drank, was no longer empty. It was filling increasingly with Joola’s blood. Its face became splashed, as did the area around the base of the sculpture. The blood dripped from the wings of the hornets, it took detours along the hairs that protruded from the crab leg like legs, on its way to the heads of each insect and from there, to the mouths and finally, perfectly, directed, into the bowl. The design was exquisitely realised, down to the last drop of blood. Joola Burns struggled to lift her weary head. She could see an eye, peering though the hole in the ceiling, and as she died, she whispered to it, “I saw you Harry”.
And Harry spoke back, “Maybe you shouldn’t have looked kid.”
*
A man in the gallery spoke. “So, what now?”
A woman asked, “So, who is this ‘Joola’”
“You haven’t heard of Joola Burns? My god! What are you doing here?”
“My boss wants me to bid for this thing, he’s the expert, not me.” She said, waving a chequebook.
“This is her first work, since she cleaned up”.
“Cleaned up?”
“Yeah, heroin.”
“Oh.”
“They say she kept clean during the whole process of its creation.”
“And that this is her first public appearance.”
“She’s quite the recluse they say.”
“I heard she can’t cope with crowds.”
“Well, I hope she shows up soon. I want someone to unveil this thing.”
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Alexis1 reviewed Version 1 -
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Some things as I read:
-“she saw, was a place” I don’t think there’s a comma needed
-good descritptions, might want to use her name more ofen instead of ‘she’ in the beginning
-“there universe” -> their universe
Very in depth descriptions, though at times a little hard to follow. Is the dialogue at the end before or after Joola dies? It seems to be before. Does this mean that Joola was high when she unveiled it and died? The dying was a little strange, and who’s Harry Lime? Sorry, I guess I’m totally clueless.I noticed that you have a huge comma fettish, they were everywhere. I’m not going to go trhough them all becuase it would take forever. Just remember that you don’t need them everywhere you want to put a slight reading break in. You had tons of unnecessary ones, hopefully you’ll cach them when you read it over. Overall, well written, talent shone through. It was confusing to me though. It did leave a lot to the imagination while also showing a lot through descriptions to the reader. You might want to include more explanations throughout the story. Good luck with it and I hope this review was helpful.
Mika
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momsgirl2 reviewed Version 1 -
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Gary, this is a very interesting beginning of a tale of mystery. You are so gifted with the language and how to draw people into wanting to know what is going to happen next. So many unanswered questions are left to make most readers want more. Like. “who is Harry?”... Was this a dream Joola was having or was she on another drug trip? I can see how this kept you busy and off site. great so far..momsgirl2
squarehopper reviewed Version 1 -
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I loved the surrealist nature of this story. It entertained and kept moving. I was hooked immediately and was kept hook from the beginning to the end. A few spelling error “there” for “their” for example. Also check grammar and mechanics.
I like the personification of ideas. That was a clever idea. It was good.
I honestly feel you could have ended the story before your epilogue. The epilogue changed everything for me. I was satisfied with what I thought was the ending before the final dialogue. That dialogue weakened it for me.
Good write overall.
Hopes this helps.
Good luck!
Elf reviewed Version 1 -
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Its eerie I would say, dream like. I am guessing it is a dream so far? I like the way you describe things, and you definately bring the picture of the sculpture to life. Good description, good feel. It is confusing at this stage, of corse the story has just begun to be told so that is expected.
It dose leave me vary confused as well. I understood all your wording and all the pictures you placed in it, but the meaning behind it is elusive. She died in front of everyone, but did she really because it hadn’t truly been unveiled. The next step if your going to add more is definately to answer questions.
I like it, the eerie feel i get from it dose a good job of drawing me in to the writing, but story wise i don’t get any meaning out of it.
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