This is a stand-alone piece. Thanks for your suggestion, I’ll look into that—my goal should be to leave the audience thinking about something, not falling asleep from complacency. Thanks for the review.
Short Story / Angelfish
I knew there was something wrong the moment I picked up the receiver and heard Rebecca’s voice on the line. It was Sunday morning. They never call me to work on Sunday.
She sounded slightly embarrassed, as though asking me for a favor was incredibly difficult—as though she were inconveniencing me. I would have pointed out that it wasn’t an inconvenience since I was being paid and I wasn’t doing anything else anyway, but it wouldn’t have made much difference. It never does.
“All right then. I’ll just grab a bite to eat and be over.”
The drive over was a familiar one, all drive-through fast food and staying on the middle lane of the highway to avoid being spit off at the wrong exit. I could navigate the path in my sleep. It had started four years ago, when Paul’s medical bills had required his wife to pick up a second job to cover the expenses; I was fresh out of grad school, enjoying the benefits of a useless liberal arts degree, newly divorced, with a random smattering of early-development education training and a few disjointed years of working in daycare. I worked for them six days a week the first few years, then only whenever they went out of town for doctor’s appointments. Rebecca wanted something more personal and professional than daycare for her child; someone available at odd hours, someone without other obligations weighing her down who’s willing to work for low pay. I qualified.
The trunk of their car was open. I glanced over as I rolled past, and saw a large suitcase, hard-sided and old-fashioned. It looked like I might be here longer than I’d originally thought; but then, I had no better place to be. I never did.
Rebecca was coming through the front door with a smaller overnight bag in her hands—I supposed for the night she’d spend with Paul in the hospital—when I stepped out of my car. I raised my hand in a wave, leaving my own bags in the car. I could come back for them later. “How are you, Mrs. Johnson?”
“Rebecca, please,” she said, laying her bag down in the trunk, closing it, and circling around to come alongside me. She put her hand between my shoulder blades, leading me toward the front door, motherly, inviting, the hostess of a fine house party. I tensed involuntarily. “And I’m doing fine. Just getting a few odds and ends together…Paul’s taken a quick lay-down to rest his eyes, then I guess we’ll be off. A few hour’s drive, you know.” She opened the screen door, held it for me. “He’s just going in for a biopsy, no need to worry about a thing. The appointment is at 3:00, I don’t suppose it would do any good to get there early anyway.” I would have pointed out that it apparently must be worth worrying over, considering they were missing church to get ready, but again, I said nothing. I was already out of bed; the hard part of the day was over. “A shame the only specialist can’t be in town, isn’t it? But I shouldn’t be ungrateful; The Lord’s provided us with help, it isn’t right to complain about it.” She smiled, starting for the kitchen. I followed, nodding sympathetically. It was best not to interrupt her; everyone needs their calming self-delusions. “So many people have it worse off…would you like some cookies, sweetie?”
“No thank you,” I replied, with a small smile. I moved to lean against the divider between kitchen and dining room, looking her over. For all her motherly nature and the lines of stress at the corners of her eyes and mouth, she was barely older than me. I forgot, sometimes, how very few years separated us. Apparently she forgot from time to time as well.
Sometimes people ask me why I’m an atheist; most of the time they just assume. I’m angry at god, they reason: I’m an atheist because my father died when I was younger and I couldn’t forgive god. It’s usually not worth explaining that I was atheist before then, that I was never angry with god because I never believed in him. It seems harmless to let them believe in it; it saves you from arguments, it saves you from the enthusiastic hellfire/brimstone speeches. Instead you only have to deal with the looks of worried pity, those assurances that they’ll pray for your soul. You can tune it out after awhile. It’s the path of least resistance. Easier to hold jobs that way, at least when the job involves raising other people’s children.
“Oh, all right then…well, they’re in the jar here, don’t forget about them or they’ll go stale. Would be a shame for them to go to waste.”
“I’m sure Michael and I will see to that,” I replied, with a small laugh, all the requisite responses. The problem with allowing people to think you’re an Angry Atheist is that sometimes they think they can change your mind. They think all you need is to be healed, reinvigorated with new, bright, shiny faith. They take you on as a project. Sometimes they marry you and realize you won’t change and leave you. Sometimes you don’t even realize there’s a problem until they’re gone. And then sometimes people say, oh, you’re an atheist because your husband left you and you can’t have any children. Poor dear.
She smiled, laughing quietly in return, still hovering near the counter as though I would be changing my mind at any minute. About the cookies, about my life. “He’s looking forward to spending more time with you,” she said, and she looked immediately troubled. “The poor dear doesn’t really understand why we’re going away…I’ve tried my best to shield him from the details, no need to trouble him with it before he’s really old enough to make sense of it. It would just frighten or confuse him now, I think.”
I nodded. “Of course.” This was something I understood. I didn’t realize my own father was dying until weeks before the end, even though he’d been slowly deteriorating for years. Years I’d spent lazy afternoons playing pool at the youth center, years I’d spent learning how to macramé at summer camp. I remember being called home one summer, just before I turned fifteen, pulled out of dinner by my councilor and driven into town so I could be picked up by my aunt; I remember having been talking to a boy, nameless and faceless now, whose conversation had been the most important thing in my life just then, when I had to leave. I remember being so angry when we got to the hospital; who gave my father the right to ruin my vacation by dying? I’d known he was sick, but he’d been sick for so long, into remission, out of remission, better days, worse days—it was like a lifestyle, not a disease. I learned that day that death happens on its own watch, unpredictable, unstoppable; there’s an insurmountable gap between dying and dead. “I’ll make sure he’s comfortable.”
“I’m sure you will,” she said, warmly. “This ought to be a pleasant vacation for him, really.” It most certainly wouldn’t be such a vacation for her, but she didn’t say so. “Here…you’ll have to sleep on the sleeper sofa, if that’s all right?” She looked at me worriedly, as though I hadn’t slept on the sleeper sofa at least a dozen times before. “Let me just show you where the linens and things are, then I’ll leave you alone to go unpack.”
“Amber!” Michael met me in the hall, poking his head out of his room at the sound of voices headed his way. A bright smile spread across his face, and I patted him lightly on the head as he wrapped his arms around my middle in a hug. His dark hair was still feathery-soft, like an infant’s, but he was getting taller; his arms almost managed to encircle my waist, and his cheek was pressed just above my navel.
“Well hey there, little man,” I said, bending and picking him up. He was getting too heavy for this, and he squirmed at the discomfort before I put him back down. Sometimes people ask me why I’m a nanny; most of the time they assume. They assume I need the money; they assume I’m lonely; they assume I can’t have kids of my own, so I substitute with strangers. Maybe they’re not so wrong.
“Guess what?” His head was tilted as far back as it could go so that he could both look me in the eye and stand exceptionally close to me. “Guess what I got?”
“What’d you get?”
He grabbed one of my hands in both of his, and gave a solid tug. “Come see!”
Rebecca chuckled behind me as I followed him, and I glanced over my shoulder to see if she knew where this was headed. “He’s been so excited,” she said, as I was led rather forcefully into the bedroom at the end of the hall. “He’s been talking about it constantly since he got the thing.”
“Lookit!” He had let go of my hand to cross the room and stand excitedly in front of the desk across from his bed. It was solid oak and had suffered some abuse in its time, but was strong enough to take it; it was both a desk for when he got older and a dresser for now, but at the moment it was serving as a platform for an aquarium. It was relatively small, but filled with all variety of accessories and multicolored gravel. There was only one fish in it, as far as I could see, a bug-eyed goldfish that seemed out of place. I’d had a half dozen or so of them when I was about Michael’s age, the kind you can win at carnivals or buy for a dollar. Something about one of them being in such an intricate aquarium struck me as funny, but I of course didn’t laugh. “His name is Angel!”
“That’s a very excellent name,” I said, moving to stand behind him and squint at the little fish, which was swimming rather diligently in circles around a purple castle. “But why’d you name him that?”
“’Cause he’s an angelfish.”
“He looks like a goldfish to me.”
“Well, yeah. He’s a gold angelfish.”
“Oh, I see. Do you take care of him?”
“Yep!” He announced, proudly. “I do everything!”
“I bet you do,” I said, ruffling his dark hair. “Hang tight while I get my stuff and talk to your mom right quick.” I left his room to retrieve my bags. He made no reply, merely sat on the edge of his bed and smiled lovingly at his new pet, and I couldn’t help but smile. I stepped around a small plastic ark and an explosion of little plastic animals on the floor, closed the door behind me, and went to unpack.
He didn’t need too much attention—he just wasn’t that sort of kid. He’d spend an hour or two playing in his room, then poke his head out the door and ask for a snack, or to watch a movie, or just to come talk. Most of the evening was spent with intermittent bouts of reading together and hearing about the new fish. He told me about how much and when to feed it, why there was gravel in the aquarium, how fish breathe under water when he can’t, and how he liked to read to her from his favorite picture books. I wondered if his parents ever indulged his need to communicate; he was always so hungry for conversation when I was there. I also wondered why I’d never loved any of my fish half this much.
After dinner—tuna helper and a side of canned corn, his mother’s homemade meals were beyond my skills—it was pajamas, tooth-brushing, and bed. Two bedtime stories, his choice, but no more. I asked if he needed his nightlight; he told me no, that the light in Angel’s tank was enough. I told him that was fine, turned off his light, and went to the living room to fold down the bed. I settled in, braced by pillows to read until I got tired, and opened my book.
My cellphone rang.
“Hello?” I glanced down the hall to make sure Michael was in bed. His door was still closed. I wondered if something had happened, if Rebecca needed another favor, if something had gone wrong with the biopsy.
“Oh hi Amber! You didn’t answer your house phone…are you on a date, honey? Good for you, it’s about time you started getting out more.”
I blinked. “…Mom?” My mind took a minute to slip into reverse. “…No, I’m at work.”
“You mean babysitting the Johnson’s boy?”
“I’m not babysitting,” I said, trying to be calm, wondering how long the conversation would last. She had been so horribly lonely after Dad had died, spent a year barely leaving the house; then she’d slowly started poking her head out. She was back in the dating scene by the time I went to college. Low-commitment, low-pressure, new “friends” every few months. I stopped being a daughter somewhere in college. I started becoming a friend, some sort of confidant, a buddy to call and share gossip with. I decided it was some kind of aftershock repression. Maybe subconscious guilt. “I’m his nanny. Paul had to go to his specialist for some tests, so I’m staying the night.”
“They seem like a nice couple. What’s wrong with him, anyway?” It looked like this would be one of those chats that would stretch on for awhile. I glanced back down the hall, not sure why.
“That’s not really my business,” I said, switching off the living room light so I could go to sleep after I hung up without an extra step.
“You’ve worked for these people four years and never even asked?”
I never really wanted to know. “So why were you calling, Mom? Something up?”
“Oh, I was just getting ready to go out tonight and thought I’d see how you were doing. You really should get out more, sweetheart.”
Four years of college, two years of graduate school, four years of nannying; she had innumerable partners behind her. I had a handful of fizzled collegiate flings and an ex-husband somewhere out of state. “I’m busy. Michael needs me, his parents have to spend a lot of time out of town for doctors and things…”
“You know what I think?” Yes, I knew exactly what she thought. “I think your biological clock is ticking. Don’t you want your own child so you aren’t spending all of your time with theirs?”
“We’ve been through this. I’m not ready for another relationship, and even if I was, I can’t have kids.” My mom was out on the town; I was stagnating in a routine job, ageless employers with a disease that never got better or worse, time being told only through their steadily growing son. He could have been my son. He was just the right age; I spent almost enough time with him.
“You should at least get out more, then. It’s not healthy for you to spend all of that time away from people your age.”
Of course. Another relationship was exactly what I needed. It’s not that I was a bitter ex, just that I couldn’t decide what bothered me more—that my husband had slept with another woman, or that he came home to give me the nice little infection that would leave me barren as a gift from my competition. “Whatever you say.”
“Well, think about it, okay?” A pause; I’d like to think she was being thoughtful or concerned, but I’m pretty sure she was putting on lipstick. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Yeah.” A few seconds of delay, but I recovered. “Have fun.”
#
I awoke to the sound of screaming. Disoriented, I bolted out of bed, barely aware of having put on my glasses before I was halfway down the hall. I could start to make out actual words, distorted with total panic and hysteria, by the time I was even with the bathroom door.
“Amber” My name, repeated over and over, twisted with fear. I pushed into Michael’s room, my heart thudding, expecting kidnappers, rabid animals, nightmares, boogeymen.
He was standing in front of his dresser, either hand on the glass of the aquarium, eyes wide and staring into it. He was illuminated by the reddish glow from the aquarium light, and while he looked upset he seemed unharmed. I glanced around the room, quickly; he fell silent as soon as I became visible. He turned to me, his eyes wide and dark. “Amber,” his voice pleading yet quietly indignant, “Make Angel move. He won’t move.”
I didn’t look at the aquarium; I had a foul, sinking suspicion of where this was headed. My eyes flicked instead to the window, saw the pale grey light beginning to filter through morning clouds. Why was he awake? Had he gotten up for a glass of water and decided to check on the fish? Couldn’t he have waited for the sun to come up? “Michael…” I chanced finally to look, and saw what I’d expected. The fish, bloated and off-color—though it might have been the lighting—was floating at the top of the water. Oh shit.
Michael’s eyes were on me, expectantly. “Amber…” again, that quiet insistence, and now there was a slight question on its end. Uncertainty.
“Here…sit down.” My hand was on his shoulder, and I couldn’t remember having moved across the room. He sat obediently on the edge of his bed, still looking at me with hope shining in his eyes—he was expecting me to fix this, and more importantly, he had faith that I could. “Stay here…I’ll…I’ll be right back.” I went down the hall, quickly, into the kitchen, and brought back a plastic bag. I wondered halfway on my way back if I should have gotten him out of his room first, if I should have left him with the fish-corpse. He was still sitting obediently and silently, following my every motion with wide dark eyes. The fish’s eyes, too, were wide and clouded over and seemed to be mocking me.
I found the net next to the aquarium, pulled the corpse from the water and dropped it into the bag. I wondered if he was watching me, knew he was, felt bad for doing things this way.
“What are you doing?” That edge of hysteria was back in his voice, but it was subdued under trust. He was still so certain I was going to fix this. “You can’t take her out of water. Mommy said so, said it’s bad for fish.”
“He’s…” sudden memories of hospital waiting rooms, summer camp, Rebecca’s weary eyes, suitcases packed for medical tests; my words caught in my throat, and I took a moment to struggle with them. It was only a fish. Rebecca hadn’t even known this would happen, she didn’t talk about this, she had talked about that other thing, that bigger thing; there was still hope of keeping his eyes off of that. “He’s dead, Michael.”
He didn’t flinch. His eyes, wide, innocent, staring, didn’t move. “Are you going to make him not dead?”
I barely realized I was holding the bag as tightly as I was until I started to feel a cramp in my hand. I loosened my fist slightly. “No, sweetie, I can’t.” I wished he’d stop looking at me that way. I wished he would hit me, or scream, or do anything else but watch me as though I had magical powers, as though I could perform a miracle for him. Why did this have to happen tonight, of all nights? Why couldn’t it have been a night his parents were home? I glanced again at the window, where solid golden light was beginning to hit the lawn; all right, so it wasn’t really night anymore. I wondered if Rebecca was awake, and immediately chastised myself for even thinking of calling her for something like this. It was just a fish. Paul was in the hospital. God I hoped nothing would happen to Paul while I was here. I can’t explain a fish, what would I do with a dad. “He’s gone. He’ll never wake up again.” And then, feeling the need to fill the silence a little more, “There’s nothing anybody can do.”
Finally tears started forming in his eyes, taking over that innocent and expectant shock with pure childish grief. His face crumpled, and he stood there, totally immobilized as the sobs started, chest-heaving, harsh gasps and thick tears. I laid the bag—a burial shroud, I supposed it was becoming—on the desk and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, letting him bury his face into my waist.
I’m not sure how long we were standing there like this before he looked up. I expected an accusation, a plea, another question I couldn’t answer. Instead, he said, “We need to have a funeral.”
Did I know that word when I was his age? I didn’t think so. It wasn’t a subject of very many Saturday morning cartoons. I wondered where this particular idea had come from. I was tempted to ask, but let it go. I wondered if that was a word that got used a lot in this household, if plans were whispered. They’d have to be, wouldn’t they? It was an inevitability. I wondered if Michael had picked up his new vocabulary word in context, and how much he could understand. “All right,” I replied, “but you should get some sleep first.”
He didn’t put up too much fight when I tucked him into bed, and his breathing evened out quickly, the sobs leaking away into exhaustion. I edged away from his bed, pulled the bag off the counter, and started back down the hall. What was I supposed to do until he woke up? Should I put the fish in the fridge? Somehow that didn’t seem like such a good idea, but having the counters smell of dead fish didn’t seem any better. I wrapped the bag in another one, tried to ignore the milked-over staring eye, and went back to my room, staying awake to listen for Michael when he got up.
#
It was sometime after noon when we commenced the funeral rites. I called into Michael’s school, said his father was in the hospital; somehow, that seemed a better excuse for absence than a dead goldfish. We stood solemnly in the patch of garden in the backyard—dead with late fall, the soil hard-packed into the ground—looking down at a fresh patch of overturned earth. The only marker on the small grave was a stack of pebbles, these hand-picked by Michael, and except for the darker-brown color and lumpier texture of the recovered earth, it was impossible to tell it was there. I had no doubts, however, that he’d be able to find his way back to visit.
“Why do we bury things?” He asked me, finally. Another question I hadn’t been expecting, and I blinked. “Does that mean he’s going to hell?”
My brain stuttered to a halt, and as much as I wanted—needed—to have a quick response for this, absolutely nothing came to me. I couldn’t begin to comprehend the question. “What?”
“It’s just…Hell’s underground, right?” The gears were working in his head, reasoning all this out. He didn’t seem so sad, right now; he mostly seemed curious, and confused. I wondered if it would be the same at the next funeral he went to. Part of me was almost jealous. “And Heaven’s in the sky? So why do you put coffins closer to hell?”
My immediate response was, because coffins would fall out of the air and hit people, but luckily I kept it from coming out of my mouth just in time. Shit. I had no idea how to explain this, not in any way his parents would find satisfactory. Being an Atheist hadn’t been a problem when I’d applied for the job, had been glossed over, politely ignored; it had never really been an issue before, while I was on the path of least resistance. So long as I didn’t raise them a heathen child, I could be whatever I was. It was a non-issue. It didn’t exist. I should have known; even when it doesn’t seem like it, religion always manages to be an issue. The Issue. “Heaven and Hell aren’t…real places,” I said, finally, and at the look of confusion on his face, continued. “Not like we could go to on an airplane, or that we could make a tunnel to go to.” Hopefully I wasn’t stepping on anybody’s toes; his parents wouldn’t come home and think I was training their son to be a heretic. Hopefully he wouldn’t think burying his father, whenever that inevitability arose, would be synonymous with damnation. “It’s just the body that’s in the ground. The…er…soul…” I was out of my depth here, “the mind—that’s what…some people…say goes to Heaven.”
“Why does it go there, then? Why doesn’t it stay here?” He looked thoughtful for a minute, as though trying to remember something in detail which had recently occurred to him. “Jesus came back for a little while. Can Angel do that?”
I held in the smile as he compared his goldfish to his messiah, and tried to choose my words. “I don’t know much about Jesus,” I admitted, finally, “or death. Nobody really knows much about death, because none of us have ever been dead.” I wondered how confused he would be when another explanation was offered to him later in life, or if he would regurgitate some of this feeble wisdom. “We can just guess. Some people guess that the soul goes to Heaven, which is like this gorgeous city in the clouds where God lives.” I tried to sound convincing, for his sake.
“You don’t think that?” It was barely a question. Not for the first time today, I kicked myself for helping raise such a smart kid. It was making this harder than it needed to be. But that was a lie; it needed to be nothing that it wasn’t. He’d need to hear this—or at least some of this—eventually. Maybe just not with me.
“Not really,” I said, finally. I thought back to all the time I had spent thinking about this, in the years following my father’s death; I’d had no one to lay this out for me, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have listened. I vaguely remembered being told about Heaven when I was younger, and too clearly remembered being disappointed when I realized no one would offer another explanation at my father’s funeral. I’d always expected that there was some more complicated truth lying in wait for some rite of passage, that I’d get it all explained to me in full when I was ready. And then I was ready—or was presumably as ready as I’d ever be—and it was all still a mystery. Science couldn’t really explain it. Religion couldn’t explain it. My mother couldn’t explain it. I didn’t have a nanny. “I think death is…like sleep, except you never wake up. It’s like having a big long dream forever.”
“A good dream?” He questioned tentatively, rolling this idea weightily around in his mind.
“Yeah,” I said, looking back over my simplified explanation. That would do. It was the best I had. “A great dream, with all your favorite things in it.”
He looked at the mound of dirt over his fish’s grave. “Am I in the dream?”
“Of course you are,” I said, hearing the crunch of gravel beneath tires as a car rolled along the county road in front of the house. This was the end of my lesson for the day; I wondered if I would have acted differently if I’d had time to prepare. How I would have acted if I had my own kid. “You’re one of the biggest stars.”
The car turned into the driveway, and I could hear the engine start to sputter before it finally shut off. So Rebecca and Paul were home, earlier than expected; that was probably good news. If something had gone wrong, Paul would still be in the hospital.
Michael looked at me again, wide-eyed and thankful, and said nothing more about the fish. “Daddy’s home,” he said, instead, starting for the gate excitedly.
And that was good enough for me.
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
Dunvegan reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
I would have like a few more details confirming the relationship between all of the characters and their approximate ages earlier in the piece. For example, I thought that Paul was one of Rebecca’s children instead of her husband in the very beginning. Maybe you did that on purpose, holding back some of those details until we could better see the correlations and differences between Michael’s and Amber’s childhood experience with death. I guess it is not pivotal to the story but I was also curious of Michael’s age. Given the description and his dialog, I would guess it to be around five or six. Amber’s age, other than being just a few years younger than Rebecca’s, is still a bit of a mystery to me.
It seems a bit odd to me that Rebecca treats Amber almost like a very young adult though she has graduated from college and been divorced. Does she look very young to Rebecca? How much can we assume that Rebecca knows about Amber’s life/past? It seems their relationship is defined as employer/employee in regards to how much personal information is shared. I wouldn’t really call them close friends at all despite the very personal service that Amber provides caring for her child during what must be a very trying time. Maybe that distance in their relationship gives Rebecca a sense of strength in some strange way meaning that she feels stronger when she controls her emotions and professional relationship with Amber. I don’t mean that in a bad way as it is not like she treats her badly at all just with a distance.
Anyway, just some general observation/understanding feedback.
I enjoyed your well written story very much.
- add/view comments (1)
Jackson reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
I thought your chapter was very good and really interesting. What do you tell a child about god when you dont believe yourself. I thought you explained your views very well without treading on anyones beliefs yourself. Also, what you said at the end of your chapter wad perfect. When you told the child he was one of the brightest stars it couldnt of ended in a more perfect way. I wish you the best of the luck with this work.
Ladyauthor2b reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
There was a very nice sentiment that flowed as you told this story from the first person perspective. It did get a little redundant reading all the “I’s” in it but if I could think of another way to get around that, then it would be offered. The dialogue was very real and personable. Even the relationship with the little boy and the actions of caring for him was so real. I actualy felt the dilemna in Amber’s mind as she struggled to explain Hell and heaven to Michael towards the end, as she was an athiest. The constant reminders about her past during this touching scene were both effective and sometimes in the way, because some of it was said earlier in the story. I think at this point of the story, you may just want to introduce new sentiments or relay memories that have not been said before. I hope this makes sense. I think by doing that and keeping that backdrop history crisp and to the point would make the ending flow quicker and precise and would have a more jarring impact on our emotions. I wanted to quickly see how she would respond to Michael’s question as they buried the fish.
Another point I wish to bring up is that I thought it seemed too soon of a time for his parents to come back from their biopsy appointment. Didn’t you say it was at 3:00? I presumed that was 3:00 on Monday, the next day, and I also thought the fish died the first night they went away, so they would have buried the fish the following afternoon- still on a Monday. Do I have this timing right? You may want to re-clarify this one point, because either I’m confused and need to re-read this, or it gives you reason to clarify it in your revision.
This was a very touching story and I liked it alot. Didn’t see any major typos in it and I’m not an expert on grammar. Still, this touched my heart and that’s the major point to any short story ,isn’t it? Very nice job.
sofcan reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
Angelfish certainly accomplished your goal of amusing, entertaining, and warming this heart at least. I thought you did an excellent job with the character development, plot development, and dialouge. Your story thoroughly entertained me, and hooked at the first paragraph. I’m not a publisher or an agent but I think this calibur of work definately has a shot at going farther than this site. I thought it was great, what more can say? I did see a couple of grammatical errors, I guess you could clear those up, but other than that I wouldn’t change anything about this piece.
Hanse_Shadowspawn reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
I am not that great with grammar and stuff like that. I just like to read. It was a nice short story, I kept waiting for something more, something exciting to happen. What you have written flowed very nicely, I never once felt like I ran into any bumps, which says a lot. Is this part of something bigger, or just a stand-alone story?
The story needs more edge, it flowed nicely, but was on the side of boring for me because the flow was so steady and even, I hope this makes some sense. It was kind of sad and kind of cute.
Jembaboy reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
This left me wanting more. More action. More exploration of the ideas behind the piece. As a story it’s OK as far as it goes, but it didn’t go far enough for me. Death and religion are big subjects. And while the problems of explaining either to a child are not insignificant, I don’t think they’re enough to carry this story, at least not the way it seemed to be heading – ie. into an exploration of the narrator’s belief system. I sensed the only way that was going to happen was for the father, Paul, to die. That would serve up some challenges for the characters way beyond those offered by a dead fish. But of course it would be a much bigger challenge to write.
Amber could have more depth. We get some back story – the failed marriage, the dead father – but not enough to explain why someone with two years of grad school is a part-time nanny with no social life. Lines like “I also wondered why I never loved any of my fish half this much.” hint at something deeper. But it doesn’t go much beyond that.
For a story like this to have weight, either the protagonist or the narrator needs to have a firmer grasp of the big issues at stake – or else what else other than homely wisdom will the reader take away. As this is written in the first person, the protagonist really has to carry it, has to be interesting on the subject of death and dying. Amber herself admits she is “out of her depth”. Which would be fine if there was an alternative narrative voice that could put that depth into perspective. It’s a big ask, but maybe consider re-writing in the third person. It might be an interesting excercise, and might produce an entirely different story.
monsterbox reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
The opening reminds me of a journal entry. Clever, personal, and engaging. Dang. A very engaging tale. Children make excellent instigators of internal conflict. You’ve written a story that needs expansion. The base is nearly perfect and really does make me want to know more about the remainder.
As far as critique I’d have to mention the bit about the mother. This story provided characters with a lively depth, the mother seemed to be a bit off of that. That dialog was amusing, but sounded a bit flat. It was only a thought that considering the mother’s history, the conversation might have more reflected that.
Overall a very good piece and an entertaining read. I’d be interested to see where it goes.
Tigerlobo reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
This was a godsend after the last story I read. The previous one suffered structural problems. I only tell you this, so that you can see the sincerity in this review. You are on the right path to receive professional advice because your diction is excellent; your sentence variety effectively allowed me to speed up without losing comprehension of the story.
“How I would have acted if I had my own kid.” needs a question mark.
I would have to pick it apart word-by-word because errors were few. Instead, I got to enjoy this piece. I thank you for this chance to look at your work!
Trent reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
I’m not sure if it’s the sadist in me or what, but twice in this story that was potential for “more” – more drama, more intrigue that didn’t come. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing as this piece was beautifully written with a few corrections listed below. Also, the characters were vividly real and relatable. I felt for the nanny, more than I’m willing to share here.
However, as perhaps a potential writing endeavor for you down the road, I want to quickly mention the two parts that drew me in only to take a different direction.
1. I’m not one for horror movies or horror based writing as it is long on gratuitous violence with little plot or character development. In two sentences you captured the very essence of Stephen King. The sentences were the ones of the main character looking down the hall noticing Michael’s door to be shut. It was simplistic, foreshadowing, suspenseful.
2. The ending where the car pulls up the gravel road through your description morphs into this giant elephant of potential suspense and/or more to the story that no one talks about. I’m talking about it.
Your narration is strong. The characters, the situations, the struggle with the intangibles of life and death through the eyes of the devout, the scorn, and the innocent, all very palpable and emotionally real. By all means keep writing. Think about developing this into something more. While you do that, I’m going to schedule an appointment with a therapist. Why did I want the kid to die? His father to die? Effective writing. Well done!
staying on the middle lane of the highway—staying in, or not.
Rebecca was coming through the front door with a smaller overnight bag in her hands—I supposed for the night she’d spend with Paul in the hospital—when I stepped out of my car. —This line reads awkward. Break it up into two sentences.
And I’m doing fine. Just getting a few odds and ends—lose the “and” at the beginning.
Though I condemn anyone that uses, more often than not over uses the conjuction “and” here in particular, it is called for: hellfire/brimstone
I remember being called home one summer, just before I turned fifteen, pulled out of dinner by my councilor and driven into town so I could be picked up by my aunt; I remember having been talking to a boy, nameless and faceless now, whose conversation had been the most important thing in my life just then, when I had to leave. —BREAK THIS SENTENCE UP!! Seriously, you have a great narration going until this point. This story is very compelling, the characters vividly real. I want to see this shine.
“Lookit” though from a kid’s perspective might be one word, I would still break it up into “look it!” Or not.
A goldfish and tuna helper?! Sorry, had to point out this obvous irony. It made me smirk at the unintentional accident that it no doubt is.
I could start to make out actual words, distorted with total panic and hysteria, by the time I was even with the bathroom door. —huh? with should be “at?”
Dash reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
I think it’s a great story. It’s coherent and has a good structure. I think it is well balanced in many ways. There is an adequate amount of action for the amount of exposition. There is enough rising action for the somewhat long resolution.
I think Amber is a a very real character and I like how she is characterized by the assumptions she assumes others make about her. I don’t know how to react to Michael’s parents. I don’t think anything needs to be don regarding the Paul. I’m ok with him being an absent character. I do think the mother needs to be better characterized. She seems too distant when she’s in the story. I can’t really tell much about her relationship with her son. It almost feels like there is no relationship. I don’t think that’s what you intended.
Also the mother sort of just disappears after Michael shows Amber the fish. Amber says she is going to go talk to the mother and then when she leaves she just goes and unpacks. I don’t think there needs to be a scene with the mother after the fish is introduced, but a short bit of exposition replacing the unpacking would tie what is said to what occurs. Something like “I closed the door behind me and went to see his parents off” might suffice. But even that makes the relationship that his parents have with him ambiguous since they don’t say good bye to Michael.
I think that Michael’s character is very believable even though he is asking questions that might not be asked by many children his age. But because you address the strange nature of the questions it’s believable.
I think you are sometimes redundant. This is most noticeable in the first half of the story. Examples of this are; “She sounded slightly embarrassed, as though asking me for a favor was incredibly difficult—as though she were inconveniencing me”, “The drive over was a familiar one, all drive-through fast food and staying on the middle lane of the highway to avoid being spit off at the wrong exit. I could navigate the path in my sleep.” (This one also has a contradictory feeling in it. Why would one be concerned about accidentally taking the wrong exit is it was so familiar?). “Rebecca was coming through the front door with a smaller overnight bag in her hands—I supposed for the night she’d spend with Paul in the hospital—when I stepped out of my car.” (there are other problems with this sentence other than it’s redundancy). There are a couple more cases but I can’t find them.
There are some sentences that have clunky structure and unnecessary words. Examples of there are; “The drive over was a familiar one, all drive-through fast food and staying on the middle lane of the highway to avoid being spit off at the wrong exit.” (I recommend dropping the “all” and “being spit off at”), “Rebecca was coming through the front door with a smaller overnight bag in her hands—I supposed for the night she’d spend with Paul in the hospital—when I stepped out of my car.” (I would rearrange this to say “I stepped out of the car and saw Rebecca come out the front door with a small overnight bag in her hand”), “Sometimes people ask me why I’m an atheist; most of the time they just assume. I’m angry at god, they reason: I’m an atheist because my father died when I was younger and I couldn’t forgive god.” (for this I recommend “Sometimes people ask me why I’m an atheist. Mostly they just assume I’m angry at God. They think I’m angry because my father died when I was young.”). There are others but I can’t find them now.
I recommend keeping syntax simple. Go through your story and anytime you see a word or two you think might not need to be there, pull it out and see how it sounds with out it.
I hope this was helpful. I really enjoyed your story.
Showing 1 - 10 of 12
Next →
Review item
Add to favesCreator
Relevant Links
Item Stats
GENERAL
12 Reviews 10 Comments
Version 1
Latest Activity: about 1 year ago
REVIEW QUEUE
Appeared in Queue: 0 Times
Skipped: 0 Times
Ratings & Rankings
