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A Regrettable Incident
He awoke with hunger. Violent, oppressive hunger. One that seized the mind, all the mind. One so strong it was impossible to stave off.
He cracked his eyes open and crooked his right arm until his fist hovered straight above his face. Then he extended his thumb, fore and middle finger. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. One, two, three. Three days he hadn't eaten. Three days he hadn't chewed as much as a crumb.
He sat up on the bench, sweeping aside the threadbare blanket that warmed him through the chilly nights. His breath misted. All around, the grass shimmered with dew. Branches swayed in the breeze, while sorrel leaves fluttered away. Six thirty AM maybe. He stood up, stretched his limbs. Then he bent over his shredded plastic bag, stuffed his blanket inside, picked it up and shuffled towards the nearest exit.
Beyond the rusty gates, the street was almost deserted. The lampposts cast down sickly orange light on the pavement. A shaggy mutt skittered past, snuffling the ground on his way to his next pee, as a jalopy lurched down the road. It honked, swerved and was gone. Rare shadows strode along, appearing hither and vanishing yonder, like busy ants in search of —
In search of food.
The emptiness of his stomach almost overwhelmed him. He doubled over in pain and inhaled deeply the crisp air that seared his lungs. The pangs finally petered out, and when he could stand up again, he realised how cold he felt. He rummaged in his bag for a last drop of booze to chug or a fag end to light, but found nothing. Sighing, he glanced right and left, crossed the road and went on to Baker street and its boarded up shops. Even the food bank had closed for want of supplies.
Midway, he stopped in front of the window of Harper's, the grocery store — one of the few that survived — and watched his reflection in the glazing, behind the security grille. Disheveled, greasy, dangling hair tapered off into a long, mangy beard that had invaded his gaunt cheeks. His eyes had sunken so much there were hardly visible in their sockets. His skin had become wan, almost translucent. His neck was so scrawny he wondered how it could still bear the weight of his skull.
He had become a wraith.
He shrugged and carried on. When he reached the centre of Town hall's square, he flopped down, his back slouching against the rough basin of the old fountain. Soon, a new day would begin. A new day, like all the others, spent stretching his arm and begging for what chump change the pedestrians would deign to give him. He hoped that by the end of it he would have racked up enough to buy at least a skimpy sandwich. But he couldn't bank on it.
It was getting late. He jiggled the few coins he had collected during the day. How much was that? Five pence? Ten? Not enough to buy a fresh loaf of bread.
He lifted his eyes from his hand to spot a noisy figure tottering from Bridge road with a bottle in hand. He recognised Steve, his former foreman, the scab who had brownnosed the boss to save his job when the slaughterhouse had shut down two years ago. Holding back his revulsion and self-esteem — what little was left of it anyway — he stood up and walked to the drunkard.
"Hey Steve!" he said when he was close enough. "That's me, Serge. Do you remember?"
The other guy stopped and shot him a dumb glance. Serge grimaced and extended his hand, almost reflexively. “Anything you'd give to a famished old mate, buddy?” he asked.
There was a slight hesitation, then Steve broke into a rowdy laughter. When he regained his composure, he simply looked straight in Serge's eyes and, unexpectedly, spat at him, before shambling off shouting random insults.
Serge remained petrified watching Steve recede, while the gob oozed down his cheek.
All of a sudden, he turned around, strode back all the way to his bag, and grabbed an old butcher knife from it. He dashed to the wobbling silhouette who was still braying at the top of his lungs. There was a brief flash of red light as the evening sun glanced off the rusty blade, before it sank into Steve's back, slicing through flesh and heart.
Prisoners, like cattle, don't starve.
He cracked his eyes open and crooked his right arm until his fist hovered straight above his face. Then he extended his thumb, fore and middle finger. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. One, two, three. Three days he hadn't eaten. Three days he hadn't chewed as much as a crumb.
He sat up on the bench, sweeping aside the threadbare blanket that warmed him through the chilly nights. His breath misted. All around, the grass shimmered with dew. Branches swayed in the breeze, while sorrel leaves fluttered away. Six thirty AM maybe. He stood up, stretched his limbs. Then he bent over his shredded plastic bag, stuffed his blanket inside, picked it up and shuffled towards the nearest exit.
Beyond the rusty gates, the street was almost deserted. The lampposts cast down sickly orange light on the pavement. A shaggy mutt skittered past, snuffling the ground on his way to his next pee, as a jalopy lurched down the road. It honked, swerved and was gone. Rare shadows strode along, appearing hither and vanishing yonder, like busy ants in search of —
In search of food.
The emptiness of his stomach almost overwhelmed him. He doubled over in pain and inhaled deeply the crisp air that seared his lungs. The pangs finally petered out, and when he could stand up again, he realised how cold he felt. He rummaged in his bag for a last drop of booze to chug or a fag end to light, but found nothing. Sighing, he glanced right and left, crossed the road and went on to Baker street and its boarded up shops. Even the food bank had closed for want of supplies.
Midway, he stopped in front of the window of Harper's, the grocery store — one of the few that survived — and watched his reflection in the glazing, behind the security grille. Disheveled, greasy, dangling hair tapered off into a long, mangy beard that had invaded his gaunt cheeks. His eyes had sunken so much there were hardly visible in their sockets. His skin had become wan, almost translucent. His neck was so scrawny he wondered how it could still bear the weight of his skull.
He had become a wraith.
He shrugged and carried on. When he reached the centre of Town hall's square, he flopped down, his back slouching against the rough basin of the old fountain. Soon, a new day would begin. A new day, like all the others, spent stretching his arm and begging for what chump change the pedestrians would deign to give him. He hoped that by the end of it he would have racked up enough to buy at least a skimpy sandwich. But he couldn't bank on it.
It was getting late. He jiggled the few coins he had collected during the day. How much was that? Five pence? Ten? Not enough to buy a fresh loaf of bread.
He lifted his eyes from his hand to spot a noisy figure tottering from Bridge road with a bottle in hand. He recognised Steve, his former foreman, the scab who had brownnosed the boss to save his job when the slaughterhouse had shut down two years ago. Holding back his revulsion and self-esteem — what little was left of it anyway — he stood up and walked to the drunkard.
"Hey Steve!" he said when he was close enough. "That's me, Serge. Do you remember?"
The other guy stopped and shot him a dumb glance. Serge grimaced and extended his hand, almost reflexively. “Anything you'd give to a famished old mate, buddy?” he asked.
There was a slight hesitation, then Steve broke into a rowdy laughter. When he regained his composure, he simply looked straight in Serge's eyes and, unexpectedly, spat at him, before shambling off shouting random insults.
Serge remained petrified watching Steve recede, while the gob oozed down his cheek.
All of a sudden, he turned around, strode back all the way to his bag, and grabbed an old butcher knife from it. He dashed to the wobbling silhouette who was still braying at the top of his lungs. There was a brief flash of red light as the evening sun glanced off the rusty blade, before it sank into Steve's back, slicing through flesh and heart.
Prisoners, like cattle, don't starve.
The last line really threw me for a few moments, until I realized it's talking about Serge being thrown in prison. It would probably be good to foreshadow that somehow, add an internal conflict to the external; his pride has kept him from turning to crime or something, and that gob of spit was the last straw? Something to make his murder really hit home to the audience on an emotional level. Because although this has clear and interesting descriptions and has an arc of sorts and a plot, it doesn't seem to do much plot-wise until the last three or four paragraphs, and that's a bit of a shame.
>>Not_A_Hat
I thought it meant that Serge would rather go to prison and be fed than to keep being a vagrant with uncertain future.
I really liked this one, even if it only moves its plot forward at the very end. If him having been laid off had been better set up earlier, the story would be more well rounded and enjoyable.
Still, it's one of the better stories I've read so far.
I thought it meant that Serge would rather go to prison and be fed than to keep being a vagrant with uncertain future.
I really liked this one, even if it only moves its plot forward at the very end. If him having been laid off had been better set up earlier, the story would be more well rounded and enjoyable.
Still, it's one of the better stories I've read so far.
>>ZaidValRoa That's what I meant, yeah, that he would be thrown in prison after what he'd done. The thing is, that statement coming out of the blue like that blindsided me, so my mind didn't immediately jump there. I started wondering if they were in a dystopia prison city or something fantasy/sci-fi. Also, hopefully wherever he is in time/space doesn't have the death sentence.
This reminded me of a comedy sketch I saw by... Red Skelton, I think, where he plays a hobo who does his best to get thrown into prison in the winter, to be out of the cold. He tries various stuff, but since it's around Christmas, everyone lets him off as he gets more and more frustrated and tries more drastic things. It was pretty silly.
This reminded me of a comedy sketch I saw by... Red Skelton, I think, where he plays a hobo who does his best to get thrown into prison in the winter, to be out of the cold. He tries various stuff, but since it's around Christmas, everyone lets him off as he gets more and more frustrated and tries more drastic things. It was pretty silly.
The "try to go to prison to get food and shelter" thing happens in quite a few stories. That he goes for murder here straight up, instead of just some shoplifting or more minor crimes is odd. We need to see his hate for Steve more clearly, and to do that, Steve needs to be there sooner. Introduction to murder in like three lines is too fast I think. The desperation builds nicely throughout most of the story though, which is good pacing until the very end.
I was a bit confused by the setting though. The comment about the grocery store being one of the few that "survived" implies a dystopia of some form (I'm guessing "Brexit" here), yet if Escape from New York taught us anything, prisoners are the first to get screwed in a dystopia, not the ones last to starve. Honestly, the story works just fine without any hints of dystopia.
Overall, not too shabby!
I was a bit confused by the setting though. The comment about the grocery store being one of the few that "survived" implies a dystopia of some form (I'm guessing "Brexit" here), yet if Escape from New York taught us anything, prisoners are the first to get screwed in a dystopia, not the ones last to starve. Honestly, the story works just fine without any hints of dystopia.
Overall, not too shabby!
I suppose the (implied) dystopian setting doesn't allow for hostels, soup kitchens and outreach services?
This is another attempt to do something different with a prompt that lends itself easily to comedy, and I can definitely appreciate that. It's also a subject matter close to my heart. It's a nicely descriptive piece, but I'm going to have to level the same criticism that I gave to Housewife, namely that the checklist approach to the subject matter made things feel too heavy and melodramatic.
The thing that really killed it for me though was Steve. Elements of Serge's situation are, sadly, very real for a great number of people, and each of those will have that one trigger event which started them down this road. However, Serge's feels too much like an attempt at to safeguard him from becoming distasteful/unrelatable to the reader upon him committing the act, and not only that, but it's a pretty trite and convenient scenario to boot. Like, it's a bit more okay, because he killed the guy who (I assume, even though it's not really stated) cost him his job through brown-nosing, and who was horrible to him during their re-acquaintance. The final line then gives the impression (to me) that the act might have been Serge's motivation all along. Now, that's fair enough, but if you really wanted to highlight the desperate reality of Serge's situation, why not instead have him attack a random member of the public, or have him decide and plan to target Steve during an earlier point of the narrative. As it is, it feels like you want to have your karma-flavoured cake and eat it, and I don't think it works as a result.
tl;dr
Interesting and descriptive slant, but this needs more work around character development and motivation, or some greater clarity, for it to really shine the way it could.
And don't get me wrong, I think it could shine. I'd be interested in seeing a revised version, should you ever decide to produce one. Thanks for sharing your work.
This is another attempt to do something different with a prompt that lends itself easily to comedy, and I can definitely appreciate that. It's also a subject matter close to my heart. It's a nicely descriptive piece, but I'm going to have to level the same criticism that I gave to Housewife, namely that the checklist approach to the subject matter made things feel too heavy and melodramatic.
The thing that really killed it for me though was Steve. Elements of Serge's situation are, sadly, very real for a great number of people, and each of those will have that one trigger event which started them down this road. However, Serge's feels too much like an attempt at to safeguard him from becoming distasteful/unrelatable to the reader upon him committing the act, and not only that, but it's a pretty trite and convenient scenario to boot. Like, it's a bit more okay, because he killed the guy who (I assume, even though it's not really stated) cost him his job through brown-nosing, and who was horrible to him during their re-acquaintance. The final line then gives the impression (to me) that the act might have been Serge's motivation all along. Now, that's fair enough, but if you really wanted to highlight the desperate reality of Serge's situation, why not instead have him attack a random member of the public, or have him decide and plan to target Steve during an earlier point of the narrative. As it is, it feels like you want to have your karma-flavoured cake and eat it, and I don't think it works as a result.
tl;dr
Interesting and descriptive slant, but this needs more work around character development and motivation, or some greater clarity, for it to really shine the way it could.
And don't get me wrong, I think it could shine. I'd be interested in seeing a revised version, should you ever decide to produce one. Thanks for sharing your work.
A Regrettable Incident — A — First reaction: Woe is me, a refugee from the social safety net.
(+) Good job on building up the character, wonderful job on the setting and trickling in the history of the character as it went on. Smooth, slick, and descriptive.
(-) Somewhat of a jarring end, seemingly done more for shock value than story purposes, but still logically consistent.
Weapons: Knife. Fatalities: one
(+) Good job on building up the character, wonderful job on the setting and trickling in the history of the character as it went on. Smooth, slick, and descriptive.
(-) Somewhat of a jarring end, seemingly done more for shock value than story purposes, but still logically consistent.
Weapons: Knife. Fatalities: one
My only suggestion:
Would be to give us more of the other people in the city so we can see what the relative percentage of Steves to Serges is. You could do this by showing us the people who give Serge a coin during the day and those who don't and by showing us how many other destitute folks share the streets with him.
Mike
Would be to give us more of the other people in the city so we can see what the relative percentage of Steves to Serges is. You could do this by showing us the people who give Serge a coin during the day and those who don't and by showing us how many other destitute folks share the streets with him.
Mike
>>Not_A_Hat
>>ZaidValRoa
>>Xepher
>>Ceffyl_Dwr
>>georg
>>Baal Bunny
>>billymorph
Thanks to all for your reviews and for liking this fic. Your feedback was so positive I actually expected the story to fare better. But I’m already so pleased it made it to the finals, I can’t whine. That was a wonderful experience, thanks so much.
Briefly, the story was inspired by a Jacques Prévert’s poem called « La Grasse Matinée » (Oversleeping) which you can find a translation here, accompanied by the original French text. One of the best reading/singing of this poem is here, though the version I’m acquainted with is still better (but nowhere to be found on the net). I used to listen to this poem when I was younger and could never forget it.
The dystopian set-up is not really a post-Brexit UK, but originally the poem was written in the wake of WW2's end, so that would rather be a post-World War UK. I hope it won’t turn out to be an accurate description of the post-Brexit Britain, but sometimes I fear it could be.
It’s very hard for me to strike the right balance between atmosphere and plot. I like descriptions, but they eat up so much space in a MiniFic that not much is left for the plot itself. I agree with Hat and Zoey on the podcast when they say it would need a bit more room to breathe. Or alternatively, I should tone down the “run-down” of the environment and focus on the character. In any case I will chew your comments and advice, and hope to come back next round with a still better story! 😉
Thanks again!
>>ZaidValRoa
>>Xepher
>>Ceffyl_Dwr
>>georg
>>Baal Bunny
>>billymorph
Thanks to all for your reviews and for liking this fic. Your feedback was so positive I actually expected the story to fare better. But I’m already so pleased it made it to the finals, I can’t whine. That was a wonderful experience, thanks so much.
Briefly, the story was inspired by a Jacques Prévert’s poem called « La Grasse Matinée » (Oversleeping) which you can find a translation here, accompanied by the original French text. One of the best reading/singing of this poem is here, though the version I’m acquainted with is still better (but nowhere to be found on the net). I used to listen to this poem when I was younger and could never forget it.
The dystopian set-up is not really a post-Brexit UK, but originally the poem was written in the wake of WW2's end, so that would rather be a post-World War UK. I hope it won’t turn out to be an accurate description of the post-Brexit Britain, but sometimes I fear it could be.
It’s very hard for me to strike the right balance between atmosphere and plot. I like descriptions, but they eat up so much space in a MiniFic that not much is left for the plot itself. I agree with Hat and Zoey on the podcast when they say it would need a bit more room to breathe. Or alternatively, I should tone down the “run-down” of the environment and focus on the character. In any case I will chew your comments and advice, and hope to come back next round with a still better story! 😉
Thanks again!