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The Massacre at Unit P12
The motto of the day was: Fiction is worthless.
My buddy Pat opened up a box and whistled and said, “Now, Rhett, tell me how you’re doing on old used underwear, because we’ve got a whole load of ‘em here.”
I said, “Well, I don’t know, man. What size are they?”
“How about old socks?” he asked as he handed the box back to me.
I tossed it back into the trash pile behind us without looking inside. One box down, a few hundred left to sift through.
The place was called Mel’s Mini Warehousing. It’s down on southside between Putnam Bridge and the water waste treatment plant. We worked all afternoon in a ten by ten storage unit. The executor had stacked it floor to ceiling, warped and bloated cardboard boxes heaped precariously together.
This mountain of trash had been left behind by an old lawyer who’d passed away the month before. No family. No kids. No will. No heirs. So after the lawyer’s death, all his possessions and heirlooms passed on to people like Pat. Scavengers, auction junkies, ebay resellers. Pat had paid the storage unit operator, a friend of his, two hundred bucks to look through this unit. In exchange for chucking all the trash, Pat would get to keep the few valuables.
Opening a box full of ancient medicines and toiletry, Pat held up a bag of unopened decades-old lozenges and said, “I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, but you can use sixty-five year old cough drops as suppositories. Cleans you right out.”
The boxes were full of all the usual stuff that gets collected and gathered up in the day-to-day of living, but has nowhere to go home to after the funeral. Most of our lives can be summed up in piles of old underwear and toiletries.
This particular unit, though, was mostly books. Old books were Pat’s specialty. After retiring, he made his money going to auctions and yard sales, buying cheap and then selling a little less cheap.
He handed me a box of books to go through. The number one rule: fiction is worthless. Book club is worthless. Mass market paperback is worthless.
After going through a few, I’d haul the trash books in a wagon over to the dumpster. Books by the handful, armful, box load—into the dumpster. Wise Women: A Celebration of Their Insights, Courage, and Beauty—into the dumpster, and their wise womanly insights, too. Keeping Watch and The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette and The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster—into the dumpster, for the respective crimes of being modern fiction, historical fiction, and a dime-a-dozen mystery.
As an author, I wonder if what I did there can be considered a kind of cannibalism, or maybe sociopathic serial murder. The destruction of hundreds of books without even reading, just a glance at the front and back cover. In Unit P12 at Mel’s Mini Warehouses, we judged books by their covers, and found them wanting.
I know the months, often years, of work, love, heartache, and frustration that goes into the creation of a novel. I spend months crafting a single short story, and when it is complete, if a story can ever be complete, I consider it a part of myself. Every story I write is a little piece of of myself I’ve chipped off and dropped into the world. And that’s just two or three thousand words.
How many hundreds of thousands of words did I throw away in the massacre at unit P12? How many bits and bobbles and hopes and loves and fears of my fellow writers did I toss into the dumpster?
But we saved a few, set aside in a little pile. Among them: Social Register of Philadelphia: 1970; Grattan’s Failure: Parliamentary Opposition and the People of England 1779-1800; and the best find of the day, the browning A Discourse of Agriculture, Its Antiquity, and Importance, to Every Member of the Community, first edition, published in 1785, sealed in an airtight bag.
Pat tells me, “There are six other units crammed full of this guy’s stuff. The one next door is all furniture. He’s dead and gone, and all his stuff is still here. All these material possessions, it makes you think.”
I never went back after that one time. Something about it didn’t sit right in my stomach.
That day, I threw away a couple hundred books. In the month Pat spent cleaning out the unit, he threw away tens of thousands.
My buddy Pat opened up a box and whistled and said, “Now, Rhett, tell me how you’re doing on old used underwear, because we’ve got a whole load of ‘em here.”
I said, “Well, I don’t know, man. What size are they?”
“How about old socks?” he asked as he handed the box back to me.
I tossed it back into the trash pile behind us without looking inside. One box down, a few hundred left to sift through.
The place was called Mel’s Mini Warehousing. It’s down on southside between Putnam Bridge and the water waste treatment plant. We worked all afternoon in a ten by ten storage unit. The executor had stacked it floor to ceiling, warped and bloated cardboard boxes heaped precariously together.
This mountain of trash had been left behind by an old lawyer who’d passed away the month before. No family. No kids. No will. No heirs. So after the lawyer’s death, all his possessions and heirlooms passed on to people like Pat. Scavengers, auction junkies, ebay resellers. Pat had paid the storage unit operator, a friend of his, two hundred bucks to look through this unit. In exchange for chucking all the trash, Pat would get to keep the few valuables.
Opening a box full of ancient medicines and toiletry, Pat held up a bag of unopened decades-old lozenges and said, “I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, but you can use sixty-five year old cough drops as suppositories. Cleans you right out.”
The boxes were full of all the usual stuff that gets collected and gathered up in the day-to-day of living, but has nowhere to go home to after the funeral. Most of our lives can be summed up in piles of old underwear and toiletries.
This particular unit, though, was mostly books. Old books were Pat’s specialty. After retiring, he made his money going to auctions and yard sales, buying cheap and then selling a little less cheap.
He handed me a box of books to go through. The number one rule: fiction is worthless. Book club is worthless. Mass market paperback is worthless.
After going through a few, I’d haul the trash books in a wagon over to the dumpster. Books by the handful, armful, box load—into the dumpster. Wise Women: A Celebration of Their Insights, Courage, and Beauty—into the dumpster, and their wise womanly insights, too. Keeping Watch and The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette and The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster—into the dumpster, for the respective crimes of being modern fiction, historical fiction, and a dime-a-dozen mystery.
As an author, I wonder if what I did there can be considered a kind of cannibalism, or maybe sociopathic serial murder. The destruction of hundreds of books without even reading, just a glance at the front and back cover. In Unit P12 at Mel’s Mini Warehouses, we judged books by their covers, and found them wanting.
I know the months, often years, of work, love, heartache, and frustration that goes into the creation of a novel. I spend months crafting a single short story, and when it is complete, if a story can ever be complete, I consider it a part of myself. Every story I write is a little piece of of myself I’ve chipped off and dropped into the world. And that’s just two or three thousand words.
How many hundreds of thousands of words did I throw away in the massacre at unit P12? How many bits and bobbles and hopes and loves and fears of my fellow writers did I toss into the dumpster?
But we saved a few, set aside in a little pile. Among them: Social Register of Philadelphia: 1970; Grattan’s Failure: Parliamentary Opposition and the People of England 1779-1800; and the best find of the day, the browning A Discourse of Agriculture, Its Antiquity, and Importance, to Every Member of the Community, first edition, published in 1785, sealed in an airtight bag.
Pat tells me, “There are six other units crammed full of this guy’s stuff. The one next door is all furniture. He’s dead and gone, and all his stuff is still here. All these material possessions, it makes you think.”
I never went back after that one time. Something about it didn’t sit right in my stomach.
That day, I threw away a couple hundred books. In the month Pat spent cleaning out the unit, he threw away tens of thousands.
I kinda feel like I want to like this; you've got some things in here that are a bit meta, but also possibly things that most of us, as people who presumably like to read, would find interesting.
However, I couldn't really get into it, and I'm not sure why. I think i wanted something more to Rhett's problems than just 'because they're books'. I mean, there was a time when I felt odd about getting rid of books too. Then I realized that lots of them really aren't worth keeping, published or not.
Well, and there's also that; these are published books. Whoever wrote these presumably already got some of their satisfaction out of them. You mention how each story is a part of you, which is neat, but then... if it's copied 10,000 times, you might feel a little less attached to each fragment?
I dunno. Overall, this has some ideas I think I'd have enjoyed. But for whatever reason, it just failed to hook me.
However, I couldn't really get into it, and I'm not sure why. I think i wanted something more to Rhett's problems than just 'because they're books'. I mean, there was a time when I felt odd about getting rid of books too. Then I realized that lots of them really aren't worth keeping, published or not.
Well, and there's also that; these are published books. Whoever wrote these presumably already got some of their satisfaction out of them. You mention how each story is a part of you, which is neat, but then... if it's copied 10,000 times, you might feel a little less attached to each fragment?
I dunno. Overall, this has some ideas I think I'd have enjoyed. But for whatever reason, it just failed to hook me.
If you plan on continuing with this, then I would suggest diving more into why fiction is worthless. Or what Rhett has at stake in this situation, because I couldn't figure that out. The contemplative aspect of this story, wondering why these things are happening, are intriguing. I also like how meticulous everything was. I just couldn't figure out why things were so important. The significance of the motto of the day was unclear (at least, I didn't figure it out). I think something this menacing needs a lot more, and I think you've set it up nicely. It didn't work here (at least in my opinion), but I think it would be great as a longer story.
Take it for what it's worth. I would like for you to continue this, and see where it goes.
Take it for what it's worth. I would like for you to continue this, and see where it goes.
This one's in sort of a weird space in between feeling self-contained and incomplete, and in between feeling like a scene and a story. And I'm kinda struggling with whether or not this works as-is.
There's almost kinda a character arc, in which Rhett has to confront his relationship with fiction because of what he had to do at the storage unit, but as a character arc it feels left wanting because … well, the fiction author decides that fiction is important, I'm really not seeing how the events confronted him with any tough decisions or spurred any growth. And there's almost kinda a structure around this that makes it more than a moment in time — the whole "I never went back" bit — but this is being told in retrospective, not real time, so as is, this is a single scene which is the narrator's reminiscences about that day and its effects.
I think, ultimately, what makes this fall short for me is the aforementioned emptiness of the revelation — Rhett's conclusion being something that would have seemed perfectly natural for him to think even if he hadn't ever gone to the storage unit at all. If the events there had changed him in any measurable way, this would feel adequately story-ish, but I'm sort of left wondering what the point was. The scene-as-scene was interesting enough to read, but this feels like it needs a larger point that you didn't quite make. I doubt it'll be a simple fix to add meaning to this, but the good news is that that feels like all that's missing.
Tier: Almost There
There's almost kinda a character arc, in which Rhett has to confront his relationship with fiction because of what he had to do at the storage unit, but as a character arc it feels left wanting because … well, the fiction author decides that fiction is important, I'm really not seeing how the events confronted him with any tough decisions or spurred any growth. And there's almost kinda a structure around this that makes it more than a moment in time — the whole "I never went back" bit — but this is being told in retrospective, not real time, so as is, this is a single scene which is the narrator's reminiscences about that day and its effects.
I think, ultimately, what makes this fall short for me is the aforementioned emptiness of the revelation — Rhett's conclusion being something that would have seemed perfectly natural for him to think even if he hadn't ever gone to the storage unit at all. If the events there had changed him in any measurable way, this would feel adequately story-ish, but I'm sort of left wondering what the point was. The scene-as-scene was interesting enough to read, but this feels like it needs a larger point that you didn't quite make. I doubt it'll be a simple fix to add meaning to this, but the good news is that that feels like all that's missing.
Tier: Almost There
I must (alack) stand on Horizon's side here. There's a nice setting, the decor is adequately set, the construction is good, but the ultimate message of the story - i.e. destroying books is like shaving out the world's memory, and that's bad - is somewhat underwhelming. Not because I feel this is untrue, but maybe because it's a bit clichéd. Many people have trodden that path before, beginning by Bradbury's famous Fahrenheit 451. And while I know it's impossible to distil all the richness of a full-novel into so short a space, I still feel you could've gone for something different, maybe more original or punchy. Yet, I'm a bit at a loss to tell you what or how. It'd need more pondering on my part.
The Massacre at Unit P12 — A — Excellent characterization, both in present and passed-on characters, which reflects an unfortunate truth. People pay money to put stuff into storage that should have gone to the trash instead, and they *continue* to pay money long after whatever value is there has gone away. There *are* exceptions, such as the research book in the story. It struck a chord with me, not only the author-me but the hopeless hoarder-me. I have to tell a story now. (Shut up, you young twerps, and listen to your elders)
I had a friend in college who had a Sociology degree, which as far as I can tell is the one degree less-worthwhile than a degree in Feminist Studies, despite the godawful amount of math that goes into it. He was a fellow bookworm, collected RPG gaming stuff, little plastic miniatures, built his own RPG systems out of bits and pieces culled from other systems until he had one that would take three days to generate a character. The rest of us gamers all played mostly 2E D&D, which we all could play and didn’t take a week to make a character, and while we were in college, we played almost every Saturday night. (Shut up, kids. I’m getting to the point.)
And one day in his 40’s, he had a stroke, went into a coma, and never came out.
The rest of us guys went to his trailer house with the assistance of his roommate, who also had a similar low-paying career, and we cleaned. Everybody went home with a car full of books, research materials, games, and etc, but we must have put a literal *ton* of books into the trash. Every one he had bought used. Every one was nearly useless in resale value. Every one of which everybody looked at and passed on down the line to the dumpster, because we too had piles of them at home, and no place to put more.
I still have a couple boxes of his books in the basement. Sometimes, I’ll read one or two of them. The problem is the memories that stick with things like that. I’ll be reading along and come to one of his bookmarks, which had scribbled notes on our ongoing D&D game from twenty years ago and I’ll have to stop.
All I have to say is when I go, I want to take it all with me.
I had a friend in college who had a Sociology degree, which as far as I can tell is the one degree less-worthwhile than a degree in Feminist Studies, despite the godawful amount of math that goes into it. He was a fellow bookworm, collected RPG gaming stuff, little plastic miniatures, built his own RPG systems out of bits and pieces culled from other systems until he had one that would take three days to generate a character. The rest of us gamers all played mostly 2E D&D, which we all could play and didn’t take a week to make a character, and while we were in college, we played almost every Saturday night. (Shut up, kids. I’m getting to the point.)
And one day in his 40’s, he had a stroke, went into a coma, and never came out.
The rest of us guys went to his trailer house with the assistance of his roommate, who also had a similar low-paying career, and we cleaned. Everybody went home with a car full of books, research materials, games, and etc, but we must have put a literal *ton* of books into the trash. Every one he had bought used. Every one was nearly useless in resale value. Every one of which everybody looked at and passed on down the line to the dumpster, because we too had piles of them at home, and no place to put more.
I still have a couple boxes of his books in the basement. Sometimes, I’ll read one or two of them. The problem is the memories that stick with things like that. I’ll be reading along and come to one of his bookmarks, which had scribbled notes on our ongoing D&D game from twenty years ago and I’ll have to stop.
All I have to say is when I go, I want to take it all with me.
The Great
Very cute idea. One of the best titles thus far.
The Rough
I think the core conceit is a little flawed. Trashing all fiction on principle sounds really silly on the part of Ben, as there -are- valuable fiction titles out there. I think acknowledging that would help with suspension of disbelief. Hell, it might actually make the idea more poignant to have a few books spared just because they'll sell for a few bucks, and just trash the rest.
I don't think we gain anything from Ben having a true voice. I think this being more just a direct musing about what happened from the narrator would be a tighter story.
Very cute idea. One of the best titles thus far.
The Rough
I think the core conceit is a little flawed. Trashing all fiction on principle sounds really silly on the part of Ben, as there -are- valuable fiction titles out there. I think acknowledging that would help with suspension of disbelief. Hell, it might actually make the idea more poignant to have a few books spared just because they'll sell for a few bucks, and just trash the rest.
I don't think we gain anything from Ben having a true voice. I think this being more just a direct musing about what happened from the narrator would be a tighter story.
In Unit P12 at Mel’s Mini Warehouses, we judged books by their covers, and found them wanting.
OK, for this sentence alone I upvoted.
However, while I like the premise and the style of the story, the central concept seems a bit wanting too. As someone else pointed out, while destroying books feels disturbing in itself, it's an exaggeration to call it a "massacre" of "hundreds of thousands of words" and "bits and bobbles and hopes and loves and fears of my fellow writers". Presumably, there's been countless copies of each of these pulp novels issued, and one copy in existence less doesn't equal the utter eradication of someone's work. (Heck, in the real world, booksellers routinely pulp unsold copies of books.)
But we saved a few, set aside in a little pile. Among them: Social Register of Philadelphia: 1970; Grattan’s Failure: Parliamentary Opposition and the People of England 1779-1800; and the best find of the day, the browning A Discourse of Agriculture, Its Antiquity, and Importance, to Every Member of the Community, first edition, published in 1785, sealed in an airtight bag.
I'm not sure, but I think this is supposed to introduce contrast: "look how unfair it is -- we throw away all the awesome books, but we preserve all the totally boring and stuffy books." It works at a first read of the story, on a visceral level, but upon further thought the argument seems shaky. These professional books are presumably much rarer than the pulp novels, and thus they indeed are more worth preserving.
Still, this is easily one of the best stories in the lineup, well-written and with a great concept.
I feel like this is a story just on the cusp of working. There’s an interesting idea about throwing away ‘useless’ books, and an interesting set-up to the story with the deceased lawyer’s warehouse.
However, I just don’t feel like this story really picks up at any point. The main character has the same flat tone of describing the books throughout, even after he has figured out that he doesn’t like tossing them. Honestly, I thought Pat was a more interesting character, simply because he had some kind of agency to his actions and had a logic to his book tossing that was at least interesting to look at. The whole reflection toward the end about how this is a “massacre” because they’re throwing out the labored works of writers also felt a bit too over-the-top. It’s not necessarily an incorrect assessment, but it felt like it was being beaten over our heads instead of being more subtly implied.
A good attempt, but it’s hampered by an anvilicious message and a dull main character.
However, I just don’t feel like this story really picks up at any point. The main character has the same flat tone of describing the books throughout, even after he has figured out that he doesn’t like tossing them. Honestly, I thought Pat was a more interesting character, simply because he had some kind of agency to his actions and had a logic to his book tossing that was at least interesting to look at. The whole reflection toward the end about how this is a “massacre” because they’re throwing out the labored works of writers also felt a bit too over-the-top. It’s not necessarily an incorrect assessment, but it felt like it was being beaten over our heads instead of being more subtly implied.
A good attempt, but it’s hampered by an anvilicious message and a dull main character.