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Endings
The whiskey was in the cereal cabinet. Again.
With a forlorn sigh Henry Witherford ended his fifteen minute search for his wayward beverage. He had no idea how it had ended up so far from its proper home in the liquor cabinet. His hands shook only a little as they closed around the half filled bottle. He didn’t recall the bottle being so empty either. Sixty year old Highland Park Single Malt Scotch was not cheap, but it was one of the few extravagances the old pensioner allowed himself.
It took him another five minutes to find his shotglass. [i]That[i] at least was right where it should have been. It would have gone much quicker if he hadn’t let his cabinets get so cluttered and disorganized. Martha would have been very disappointed in his sloppy housekeeping these days. But that was okay. He was in no great hurry.
Slowly and steadily he made his way back to the living room of his condo. The thought of his slow pace made him chuckle. These days, at the age of eighty two, everything he did was slow. Steady was another matter entirely. But there was still enough strength in his old bones to get around his home, no matter how his children and grandchildren fretted.
With a creak and a quiet groan, he settled himself down into his old recliner, and set his drink and shotglass on the tray beside his chair before turning it to cover his lap. That was another gift from his children. The tray table had its own set of wheels and hydraulics. It could move up and down, slide back and forth, and roll left or right. It was a damnably useful thing, but Henry hated it.
It reminded him of the hospital.
Seeking happier memories, he turned to the credenza beside him. It was a bit of a stretch, but he could just reach the closest picture frame, pulling it towards him with shaking hands and a smile gracing his lips. It was a black and white photo, of course. In it a handsome young man in a sailor’s uniform stood tall and proud beside a beautiful young lady in a sundress. His arm was around her waist, an honest smile on his face. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes half closed as the photo captured her in mid laugh.
Henry ran his finger over the young woman’s face, trying to match the young man’s grin. Wasn’t it strange how some memories remained so clear and vivid over the years? He could practically smell the sea air and smell the Coney Island hot dogs, even after all these years.
Setting the picture down on the table in front of him, he carefully poured himself a shotglass of the amber liquid before taking a small sip. He savored the taste and fire of the whiskey, but drank it slowly. He’d had a very light lunch, so there wasn’t much in his stomach to soak up the alcohol. The last thing he wanted to do was get himself drunk and fall asleep too early.
Setting the half empty shotglass down, he admired the logo on the side. It was a silly, simple thing. Just a silhouette of some Casino or other, he couldn’t remember which, and the words “Las Vegas.” It was a cheap souvenir, that was all. But it was a memento from their last vacation together, before the Alzheimers took her.
Henry ran his hand along the faux wood of the tabletop, though his eyes remained fixated on the picture before him. It was a strange dichotomy, an item filled with happy memories sitting atop another that brought only pain.
The disease had hit his Martha hard, and so very quickly. Oh, there had been signs before. Forgetting where she left her keys. Leaving the oven on. Forgetting where she was going, or why she’d entered the room. But soon enough she was forgetting what the keys were for, forgetting what she was cooking, forgetting where she was.
Forgetting her children and grandchildren’s names.
It wasn’t long before it was too much for an old man to handle alone. His children, God bless them, had done their best. But she deteriorated so quickly, and needed so much help, it hadn’t been long before they’d had to do something…
Henry sighed and shook his head. He had things to do today. Things he couldn’t put off. Picking the cordless phone up off the table, he stared at the keypad for several long seconds before slowly dialing the first number.
“Dad? Is that you? Is something wrong?” Came a worried voice.
“Bobby! No, nothing is wrong. Can’t an old man give his son a call now and then?” He smiled, forcing a bit of good cheer into his hoarse voice.
“Of course you can call Dad. What’s up?” His son cheered up, the worry and concern quickly fading away. Thought it’s mere presence had been enough to warm his heart.
“Oh, I was just looking at some old pictures and feeling a bit nostalgic is all.” He replied wistfully, tracing his finger over the picture once more. “Remember that time when you were six, and your mother and I took you to Jones Beach? You spent hours digging in the sand...”
“Yeah Dad, I remember that. Wasn’t that the time I got big by a sand crab?”
“Heh, yeah. Taught you not to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong, didn’t it?” Henry chuckled. “So, tell me, how are the grand kids doing? I haven’t heard from Jennifer in a while...”
Henry smiled, sitting back in his recliner and listening to his son’s voice as they bantered back and forth, reminiscing on old times updating him on the next generation. Those memories came clearly and easily. But all good things come to an end, and far too soon the conversation was winding down.
“I’d love to chat more dad, but Peggy needs some help in the kitchen...”
“Say no more, Bobby. I understand.” Henry paused, and cleared his throat. “Just, ah, one more thing. I was hoping you might be able to swing on by here tomorrow morning. I’ve got… something I need you to take care of for me.”
“Well, I was going to visit Sandra and see how she and her rugrats are doing, but I guess I can stop by first. What do you need help with?”
“Oh, it’s… just some paperwork and maybe moving a few things. It might take… a few hours. You still have my key, right?”
“Sure dad. Of course I do. Are you sure you’re okay?” A worried note had crept back into his voice.
“Good as I can be, at my age.” He gave a short laugh. “Anyway… Just wanted to make sure you know.. I love you son, and I’m proud of you.”
“I love you too, dad and I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, son.”
Henry sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he put the phone down. Everything would be fine tomorrow. He was sure Bobby could handle things. He was always a strong boy. And not just physically.
He’d handle his mother’s condition better than any of them, truth be told.
It had been hard, so very hard, when they moved Martha to the home. They’d never been a rich family. Shady Pines was the best they could afford, and it was far from a dump. But it wasn’t like living in the condo either. Not that it seemed to matter much to Martha after a few months.
He’d visited most every day of course. So had their sons and grandchildren, at least at first. But as she’d gotten worse and worse each visit was harder and harder. She’d forget the names and faces of her family. She’d ask after people who’d been dead and buried for decades. She’d forget where she was, and start wandering the halls, trying to find her way ‘home.’
It was on one of those midnight excursions that she’d fallen and broken her hip.
Henry shook his head, trying to drive off those horrid memories. Why were those the ones that stayed with him? Why couldn’t he forget those last few years, and only remember the good times? And they’d had been so many good times, he and his beautiful, vivacious Martha.
With a sigh he refreshed his shotglass, taking a few more small sips. It wasn’t time to finish off the bottle just yet. He still had more phone calls to make.
“Let’s see here… I’ll call Anthony next I suppose. And then Daniel. Francis died in that car wreck back in… 78? God rest his soul.” Henry muttered to himself, once again staring at the keypad on his phone.
After staring for a few more minutes, he sighed and set it back down. “Damn it all, where did I leave that phone book?” He muttered, grunting in exertion as he rose out of his chair.
Twenty minutes.
It took him twenty minutes to hunt down the little brown book of phone numbers.
What it was doing in the bread drawer, he didn’t know.
But regardless, he’d found it. And called both of his other sons. And eight of his grandchildren. Of his great grandchildren, only Tommy was old enough to hold much of a conversation over the phone.
“Okay Tom, tell Great Grandpa goodbye and that you love him!” his old ears could barely pick out his granddaughter Catherine’s voice in the background.
“By Great Grandpa Henry! I love you!” Came through much louder, and with the enthusiasm only a six year old could muster.
“I love you too, sweetpea. Give the phone back to your mommy now, would you?”
“Okay Grampa! Here mommy!”
“Thanks sweetheart.” There were the unmistakable sounds of a phone (roughly) changing hands, and then his granddaughter was back on the line once again. “So, do you think you’ll be able to make it to Tom’s birthday party this year grandpa?”
“Birthday party? That’s in.. Um….” Henry frowned, searching his memory for the date.
“It’s in two and a half weeks, grandpa. The 23rd? You remember, right?”
“Oh yeah, of course, of course. Could hardly forget that.” He rambled. “But, ah... I don’t think I’ll be able to make it this year. These old bones… I don’t think I can make it that far.”
“Are you feeling okay Grandpa? You just sound a little, I don’t know...”
“I’m just as fine as can be.” Henry kept his tone light, even as he blinked back tears. It had been a long day, with many phone calls. Not everyone had been home, or been able to talk for long. But the worry and concern was there in each of his family member’s voices. And somehow it managed to both warm his heart and pain him at the same time.
“... You know you’re always welcome to come visit us, right Grandpa? Or come and stay for a while? George and I have an extra bedroom. We all worry about you being all alone you know. It’s been five year since Grandma passed away...”
Henry closed his ears, fighting back a few more tears. It hadn’t been five years. It was more like seven or eight. It had only been five years since her body shut down. But he’d lost his Martha well before that, when the light of recognition had faded out of her beautiful blue eyes...
“Grandpa?”
Wiping his eyes, Henry struggled to keep a quaver out of his voice.
“You don’t need to worry sweetheart. I’ve got everything I need here. Things will take care of themselves, you’ll see.” He forced his voice to remain strong and steady. “You just worry about that husband of yours and my great-grandson, you hear?”
“If you’re sure...” She sounded less than certain.
“Very sure. Everything will be fine. I promise.”
“Okay grandpa. Love you. I’ll talk to you later.”
“I love you too, Catherine.”
With a sigh he hung up the phone and leaned back into his recliner.
It had been a long afternoon, though one well spent. His eyes returned to the photo before him.
“Well Martha, it’s just you and me now.” He whispered, tracing her face with his fingertip.
He smiled once more, thinking of the happy days they’d spent together in their youth. The picnics, the night spent out dancing. The night spent inside doing a different kind of dancing. The joy at the births of each of their children, and their grandchildren. The simple pleasures of taking their boys on vacation, or teaching them around the kitchen table, or just standing beside his wife and watching the kids sleep peacefully in their beds.
The smile slipped from his face as more recent memories surfaced. The nursing home. The fall and broken hip. And the last year, spent lying in the Alzheimer’s ward in the hospital. Laying there with a little swivel table just like his hanging over her. Lying there, but never really getting better, just slowly fading away, day by day.
If there was a Hell on Earth, it was that place. The sounds and images came back to him in the dark of night sometimes. The incoherent mumbling. The random screams. The ‘healthier’ patients wandering the halls like zombies.
And spending each day their, beside his beautiful, brilliant Martha, as she drifted further and further away from him day by day. With that cacophony of loss and madness as a backdrop.
Each day he’d prayed for God to heal her. And when there wasn’t anything of ‘her’ left but an empty shell, he’d prayed to God for her suffering to end. If He couldn’t fix her, then at least let her go peacefully and quietly, with what little dignity was left to her!
But no. It took over nine months before what was left of his beloved wife finally passed on.
Henry blotted his tears once more, drying his eyes so he could see clearly. He carefully looked over his little tray table, making sure everything he needed was laid out neatly. The bottle of whiskey was down more than a little from it’s condition earlier in the afternoon. But there was more than enough left for his intentions.
To the left, the paperwork was laid out neatly. The results of his last medical examination. A copy of his Last Will and Testament. A long, heartfelt note to his family explaining his decision, and telling them all just how much he loved them. He only hoped his shaky handwriting was still legible enough.
To the right, his bottle of Single Malt Scotch, shotglass, and a mostly full bottle of prescription ‘sleep aids’ he’d talked his doctor into providing him.
And of course, in the center, a black and white photo of a happy, loving couple just starting their lifelong journey together.
“I'll be seeing you soon Darling, don’t you worry.” He whispered softly to the picture, and if his hands shook as he opened the bottle, it was due solely to the difficulty of the child proof cap.
He’d always been told that suicide was a sin. But surely the Lord would understand, under these circumstances. Besides, he couldn’t imagine Hell being much worse than the Alzheimer’s ward. And if doing this did send him down to the other place, well, at least it would be a private Hell. Not one he’d drag his entire family into. Forcing them suffer as they watched him waste away.
But surely God wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny him a reunion with his own personal angel. Surely he’d earned that much in his long life?
Henry stared down at the handful of capsules he’d poured into his hand. Each one was half pink and half white.
“Heh. Pink and white. Just like that skirt you wore to the roller derby. Do you remember that, darling?” He whispered, closing his eyes and smiling at the memory.
Opening his eyes again, the smile lingered as he stared at the capsules once more. Then, one by one, he calmly swallowed them, small sips of Scotch helping them go down more easily. By now his stomach was mostly empty, and his slow drinking all afternoon had his body relaxed and feeling no pain. Everything would proceed nice and smoothly, just as he had planned.
With a pleased sigh he finished downing one last shot of Scotch, then closed his eyes to wait for the capsules to dissolve and sleep to take him. As he waited, he let his mind wander, focusing on the memories of happier times long ago. Of family and loved ones and roller skates and red and white skirts.
He could almost hear the music playing and the sound of wheels on polished wood. He could see her blonde hair streaming behind her, her skirt swishing in the wind as she laughed and smiled and struggled to keep up with him. He could feel her warmth against his chest as he pulled her into his embrace, the two of them gently spinning in a circle in the center of the rink. He could smell her perfume, the flowery one she wore just for him.
Leaning forward for a kiss, he could almost taste her lips as they pressed against his...
As sleep took him, Henry Witherford’s lips curled up into one last smile.
With a forlorn sigh Henry Witherford ended his fifteen minute search for his wayward beverage. He had no idea how it had ended up so far from its proper home in the liquor cabinet. His hands shook only a little as they closed around the half filled bottle. He didn’t recall the bottle being so empty either. Sixty year old Highland Park Single Malt Scotch was not cheap, but it was one of the few extravagances the old pensioner allowed himself.
It took him another five minutes to find his shotglass. [i]That[i] at least was right where it should have been. It would have gone much quicker if he hadn’t let his cabinets get so cluttered and disorganized. Martha would have been very disappointed in his sloppy housekeeping these days. But that was okay. He was in no great hurry.
Slowly and steadily he made his way back to the living room of his condo. The thought of his slow pace made him chuckle. These days, at the age of eighty two, everything he did was slow. Steady was another matter entirely. But there was still enough strength in his old bones to get around his home, no matter how his children and grandchildren fretted.
With a creak and a quiet groan, he settled himself down into his old recliner, and set his drink and shotglass on the tray beside his chair before turning it to cover his lap. That was another gift from his children. The tray table had its own set of wheels and hydraulics. It could move up and down, slide back and forth, and roll left or right. It was a damnably useful thing, but Henry hated it.
It reminded him of the hospital.
Seeking happier memories, he turned to the credenza beside him. It was a bit of a stretch, but he could just reach the closest picture frame, pulling it towards him with shaking hands and a smile gracing his lips. It was a black and white photo, of course. In it a handsome young man in a sailor’s uniform stood tall and proud beside a beautiful young lady in a sundress. His arm was around her waist, an honest smile on his face. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes half closed as the photo captured her in mid laugh.
Henry ran his finger over the young woman’s face, trying to match the young man’s grin. Wasn’t it strange how some memories remained so clear and vivid over the years? He could practically smell the sea air and smell the Coney Island hot dogs, even after all these years.
Setting the picture down on the table in front of him, he carefully poured himself a shotglass of the amber liquid before taking a small sip. He savored the taste and fire of the whiskey, but drank it slowly. He’d had a very light lunch, so there wasn’t much in his stomach to soak up the alcohol. The last thing he wanted to do was get himself drunk and fall asleep too early.
Setting the half empty shotglass down, he admired the logo on the side. It was a silly, simple thing. Just a silhouette of some Casino or other, he couldn’t remember which, and the words “Las Vegas.” It was a cheap souvenir, that was all. But it was a memento from their last vacation together, before the Alzheimers took her.
Henry ran his hand along the faux wood of the tabletop, though his eyes remained fixated on the picture before him. It was a strange dichotomy, an item filled with happy memories sitting atop another that brought only pain.
The disease had hit his Martha hard, and so very quickly. Oh, there had been signs before. Forgetting where she left her keys. Leaving the oven on. Forgetting where she was going, or why she’d entered the room. But soon enough she was forgetting what the keys were for, forgetting what she was cooking, forgetting where she was.
Forgetting her children and grandchildren’s names.
It wasn’t long before it was too much for an old man to handle alone. His children, God bless them, had done their best. But she deteriorated so quickly, and needed so much help, it hadn’t been long before they’d had to do something…
Henry sighed and shook his head. He had things to do today. Things he couldn’t put off. Picking the cordless phone up off the table, he stared at the keypad for several long seconds before slowly dialing the first number.
“Dad? Is that you? Is something wrong?” Came a worried voice.
“Bobby! No, nothing is wrong. Can’t an old man give his son a call now and then?” He smiled, forcing a bit of good cheer into his hoarse voice.
“Of course you can call Dad. What’s up?” His son cheered up, the worry and concern quickly fading away. Thought it’s mere presence had been enough to warm his heart.
“Oh, I was just looking at some old pictures and feeling a bit nostalgic is all.” He replied wistfully, tracing his finger over the picture once more. “Remember that time when you were six, and your mother and I took you to Jones Beach? You spent hours digging in the sand...”
“Yeah Dad, I remember that. Wasn’t that the time I got big by a sand crab?”
“Heh, yeah. Taught you not to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong, didn’t it?” Henry chuckled. “So, tell me, how are the grand kids doing? I haven’t heard from Jennifer in a while...”
Henry smiled, sitting back in his recliner and listening to his son’s voice as they bantered back and forth, reminiscing on old times updating him on the next generation. Those memories came clearly and easily. But all good things come to an end, and far too soon the conversation was winding down.
“I’d love to chat more dad, but Peggy needs some help in the kitchen...”
“Say no more, Bobby. I understand.” Henry paused, and cleared his throat. “Just, ah, one more thing. I was hoping you might be able to swing on by here tomorrow morning. I’ve got… something I need you to take care of for me.”
“Well, I was going to visit Sandra and see how she and her rugrats are doing, but I guess I can stop by first. What do you need help with?”
“Oh, it’s… just some paperwork and maybe moving a few things. It might take… a few hours. You still have my key, right?”
“Sure dad. Of course I do. Are you sure you’re okay?” A worried note had crept back into his voice.
“Good as I can be, at my age.” He gave a short laugh. “Anyway… Just wanted to make sure you know.. I love you son, and I’m proud of you.”
“I love you too, dad and I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, son.”
Henry sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he put the phone down. Everything would be fine tomorrow. He was sure Bobby could handle things. He was always a strong boy. And not just physically.
He’d handle his mother’s condition better than any of them, truth be told.
It had been hard, so very hard, when they moved Martha to the home. They’d never been a rich family. Shady Pines was the best they could afford, and it was far from a dump. But it wasn’t like living in the condo either. Not that it seemed to matter much to Martha after a few months.
He’d visited most every day of course. So had their sons and grandchildren, at least at first. But as she’d gotten worse and worse each visit was harder and harder. She’d forget the names and faces of her family. She’d ask after people who’d been dead and buried for decades. She’d forget where she was, and start wandering the halls, trying to find her way ‘home.’
It was on one of those midnight excursions that she’d fallen and broken her hip.
Henry shook his head, trying to drive off those horrid memories. Why were those the ones that stayed with him? Why couldn’t he forget those last few years, and only remember the good times? And they’d had been so many good times, he and his beautiful, vivacious Martha.
With a sigh he refreshed his shotglass, taking a few more small sips. It wasn’t time to finish off the bottle just yet. He still had more phone calls to make.
“Let’s see here… I’ll call Anthony next I suppose. And then Daniel. Francis died in that car wreck back in… 78? God rest his soul.” Henry muttered to himself, once again staring at the keypad on his phone.
After staring for a few more minutes, he sighed and set it back down. “Damn it all, where did I leave that phone book?” He muttered, grunting in exertion as he rose out of his chair.
Twenty minutes.
It took him twenty minutes to hunt down the little brown book of phone numbers.
What it was doing in the bread drawer, he didn’t know.
But regardless, he’d found it. And called both of his other sons. And eight of his grandchildren. Of his great grandchildren, only Tommy was old enough to hold much of a conversation over the phone.
“Okay Tom, tell Great Grandpa goodbye and that you love him!” his old ears could barely pick out his granddaughter Catherine’s voice in the background.
“By Great Grandpa Henry! I love you!” Came through much louder, and with the enthusiasm only a six year old could muster.
“I love you too, sweetpea. Give the phone back to your mommy now, would you?”
“Okay Grampa! Here mommy!”
“Thanks sweetheart.” There were the unmistakable sounds of a phone (roughly) changing hands, and then his granddaughter was back on the line once again. “So, do you think you’ll be able to make it to Tom’s birthday party this year grandpa?”
“Birthday party? That’s in.. Um….” Henry frowned, searching his memory for the date.
“It’s in two and a half weeks, grandpa. The 23rd? You remember, right?”
“Oh yeah, of course, of course. Could hardly forget that.” He rambled. “But, ah... I don’t think I’ll be able to make it this year. These old bones… I don’t think I can make it that far.”
“Are you feeling okay Grandpa? You just sound a little, I don’t know...”
“I’m just as fine as can be.” Henry kept his tone light, even as he blinked back tears. It had been a long day, with many phone calls. Not everyone had been home, or been able to talk for long. But the worry and concern was there in each of his family member’s voices. And somehow it managed to both warm his heart and pain him at the same time.
“... You know you’re always welcome to come visit us, right Grandpa? Or come and stay for a while? George and I have an extra bedroom. We all worry about you being all alone you know. It’s been five year since Grandma passed away...”
Henry closed his ears, fighting back a few more tears. It hadn’t been five years. It was more like seven or eight. It had only been five years since her body shut down. But he’d lost his Martha well before that, when the light of recognition had faded out of her beautiful blue eyes...
“Grandpa?”
Wiping his eyes, Henry struggled to keep a quaver out of his voice.
“You don’t need to worry sweetheart. I’ve got everything I need here. Things will take care of themselves, you’ll see.” He forced his voice to remain strong and steady. “You just worry about that husband of yours and my great-grandson, you hear?”
“If you’re sure...” She sounded less than certain.
“Very sure. Everything will be fine. I promise.”
“Okay grandpa. Love you. I’ll talk to you later.”
“I love you too, Catherine.”
With a sigh he hung up the phone and leaned back into his recliner.
It had been a long afternoon, though one well spent. His eyes returned to the photo before him.
“Well Martha, it’s just you and me now.” He whispered, tracing her face with his fingertip.
He smiled once more, thinking of the happy days they’d spent together in their youth. The picnics, the night spent out dancing. The night spent inside doing a different kind of dancing. The joy at the births of each of their children, and their grandchildren. The simple pleasures of taking their boys on vacation, or teaching them around the kitchen table, or just standing beside his wife and watching the kids sleep peacefully in their beds.
The smile slipped from his face as more recent memories surfaced. The nursing home. The fall and broken hip. And the last year, spent lying in the Alzheimer’s ward in the hospital. Laying there with a little swivel table just like his hanging over her. Lying there, but never really getting better, just slowly fading away, day by day.
If there was a Hell on Earth, it was that place. The sounds and images came back to him in the dark of night sometimes. The incoherent mumbling. The random screams. The ‘healthier’ patients wandering the halls like zombies.
And spending each day their, beside his beautiful, brilliant Martha, as she drifted further and further away from him day by day. With that cacophony of loss and madness as a backdrop.
Each day he’d prayed for God to heal her. And when there wasn’t anything of ‘her’ left but an empty shell, he’d prayed to God for her suffering to end. If He couldn’t fix her, then at least let her go peacefully and quietly, with what little dignity was left to her!
But no. It took over nine months before what was left of his beloved wife finally passed on.
Henry blotted his tears once more, drying his eyes so he could see clearly. He carefully looked over his little tray table, making sure everything he needed was laid out neatly. The bottle of whiskey was down more than a little from it’s condition earlier in the afternoon. But there was more than enough left for his intentions.
To the left, the paperwork was laid out neatly. The results of his last medical examination. A copy of his Last Will and Testament. A long, heartfelt note to his family explaining his decision, and telling them all just how much he loved them. He only hoped his shaky handwriting was still legible enough.
To the right, his bottle of Single Malt Scotch, shotglass, and a mostly full bottle of prescription ‘sleep aids’ he’d talked his doctor into providing him.
And of course, in the center, a black and white photo of a happy, loving couple just starting their lifelong journey together.
“I'll be seeing you soon Darling, don’t you worry.” He whispered softly to the picture, and if his hands shook as he opened the bottle, it was due solely to the difficulty of the child proof cap.
He’d always been told that suicide was a sin. But surely the Lord would understand, under these circumstances. Besides, he couldn’t imagine Hell being much worse than the Alzheimer’s ward. And if doing this did send him down to the other place, well, at least it would be a private Hell. Not one he’d drag his entire family into. Forcing them suffer as they watched him waste away.
But surely God wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny him a reunion with his own personal angel. Surely he’d earned that much in his long life?
Henry stared down at the handful of capsules he’d poured into his hand. Each one was half pink and half white.
“Heh. Pink and white. Just like that skirt you wore to the roller derby. Do you remember that, darling?” He whispered, closing his eyes and smiling at the memory.
Opening his eyes again, the smile lingered as he stared at the capsules once more. Then, one by one, he calmly swallowed them, small sips of Scotch helping them go down more easily. By now his stomach was mostly empty, and his slow drinking all afternoon had his body relaxed and feeling no pain. Everything would proceed nice and smoothly, just as he had planned.
With a pleased sigh he finished downing one last shot of Scotch, then closed his eyes to wait for the capsules to dissolve and sleep to take him. As he waited, he let his mind wander, focusing on the memories of happier times long ago. Of family and loved ones and roller skates and red and white skirts.
He could almost hear the music playing and the sound of wheels on polished wood. He could see her blonde hair streaming behind her, her skirt swishing in the wind as she laughed and smiled and struggled to keep up with him. He could feel her warmth against his chest as he pulled her into his embrace, the two of them gently spinning in a circle in the center of the rink. He could smell her perfume, the flowery one she wore just for him.
Leaning forward for a kiss, he could almost taste her lips as they pressed against his...
As sleep took him, Henry Witherford’s lips curled up into one last smile.
I have mixed feeling about this one. And I don't really know how to rate it. Let's try nonetheless.
One thing to mention before starting, there are couple of typos and BBCode errors but that won't be held against it. We all make some and it didn't make the read difficult.
The story relates the last days of an old man who decide to end his life instead of letting his mind, and thus his being, slowly drifting into oblivion, because of Alzheimers. He has witnessed what it has done to his wife and didn't want to experience the same.
The story manages to convey what it needs to make it work. The writting, the pace, the dialog, everything is neat and well handled. Moreover, I love when a character makes a life-changing decision, sticks to it and explains why he has made this choice. I felt a bit sad at the end for the poor man.
However, it's a story I've read and seen multiple times elsewhere and this one doesn't add anything. It doesn't take another perspective, it doesn't explore new horizons.
So I really don't know what I should do with it. With what the story wanted to do, it did good but with nothing new to add to a topic already seen many times, that doesn't help it to shine.
And because I have a hard time to explain my mind, I'll leave it up to a grade, even if I usually think they are meaningless and lazy. It is a solid 7/10 for me.
One thing to mention before starting, there are couple of typos and BBCode errors but that won't be held against it. We all make some and it didn't make the read difficult.
The story relates the last days of an old man who decide to end his life instead of letting his mind, and thus his being, slowly drifting into oblivion, because of Alzheimers. He has witnessed what it has done to his wife and didn't want to experience the same.
The story manages to convey what it needs to make it work. The writting, the pace, the dialog, everything is neat and well handled. Moreover, I love when a character makes a life-changing decision, sticks to it and explains why he has made this choice. I felt a bit sad at the end for the poor man.
However, it's a story I've read and seen multiple times elsewhere and this one doesn't add anything. It doesn't take another perspective, it doesn't explore new horizons.
So I really don't know what I should do with it. With what the story wanted to do, it did good but with nothing new to add to a topic already seen many times, that doesn't help it to shine.
And because I have a hard time to explain my mind, I'll leave it up to a grade, even if I usually think they are meaningless and lazy. It is a solid 7/10 for me.
I agree with >>Fenton for the most part. This story doesn't do anything new with its material. What's more, for a few moments it felt as though it was checking off the boxes of a list of beats a story like this should hit. At least he wasn't put in a decaying home by his neglecting children.
However, I'm a firm believer that good execution trumps everything else and, good Lord, did this work for me. Perhaps it may just be my bias talking, but Martha's story made me think back to my grandfather's last week. I don't want to depress anyone, but I just want you to know you got a tear out of me.
Passing on to actual criticisms, this is actually an interesting point in a meta sort of way. Henry laments how Alzheimer took it's toll on his wife to the point where the painful memories of her last years overcame all the good times they had together, Conversely, the story spends more time narrating the devastating effects Martha's disease had in her and how much it hurt Henry, and comparatively little in telling us about the times they were happy together.
While I suppose that works thematically, selling us on how happy this couple was would've given much more impact to the loss Henry feels and maybe we could've sympathised more with his decision at the end.
Just a thought, but this is one of my favourite stories from this round.
However, I'm a firm believer that good execution trumps everything else and, good Lord, did this work for me. Perhaps it may just be my bias talking, but Martha's story made me think back to my grandfather's last week. I don't want to depress anyone, but I just want you to know you got a tear out of me.
Passing on to actual criticisms, this is actually an interesting point in a meta sort of way. Henry laments how Alzheimer took it's toll on his wife to the point where the painful memories of her last years overcame all the good times they had together, Conversely, the story spends more time narrating the devastating effects Martha's disease had in her and how much it hurt Henry, and comparatively little in telling us about the times they were happy together.
While I suppose that works thematically, selling us on how happy this couple was would've given much more impact to the loss Henry feels and maybe we could've sympathised more with his decision at the end.
Just a thought, but this is one of my favourite stories from this round.
Meh. I mean, it wasn't my grandfather.
Why I don't care, I think, is because this story doesn't seem like it can decide if it wants to be sweet or bitter, and it's not committing enough to either to hit bittersweet. Someone with Alzheimers who feels their time is up dying peacefully in their sleep isn't tragic. Someone killing themselves out of cowardice, unable to face their friends and family and tell them goodby properly, isn't sweet.
Suffice to say, I feel like this needs to commit harder in one direction or both. Want to make it sweeter? Commit more at the end and show him re-uniting with his wife, describe how his death is a good thing for his family in some way. Want to make it more bitter? Make him significantly younger, have him rejecting offered hope of some sort, show the reaction of his son when he shows up the next day.
Or, you know, something like that. As-is, this is just too wishy-woshy for me to really care about much. You get top points for construction and conservation of attention, but this story is just entirely too safe for me to really feel it was worth my time.
Why I don't care, I think, is because this story doesn't seem like it can decide if it wants to be sweet or bitter, and it's not committing enough to either to hit bittersweet. Someone with Alzheimers who feels their time is up dying peacefully in their sleep isn't tragic. Someone killing themselves out of cowardice, unable to face their friends and family and tell them goodby properly, isn't sweet.
Suffice to say, I feel like this needs to commit harder in one direction or both. Want to make it sweeter? Commit more at the end and show him re-uniting with his wife, describe how his death is a good thing for his family in some way. Want to make it more bitter? Make him significantly younger, have him rejecting offered hope of some sort, show the reaction of his son when he shows up the next day.
Or, you know, something like that. As-is, this is just too wishy-woshy for me to really care about much. You get top points for construction and conservation of attention, but this story is just entirely too safe for me to really feel it was worth my time.
I'm just gonna ==spoiler warning== this entire post, because otherwise I might have to redact it all. :P
Well, that got dark.
>>Not_A_Hat makes a good point that this story feels a little like it's trying to split the difference between two moods and in the process doesn't go far enough to hit either. While !Hat sees lack of commitment, though, I think what I see is missed opportunities.
This is best exemplified by the phone calls with Catherine and Bobby. They're so unrelentingly normal.
Henry misfiles the whiskey (and his addressbook), but he dials Bobby's number from memory. He thinks about how Alzheimer's robbed his wife of her children's and grandchildren's names, but he never once forgets their names. Neither Bobby nor Catherine are dropping hints nor staging interventions. Catherine urges him to move in with them, but that's explicitly exposited as because she's concerned about him living alone after his wife's death — not because he's losing function. The one element of those calls that even touches on your core premise is when Henry forgets Tom's birthday, but he glosses over the fumble and she lets it slide.
… you know, re-reading it now, in light of the ending the conversation with Bobby takes on an especially morbid tone. In that light I wonder if it was intentional. I do have to give it some points for how that changes with the full context, but the problem is that the conversation is otherwise so subtle and bland, I feel like it doesn't work as foreshadowing.
So let me revise my complaint: I think this plays its cards way too close to its chest. Withholding Henry's suicide for the ending twist makes the rest feel mundane and a little disconnected. Consider flipping this story entirely on its head: If we learn right up front that Henry plans to kill himself, then that first conversation with Bobby becomes super fraught as we watch him dancing around his premeditated plans. (Be careful: This has the potential to establish Henry as an asshole and cause readers to lose sympathy.) If you did this you'd also, I think, have to invert the two conversations: put Catherine's first so that the seemingly innocent slip of forgetting the birthday becomes, essentially, his trigger. Henry convincing himself that because of that slip he has nothing more to look forward to except that slow descent into hell. At that point, build your story around the tragedy of his decision — if you still want an ending twist, drop a late revelation: perhaps that he doesn't have Alzheimer's at all, that he got tested and cleared but doesn't believe the test.
Tier: Almost There
And if doing this did send him down to the other place, well, at least it would be a private Hell.
Well, that got dark.
>>Not_A_Hat makes a good point that this story feels a little like it's trying to split the difference between two moods and in the process doesn't go far enough to hit either. While !Hat sees lack of commitment, though, I think what I see is missed opportunities.
This is best exemplified by the phone calls with Catherine and Bobby. They're so unrelentingly normal.
Henry misfiles the whiskey (and his addressbook), but he dials Bobby's number from memory. He thinks about how Alzheimer's robbed his wife of her children's and grandchildren's names, but he never once forgets their names. Neither Bobby nor Catherine are dropping hints nor staging interventions. Catherine urges him to move in with them, but that's explicitly exposited as because she's concerned about him living alone after his wife's death — not because he's losing function. The one element of those calls that even touches on your core premise is when Henry forgets Tom's birthday, but he glosses over the fumble and she lets it slide.
… you know, re-reading it now, in light of the ending the conversation with Bobby takes on an especially morbid tone. In that light I wonder if it was intentional. I do have to give it some points for how that changes with the full context, but the problem is that the conversation is otherwise so subtle and bland, I feel like it doesn't work as foreshadowing.
So let me revise my complaint: I think this plays its cards way too close to its chest. Withholding Henry's suicide for the ending twist makes the rest feel mundane and a little disconnected. Consider flipping this story entirely on its head: If we learn right up front that Henry plans to kill himself, then that first conversation with Bobby becomes super fraught as we watch him dancing around his premeditated plans. (Be careful: This has the potential to establish Henry as an asshole and cause readers to lose sympathy.) If you did this you'd also, I think, have to invert the two conversations: put Catherine's first so that the seemingly innocent slip of forgetting the birthday becomes, essentially, his trigger. Henry convincing himself that because of that slip he has nothing more to look forward to except that slow descent into hell. At that point, build your story around the tragedy of his decision — if you still want an ending twist, drop a late revelation: perhaps that he doesn't have Alzheimer's at all, that he got tested and cleared but doesn't believe the test.
Tier: Almost There
Before I begin, I want to talk about the opening, specifically this bit:
Author, I assume you are not particularly familiar with single-malt scotch, so let me explain my issue with this. First, I'm not aware that Highland Park even makes a 60 year single malt. The oldest standard ("standard" in the sense of commercially available, that is) drink I know of that they've made is their 50 year. Secondly, even if our "old pensioner" was drinking the 50, I'd still be pulled out of the story pretty darn quick by it; not only was that an extremely limited run, but IIRC it sells for about the price of a car. Actually, I went ahead and looked it up just now, and it's a bit less than that... but you're still going to be dropping $16,000-20,000 per bottle.
The moral here is: if you don't know your product, do a quick google search. And if I might make a suggestion? A Glenfiddich 18 year single malt might fit your story better; it's a brand your readers might recognize even if they don't "know scotch," it's widely available (our pensioner could almost certainly get it at his local upscale liquor store), and it's expensive in an absolute sense without being insanely priced (a shade under $100, where I shop, which puts it out of my price range. Just as well, Glenfiddich isn't one I terribly like to begin with).
Now, let's take a look at the rest of the fic :B
...Okay, having now read the whole thing, I have to say that it was obvious where you were going early on, but I nevertheless kept hoping I was wrong. And a lot of the reason I was hoping that was because of that first phone call with Bobby.
The reason I hated that whole bit is because Arranging for your own son to find your dead body after you commit suicide is such an incredibly selfish, manipulative thing to do. There are a thousand ways he could have set up for his body to be found, if he were absolutely committed to killing himself (incidentally: is it because he's afraid he's developing Alzheimer's too, or is it out of simple yearning for his dead wife? As >>horizon says, the textual evidence is inconsistent), by a family friend, lawyer, the condo owner... whatever, but instead he takes the option seemingly chosen for the purpose of causing maximum guilt to his family. And I do mean maximum: that phone call is just twisting the "you should have known something was wrong, Bobby," knife. And then he does that same thing with all of his remaining kids. I mean, that's some next-level mind burdens he's going out of his way to lay down as he exits stage right.
And that all would be fine... if the story were willing to commit to showing him in an appropriate light (I could by "selfish, bitter man bent on making sure his family feels bad," or alternately "wishy-washy coward who's alternating between commitment to the deed and attempts to self-sabotage"). But instead, you paint this man with such a halo that the story might as well end with an angelic chorus singing him off, which might work if the story was about him trying to minimize, rather than maximize, the anguish which his death would cause. But as-is, the tone of the story feels far removed from the main character's actions.
Beyond that--and granted, that's a big "beyond that" to be throwing around--this is fine as an end-of-life bittersweet fic. It's not trite or offensive, but I think it's also fair to say that it doesn't bring anything beyond its premise to the table. A stronger dedication to exploring the motivation of our pensioner, and an accompanying narrative recognition of him as a flawed human being, rather than a loving-and-loved paragon who's too good for this sinful earth, could go a long way toward strengthening this.
Sixty year old Highland Park Single Malt Scotch
Author, I assume you are not particularly familiar with single-malt scotch, so let me explain my issue with this. First, I'm not aware that Highland Park even makes a 60 year single malt. The oldest standard ("standard" in the sense of commercially available, that is) drink I know of that they've made is their 50 year. Secondly, even if our "old pensioner" was drinking the 50, I'd still be pulled out of the story pretty darn quick by it; not only was that an extremely limited run, but IIRC it sells for about the price of a car. Actually, I went ahead and looked it up just now, and it's a bit less than that... but you're still going to be dropping $16,000-20,000 per bottle.
The moral here is: if you don't know your product, do a quick google search. And if I might make a suggestion? A Glenfiddich 18 year single malt might fit your story better; it's a brand your readers might recognize even if they don't "know scotch," it's widely available (our pensioner could almost certainly get it at his local upscale liquor store), and it's expensive in an absolute sense without being insanely priced (a shade under $100, where I shop, which puts it out of my price range. Just as well, Glenfiddich isn't one I terribly like to begin with).
Now, let's take a look at the rest of the fic :B
...Okay, having now read the whole thing, I have to say that it was obvious where you were going early on, but I nevertheless kept hoping I was wrong. And a lot of the reason I was hoping that was because of that first phone call with Bobby.
The reason I hated that whole bit is because Arranging for your own son to find your dead body after you commit suicide is such an incredibly selfish, manipulative thing to do. There are a thousand ways he could have set up for his body to be found, if he were absolutely committed to killing himself (incidentally: is it because he's afraid he's developing Alzheimer's too, or is it out of simple yearning for his dead wife? As >>horizon says, the textual evidence is inconsistent), by a family friend, lawyer, the condo owner... whatever, but instead he takes the option seemingly chosen for the purpose of causing maximum guilt to his family. And I do mean maximum: that phone call is just twisting the "you should have known something was wrong, Bobby," knife. And then he does that same thing with all of his remaining kids. I mean, that's some next-level mind burdens he's going out of his way to lay down as he exits stage right.
And that all would be fine... if the story were willing to commit to showing him in an appropriate light (I could by "selfish, bitter man bent on making sure his family feels bad," or alternately "wishy-washy coward who's alternating between commitment to the deed and attempts to self-sabotage"). But instead, you paint this man with such a halo that the story might as well end with an angelic chorus singing him off, which might work if the story was about him trying to minimize, rather than maximize, the anguish which his death would cause. But as-is, the tone of the story feels far removed from the main character's actions.
Beyond that--and granted, that's a big "beyond that" to be throwing around--this is fine as an end-of-life bittersweet fic. It's not trite or offensive, but I think it's also fair to say that it doesn't bring anything beyond its premise to the table. A stronger dedication to exploring the motivation of our pensioner, and an accompanying narrative recognition of him as a flawed human being, rather than a loving-and-loved paragon who's too good for this sinful earth, could go a long way toward strengthening this.
Read - Endings — A — Nice hook, a little chunky and not very flowing at the beginning. Progressing nicely into a slice of life… Oh. Yeah. (reads through to end) Impressions: This is a progressive or whatever an English major would call it. I did the same thing with a Trixie and a Diamond Tiara story, so I’m aware of just how hard it is to keep focused on the end (sorry) without going into weird plot twists or hooks, just one long slow slide into an inevitable conclusion. I don’t get to say this often, but Horizon is wrong twice. Flipping the story on its head or putting the reveal at the beginning turns this into a different animal. The POV character is written tightly, the sequencing of events is smooth, and the depiction of Alzheimer's is spot on, because victims can have dramatic ‘chunks’ vanish out of their memories or behavior quirks in really weird ways, telegraphed right to the very beginning of the story and the hook. Overall, extremely good marks, with a bonus for taking on a subject that is so uncomfortable for many readers.
>>Chris One of the advantages of old age is going into the liquor cabinet that you haven't touched in forty years and getting out something that you opened with your old Army buds back when they were all alive. My dad was like that. Not to say it's any good after sitting around in a bottle all those years, but...
>>horizon As above, you're wrong. You are trying to read a different story than what is on the page. I tend to do that too. No biggie.
>>Chris One of the advantages of old age is going into the liquor cabinet that you haven't touched in forty years and getting out something that you opened with your old Army buds back when they were all alive. My dad was like that. Not to say it's any good after sitting around in a bottle all those years, but...
>>horizon As above, you're wrong. You are trying to read a different story than what is on the page. I tend to do that too. No biggie.
>>georg
I'm genuinely not certain whether I agree my version is different, because it's not entirely clear to me (especially given the phone conversations) what the author intended to be the core of the tragedy here:
1) that Henry is so afraid of his fate that he's doing cowardly things (see >>Chris's spoilertext for an explanation that's clearer than mine was), or
2) that Henry is fundamentally heroic, and struck down by a cruel, unfair disease
If it's #1, then my suggestions change structure, but not theme, and I submit would be wonderfully clarifying. If it's #2, then my suggestions do counterproductively turn the story on its head, but the story still does have issues to address with its mixed messages about the progression of the disease and Henry's premeditation in the calls.
So, author, I should clarify: the purpose of my review was to note that I didn't feel the story as written worked for me, and to offer a suggestion for how to edit the story with the least amount of textual scrapping and rewriting-from-scratch into a story that I felt would work. In that sense, Georg is right: I am talking about a story that is not what you wrote on the page, and my suggestion will only help if you wish to push the story in the direction I envision. Everyone's advice, even mine, should be taken with that grain of salt. (Especially mine, because I tend to be pretty bold with my revision suggestions.)
And if I'm wrong, wouldn't be the first time. ¯\_ツ_/¯
Flipping the story on its head or putting the reveal at the beginning turns this into a different animal.
I'm genuinely not certain whether I agree my version is different, because it's not entirely clear to me (especially given the phone conversations) what the author intended to be the core of the tragedy here:
1) that Henry is so afraid of his fate that he's doing cowardly things (see >>Chris's spoilertext for an explanation that's clearer than mine was), or
2) that Henry is fundamentally heroic, and struck down by a cruel, unfair disease
If it's #1, then my suggestions change structure, but not theme, and I submit would be wonderfully clarifying. If it's #2, then my suggestions do counterproductively turn the story on its head, but the story still does have issues to address with its mixed messages about the progression of the disease and Henry's premeditation in the calls.
So, author, I should clarify: the purpose of my review was to note that I didn't feel the story as written worked for me, and to offer a suggestion for how to edit the story with the least amount of textual scrapping and rewriting-from-scratch into a story that I felt would work. In that sense, Georg is right: I am talking about a story that is not what you wrote on the page, and my suggestion will only help if you wish to push the story in the direction I envision. Everyone's advice, even mine, should be taken with that grain of salt. (Especially mine, because I tend to be pretty bold with my revision suggestions.)
And if I'm wrong, wouldn't be the first time. ¯\_ツ_/¯
>>horizon Yes, I understand you once thought you were wrong before, but you were mistaken. :)
It's a thematic difference, much like the difference between a traditional Agatha Christie murder mystery and a Columbo. AC stories have the mystery unwind one bit at a time until the culprit is identified, where Columbo stories identify the murderer in the first page and the rest of the story is watching the worm wriggle and twist in the wind as he struggles to escape the trap. They both have a corpse, but the process of getting to the arrest is completely different.
This is a Christie.
It's a thematic difference, much like the difference between a traditional Agatha Christie murder mystery and a Columbo. AC stories have the mystery unwind one bit at a time until the culprit is identified, where Columbo stories identify the murderer in the first page and the rest of the story is watching the worm wriggle and twist in the wind as he struggles to escape the trap. They both have a corpse, but the process of getting to the arrest is completely different.
This is a Christie.
>>horizon
I will write something more substantial today or tomorrow, but I also think you are wrong.
The signs are all there, and the whole point is that this is a very early stage of the disease. He knows what waits for him (see the analysis he keeps on the table) and decides that he has no intention of letting it progress at all.
I also think that he is neither wilfully cruel or a coward, but that requires a bit more explanation.
I will write something more substantial today or tomorrow, but I also think you are wrong.
The signs are all there, and the whole point is that this is a very early stage of the disease. He knows what waits for him (see the analysis he keeps on the table) and decides that he has no intention of letting it progress at all.
I also think that he is neither wilfully cruel or a coward, but that requires a bit more explanation.
Not for me, ultimately, is how I think I feel here.
It's a decent little vingette and many of the emotions are in the right place, but it just doesn't really do anything for me and once the ending clicked into my head during the first phone call, there's a bit of disengagement because, yeah, there becomes an issue with not really resenting and stopping caring about the main character.
Making this a story rather than a vignette might help some, honestly. The fact that the course is set from sentence one with no real conflict is a bit of an issue. Make it a bit more of a fight, give us something to latch onto, give us some impression that he really realizes what a dick thing he's doing and that maybe this isn't the right path!
It's a decent little vingette and many of the emotions are in the right place, but it just doesn't really do anything for me and once the ending clicked into my head during the first phone call, there's a bit of disengagement because, yeah, there becomes an issue with not really resenting and stopping caring about the main character.
Making this a story rather than a vignette might help some, honestly. The fact that the course is set from sentence one with no real conflict is a bit of an issue. Make it a bit more of a fight, give us something to latch onto, give us some impression that he really realizes what a dick thing he's doing and that maybe this isn't the right path!
>>georg Unless I misunderstand what you're saying, I didn't read this as Christie. I was pretty dang sure about where this was going and why after about the first third/half of the story.
The 'fall asleep too early' and various bits made it clear he was planning something, so when I got to the end of the phone call with Bobby, when he's deliberately vague about the paperwork/moving, I was pretty clear on what he was going for. As to motivation, Martha's Alzheimer's is explicitly mentioned, and that plus the opening line about the whiskey in the cereal cupboard made it fairly clear. At the very latest, I was entirely certain by the time he spent twenty minutes looking for his phone book to call long-lost friends, and that's just about in the middle. (What I'm really curious about is what a 'bread drawer' is.)
After that, I was basically just watching this unfold, hoping for a twist and wondering how the themes would play out. I'm with >>Chris here, except I'm pretty certain the MC did this out of fear of Alzheimer's, given the medical exam papers and the bit about Hell vs. the Alzheimer's ward; he seems pretty clear about where he'll end up if he sticks around.
If the author intended either the suicide or the disease to be a surprise, I think the reveal needs a bit more care. Perhaps dialing back the clear and obvious memory-loss would help. Tucking it into the back of a paragraph or something, so it's not the hook for the story and also the opening after the hard scene break might make it less attention grabbing, and not mentioning Alzheimer's by name in the first section with Martha would, perhaps, make the connection tenuous enough I wouldn't have made the association until later.
Or maybe the author does want this to read like a Columbo, I dunno.
The 'fall asleep too early' and various bits made it clear he was planning something, so when I got to the end of the phone call with Bobby, when he's deliberately vague about the paperwork/moving, I was pretty clear on what he was going for. As to motivation, Martha's Alzheimer's is explicitly mentioned, and that plus the opening line about the whiskey in the cereal cupboard made it fairly clear. At the very latest, I was entirely certain by the time he spent twenty minutes looking for his phone book to call long-lost friends, and that's just about in the middle. (What I'm really curious about is what a 'bread drawer' is.)
After that, I was basically just watching this unfold, hoping for a twist and wondering how the themes would play out. I'm with >>Chris here, except I'm pretty certain the MC did this out of fear of Alzheimer's, given the medical exam papers and the bit about Hell vs. the Alzheimer's ward; he seems pretty clear about where he'll end up if he sticks around.
If the author intended either the suicide or the disease to be a surprise, I think the reveal needs a bit more care. Perhaps dialing back the clear and obvious memory-loss would help. Tucking it into the back of a paragraph or something, so it's not the hook for the story and also the opening after the hard scene break might make it less attention grabbing, and not mentioning Alzheimer's by name in the first section with Martha would, perhaps, make the connection tenuous enough I wouldn't have made the association until later.
Or maybe the author does want this to read like a Columbo, I dunno.
>>Chris
>>horizon
Now that I have time I can write something a bit more articulated. My own reaction to this story has been heavily colored by a personal experience. Everything I say may derive from a bit of a warped perception of the issue.
My gramps suffered from Alzheimer. We lived far away, so I saw him at longer intervals, which means that my young, impressionable self saw him going from being gramps to becoming not-gramps. Each time there was visibly less of him. This had a pretty deep impact on me and on my relationship with the idea that one day I may suffer the same thing. The thought is terrifying.
As I read the story I kind of knew where it went shortly before he made the first call. And I understood why he did everything he did. I may not approve of some of it, but I understand.
He has seen his wife and what happened to her, and each day he suffered from the knowledge he couldn't do anything about it. It has been devastating. My grandma had an unshakeable faith, she had survived WW2, the winter of hunger that followed, her home being stolen from her when she had to flee from Hungary. And yet, after my grampa's disease she was shaken and different.
So when he saw the disease coming for him too (he knows it will, the medical examination points to that) he decided that we will go away on his instead of risking that the disease may take that too from him. I would probably do the same.
As for the calls to his family, I don't think he is a coward nor does he want them to suffer. He is misguided. I'm convinced that the experience with his wife has been so painful for him that he sincerely believes that his relatives will read his letter and understand. That won't be the case, but it makes, IMHO, the tragedy more poignant. A good and loving man causes suffering not through malice, but because pain has made him blind to certain things.
And this is, I think, the core of the story. Not a twist, not some new insight, but a tragedy unfolding as we read.
>>horizon
Now that I have time I can write something a bit more articulated. My own reaction to this story has been heavily colored by a personal experience. Everything I say may derive from a bit of a warped perception of the issue.
My gramps suffered from Alzheimer. We lived far away, so I saw him at longer intervals, which means that my young, impressionable self saw him going from being gramps to becoming not-gramps. Each time there was visibly less of him. This had a pretty deep impact on me and on my relationship with the idea that one day I may suffer the same thing. The thought is terrifying.
As I read the story I kind of knew where it went shortly before he made the first call. And I understood why he did everything he did. I may not approve of some of it, but I understand.
He has seen his wife and what happened to her, and each day he suffered from the knowledge he couldn't do anything about it. It has been devastating. My grandma had an unshakeable faith, she had survived WW2, the winter of hunger that followed, her home being stolen from her when she had to flee from Hungary. And yet, after my grampa's disease she was shaken and different.
So when he saw the disease coming for him too (he knows it will, the medical examination points to that) he decided that we will go away on his instead of risking that the disease may take that too from him. I would probably do the same.
As for the calls to his family, I don't think he is a coward nor does he want them to suffer. He is misguided. I'm convinced that the experience with his wife has been so painful for him that he sincerely believes that his relatives will read his letter and understand. That won't be the case, but it makes, IMHO, the tragedy more poignant. A good and loving man causes suffering not through malice, but because pain has made him blind to certain things.
And this is, I think, the core of the story. Not a twist, not some new insight, but a tragedy unfolding as we read.
Ah geez. This one I've been afraid of. Very controversial, I see.
On my first read, I felt totally apathetic to it. Some mild distaste at Yet Another Suicide Story, but mostly >>Not_A_Hat's assessment.
On later reads, and perusing the comments, I find myself turned more to the >>Chris side. Guy's an asshole. The suicide itself - sure. I don't like it, I don't like reading it (I think suicide endings are cheap and extremely overdone, and this particular one is more painful than most since there's nothing here to cut the rawness with,) but at the most basic level I can understand his decision and sympathize somewhat.
But calling your own son to pick up your surprise suicide corpse isn't just misguided and tragic, that's heinous no matter how you slice it. It'd take more than a little Alzheimer's to make anyone think that could possibly be a not-horrible thing to do. Literally anything else would be better. You wouldn't call your kid and send them to discover someone else's body, why your own?
So. Storywise. I already mentioned it, but I think this is a strictly formulaic entry in a tired and emotionally painful genre. I found nothing positively striking or particularly interesting or well done about it, except that the technical prose is acceptable. I did not enjoy it whatsoever, and in fact unenjoyed it. I will be ranking it quite low. I have no suggestions for improvement other than completely changing the essential tone and/or content of the piece.
I am deliberately starting all these sentences with "I" in order to emphasize that this is my personal view, and that I intend no disrespect or offense towards the author of the piece. I think the author had an idea that many others do, and wrote it without fully considering the implications of their choice of intersection of tone and content, and that's fine. I think they did somewhat consider their choice of content, and expected some reactions like this. I hope to see them return in future rounds and write content that is *waves hands* not this. Thank you for participating, though.
On my first read, I felt totally apathetic to it. Some mild distaste at Yet Another Suicide Story, but mostly >>Not_A_Hat's assessment.
On later reads, and perusing the comments, I find myself turned more to the >>Chris side. Guy's an asshole. The suicide itself - sure. I don't like it, I don't like reading it (I think suicide endings are cheap and extremely overdone, and this particular one is more painful than most since there's nothing here to cut the rawness with,) but at the most basic level I can understand his decision and sympathize somewhat.
But calling your own son to pick up your surprise suicide corpse isn't just misguided and tragic, that's heinous no matter how you slice it. It'd take more than a little Alzheimer's to make anyone think that could possibly be a not-horrible thing to do. Literally anything else would be better. You wouldn't call your kid and send them to discover someone else's body, why your own?
So. Storywise. I already mentioned it, but I think this is a strictly formulaic entry in a tired and emotionally painful genre. I found nothing positively striking or particularly interesting or well done about it, except that the technical prose is acceptable. I did not enjoy it whatsoever, and in fact unenjoyed it. I will be ranking it quite low. I have no suggestions for improvement other than completely changing the essential tone and/or content of the piece.
I am deliberately starting all these sentences with "I" in order to emphasize that this is my personal view, and that I intend no disrespect or offense towards the author of the piece. I think the author had an idea that many others do, and wrote it without fully considering the implications of their choice of intersection of tone and content, and that's fine. I think they did somewhat consider their choice of content, and expected some reactions like this. I hope to see them return in future rounds and write content that is *waves hands* not this. Thank you for participating, though.
There is nothing I can say here that hasn't already been said by someone else. All I can note is that it worked a bit better for me, if only because...
Well, it was my grandfather. So you'll all excuse me if something like this hits a bit closer to home for me than it would for most. But that doesn't negate the issues, and I am more or less in agreement with everything everyone else said.
I'm really starting to regret reading these piecemeal instead of all in one quick go over two days or so. Maybe then I'd be able to ad something useful.
Well, it was my grandfather. So you'll all excuse me if something like this hits a bit closer to home for me than it would for most. But that doesn't negate the issues, and I am more or less in agreement with everything everyone else said.
I'm really starting to regret reading these piecemeal instead of all in one quick go over two days or so. Maybe then I'd be able to ad something useful.
I decided to come back and take a second look at this one, for a couple of reasons. First, and most importantly, I felt pretty harsh toward this story, and I wanted to make sure that my review conveyed my opinion, and not just my mood. And second, because there was a particular bit of critique that I felt I might have talked myself into agreeing with.
As far as the latter, that would be >>horizon's uncertainty about whether the man himself had alzheimer's. In my reading, I assumed he did, but when I was reading through the comments, he pointed out a couple of things that made me second-guess myself. After a second reading, I do indeed think that this was clear enough, and that maybe I shouldn't be reading other people's comments before I post my own if I'm going to be this easily swayed :P I do think there are a few passages that could still be gussied up to sell the idea (in particular, if he started by dialing Bobby's old number and getting a stranger, that would've been a good chance to show the progression without coming out too strong, imo)), but I think you got the idea through clearly enough.
As for the former... well, I still feel the same way about the story as I did before, but I want to clarify something about my concerns, because I think I presented them poorly. I don't necessarily think that Henry is acting out of malice and/or fear. I do, however, think that his actions are malicious and/or cowardly. This is an important distinction, because it still leaves you with plenty of room to present Henry as a person who is neither bent on guilt-tripping nor desperately hoping for an excuse not to follow through on the plan he's settled on. Henry could easily be making bad decisions for the right reasons.
However, the narrative then needs to give us more of a sense of these costs. At the moment, your narrative voice, while neutral in theory, gives great attention to the most positive aspects of Henry's character and history, and treats his opinions as narrative fact; this results in the "too good for this sinful earth" tone I was put off by in my first reading. If it's the direction you want to go, I think you absolutely could write a story that's a bittersweet tale from Henry's PoV, but has an undertone of misguided tragedy interweaving his decisions as regards his family.
Of course, guilt-tripper and waffler are still options, too. But keeping Henry a character defined by non-negative motivations is something that can also be done in a way that I'd find satisfying, and I didn't really allow for that in my first comment.
And to expand slightly on my penultimate sentence from before: I've got dementia on both sides of my family, though not alzheimer's specifically. Through that lense, I felt that this didn't add any emotion that the concept of loss to dementia doesn't inherently bring to the table. It's a tragic, insidious condition to watch take someone from you, and your story didn't abuse that tragedy for cheap feels, which is a big, big thing right... but at the same time, I didn't feel like this did anything with that tragedy, besides present it in an acceptable manner. In other words, I found this exactly as moving as I find the tragedy of dementia, but no more so.
I hope that that, coupled with my initial comments, paints a more useful picture than the first wall o' text alone did, author.
Oh, and while I'm here...
>>georg
Another thing non-whiskey people might get wrong about it: whiskey doesn't age in the bottle. Well, I mean, technically it's still getting older, but it's not like wine: it doesn't mature, develop, and eventually go sour in the bottle. That process happens while its casked, and once it's bottled, it pretty much stays the same. In other words, if you buy a Lagavulin 10 year and sit on it for a decade, it doesn't become a Lagavulin 20 year; it's still just a Lagavulin 10 year and will taste about the same as if you'd drunk it right away, except the bottle is probably pretty dusty by now.
As far as the latter, that would be >>horizon's uncertainty about whether the man himself had alzheimer's. In my reading, I assumed he did, but when I was reading through the comments, he pointed out a couple of things that made me second-guess myself. After a second reading, I do indeed think that this was clear enough, and that maybe I shouldn't be reading other people's comments before I post my own if I'm going to be this easily swayed :P I do think there are a few passages that could still be gussied up to sell the idea (in particular, if he started by dialing Bobby's old number and getting a stranger, that would've been a good chance to show the progression without coming out too strong, imo)), but I think you got the idea through clearly enough.
As for the former... well, I still feel the same way about the story as I did before, but I want to clarify something about my concerns, because I think I presented them poorly. I don't necessarily think that Henry is acting out of malice and/or fear. I do, however, think that his actions are malicious and/or cowardly. This is an important distinction, because it still leaves you with plenty of room to present Henry as a person who is neither bent on guilt-tripping nor desperately hoping for an excuse not to follow through on the plan he's settled on. Henry could easily be making bad decisions for the right reasons.
However, the narrative then needs to give us more of a sense of these costs. At the moment, your narrative voice, while neutral in theory, gives great attention to the most positive aspects of Henry's character and history, and treats his opinions as narrative fact; this results in the "too good for this sinful earth" tone I was put off by in my first reading. If it's the direction you want to go, I think you absolutely could write a story that's a bittersweet tale from Henry's PoV, but has an undertone of misguided tragedy interweaving his decisions as regards his family.
Of course, guilt-tripper and waffler are still options, too. But keeping Henry a character defined by non-negative motivations is something that can also be done in a way that I'd find satisfying, and I didn't really allow for that in my first comment.
And to expand slightly on my penultimate sentence from before: I've got dementia on both sides of my family, though not alzheimer's specifically. Through that lense, I felt that this didn't add any emotion that the concept of loss to dementia doesn't inherently bring to the table. It's a tragic, insidious condition to watch take someone from you, and your story didn't abuse that tragedy for cheap feels, which is a big, big thing right... but at the same time, I didn't feel like this did anything with that tragedy, besides present it in an acceptable manner. In other words, I found this exactly as moving as I find the tragedy of dementia, but no more so.
I hope that that, coupled with my initial comments, paints a more useful picture than the first wall o' text alone did, author.
Oh, and while I'm here...
>>georg
One of the advantages of old age is going into the liquor cabinet that you haven't touched in forty years and getting out something that you opened with your old Army buds back when they were all alive. My dad was like that. Not to say it's any good after sitting around in a bottle all those years, but...
Another thing non-whiskey people might get wrong about it: whiskey doesn't age in the bottle. Well, I mean, technically it's still getting older, but it's not like wine: it doesn't mature, develop, and eventually go sour in the bottle. That process happens while its casked, and once it's bottled, it pretty much stays the same. In other words, if you buy a Lagavulin 10 year and sit on it for a decade, it doesn't become a Lagavulin 20 year; it's still just a Lagavulin 10 year and will taste about the same as if you'd drunk it right away, except the bottle is probably pretty dusty by now.
>>Chris
That would indeed improve the story, IMHO. Not completely sure how to do it, though. An epilogue is far too much on the nose. Maybe by expanding this, showing creeping doubt and then Henry squashing it.
However, the narrative then needs to give us more of a sense of these costs. At the moment, your narrative voice, while neutral in theory, gives great attention to the most positive aspects of Henry's character and history, and treats his opinions as narrative fact; this results in the "too good for this sinful earth" tone I was put off by in my first reading. If it's the direction you want to go, I think you absolutely could write a story that's a bittersweet tale from Henry's PoV, but has an undertone of misguided tragedy interweaving his decisions as regards his family.
That would indeed improve the story, IMHO. Not completely sure how to do it, though. An epilogue is far too much on the nose. Maybe by expanding this, showing creeping doubt and then Henry squashing it.