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Perception and Consonance
The outside seating of the coffee shop buzzed with conversation and the pleasant laughter that only bubbles out of well-caffeinated people, but Emmie St. Augustine sat still as stone. With a double shot espresso clutched in her hands, and her eyes fixed firmly on the distant horizon, she would have made a decent picture, immaculately dressed as she was, but the fact that we had been sitting in silence for nearly fifteen minutes somewhat tarnished the image.
I cleared my throat. "Double shot, eh? Needed something stronger than usual?"
Her eyes didn't so much as flicker towards me. "Mhmm."
I began, "How're the kids? I saw John's walking now, that's exciting."
She didn't move, not even to show me the pictures I knew she kept on her phone just for our biweekly coffee catch-ups. Trying not to visibly frown, I moved on to the next topic.
"I saw news coverage of the Metro Ball. Looks like there was quite the celebrity turnout. The news station even mentioned your planning company by name."
I might as well have been speaking to her coffee. Leaning back in my metal seat, I tried to figure out what I was doing wrong. The conversations we had at the coffee shop were breezy and amusing—Emmie lived an amazing life and loved to talk about it. The conversation started with her ridiculing my overpriced novelty drink, then moved on to her kids, work, and whatever animal her husband most recently rescued from the shelter.
It was a foolproof formula, guaranteed to produce a nice conversation. So why wasn't it working?
"Emmie," I said slowly, watching her face. "Are things at home alright?"
She met my eyes, then, and upon seeing the concern in my face she immediately relaxed. "Oh, yes, yes. Home is fine, everyone's doing well."
"Work, then?"
She sipped her espresso. "Work's fine and dandy."
"Then what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just thinking." She eyed me appraisingly. "You're a psychologist, right?"
"Not the kind that people ask for help," I snorted. "I have several colleagues that would be better for any issues you may be having." I froze. "Are... Are you having issues?"
"No," she said dismissively. "I've just been having odd dreams lately."
I leaned forward. "What sort?"
"I dream of jumping," she said, staring into her drink. "I dream of jumping from the balcony that overlooks the lobby at work, and falling onto that cold marble floor. Sometimes it's not the lobby. Sometimes it's a bridge. But I always wind up at the bottom, broken."
She spoke casually enough—lightly, even—but the words settled like stones in the pit of my stomach. The fresh air suddenly felt blisteringly hot against my skin as the full realization of her words sank in.
"Emmie, are you--"
"I know what you're thinking, and that's just it," she interrupted. "I'm not suicidal. I love my work, adore my family, and have an objectively wonderful life, yet all I dream about is ending it." She raised an eyebrow at me over her coffee. "So what's that all about?"
I sagged with relief. "You're not...Christ, Emmie, you scared me for a second."
She scoffed. "Please. You're not getting out of coffee day quite so easily."
Fanning myself with a napkin, I wracked my brains for any remnant of interpretative psychology.
"Current theories say dreams are just your brain trying to make sense of random neural activity," I told her. "But if we want to go old-school, ah..."
"It's always in public places," she supplied. "And never with a gun, just jumping."
"Well, maybe you subconsciously want people to fear for you?" I rubbed my forehead. "Humans strive for consistency in their thought patterns, and we like other people to view us the same way we view ourselves. So if you're having dreams where other people are seeing you as fragile and unbalanced, then...maybe that's how you see yourself." I looked at her. "But that's absurd, I mean—isn't it?"
"How do you see me?" she asked softly.
"Strong," I answered immediately. "Determined. Proof that you really can have it all: the family, the job, all of it. It's inspirational, always has been. I see you as someone who conquers life through a single shot of espresso and sheer force of will."
My eyes landed on the double shot sitting in front of her. Hesitantly, I added, "Is that not what you think?"
She smiled forlornly, the shadows under her eyes suddenly pronounced. "I guess not."
I cleared my throat. "Double shot, eh? Needed something stronger than usual?"
Her eyes didn't so much as flicker towards me. "Mhmm."
I began, "How're the kids? I saw John's walking now, that's exciting."
She didn't move, not even to show me the pictures I knew she kept on her phone just for our biweekly coffee catch-ups. Trying not to visibly frown, I moved on to the next topic.
"I saw news coverage of the Metro Ball. Looks like there was quite the celebrity turnout. The news station even mentioned your planning company by name."
I might as well have been speaking to her coffee. Leaning back in my metal seat, I tried to figure out what I was doing wrong. The conversations we had at the coffee shop were breezy and amusing—Emmie lived an amazing life and loved to talk about it. The conversation started with her ridiculing my overpriced novelty drink, then moved on to her kids, work, and whatever animal her husband most recently rescued from the shelter.
It was a foolproof formula, guaranteed to produce a nice conversation. So why wasn't it working?
"Emmie," I said slowly, watching her face. "Are things at home alright?"
She met my eyes, then, and upon seeing the concern in my face she immediately relaxed. "Oh, yes, yes. Home is fine, everyone's doing well."
"Work, then?"
She sipped her espresso. "Work's fine and dandy."
"Then what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just thinking." She eyed me appraisingly. "You're a psychologist, right?"
"Not the kind that people ask for help," I snorted. "I have several colleagues that would be better for any issues you may be having." I froze. "Are... Are you having issues?"
"No," she said dismissively. "I've just been having odd dreams lately."
I leaned forward. "What sort?"
"I dream of jumping," she said, staring into her drink. "I dream of jumping from the balcony that overlooks the lobby at work, and falling onto that cold marble floor. Sometimes it's not the lobby. Sometimes it's a bridge. But I always wind up at the bottom, broken."
She spoke casually enough—lightly, even—but the words settled like stones in the pit of my stomach. The fresh air suddenly felt blisteringly hot against my skin as the full realization of her words sank in.
"Emmie, are you--"
"I know what you're thinking, and that's just it," she interrupted. "I'm not suicidal. I love my work, adore my family, and have an objectively wonderful life, yet all I dream about is ending it." She raised an eyebrow at me over her coffee. "So what's that all about?"
I sagged with relief. "You're not...Christ, Emmie, you scared me for a second."
She scoffed. "Please. You're not getting out of coffee day quite so easily."
Fanning myself with a napkin, I wracked my brains for any remnant of interpretative psychology.
"Current theories say dreams are just your brain trying to make sense of random neural activity," I told her. "But if we want to go old-school, ah..."
"It's always in public places," she supplied. "And never with a gun, just jumping."
"Well, maybe you subconsciously want people to fear for you?" I rubbed my forehead. "Humans strive for consistency in their thought patterns, and we like other people to view us the same way we view ourselves. So if you're having dreams where other people are seeing you as fragile and unbalanced, then...maybe that's how you see yourself." I looked at her. "But that's absurd, I mean—isn't it?"
"How do you see me?" she asked softly.
"Strong," I answered immediately. "Determined. Proof that you really can have it all: the family, the job, all of it. It's inspirational, always has been. I see you as someone who conquers life through a single shot of espresso and sheer force of will."
My eyes landed on the double shot sitting in front of her. Hesitantly, I added, "Is that not what you think?"
She smiled forlornly, the shadows under her eyes suddenly pronounced. "I guess not."
Nothing really caught my interest until the line about the dreams. But those are quickly sidelined, and then dismissed, and the story just kinda ends. Character-wise, this is a nice enough piece, but although this feels like it's trying for drama, I think it starts too late, and doesn't carry through enough, possibly because the middle feels unfocused. Each individual piece of this is nice? They just don't feel like they're working together cohesively.
Wow, this is pretty great! Very well written, strong prose, reads well, pulls me in, great characters, great description work, and fantastic development for a mini. I loved the characters and was deeply involved and hooked on what was going to happen next and then it runs out of wordcount and just ends.
Aaaaaaaaaugh. What a shame. For all that this manages to pack so much into so little, it still doesn't pack enough. The narrative arc does not complete. At least not to my satisfaction - one line of watered down Richard Cory isn't enough to put much of anything to rest here. Not enough to get at the meat of why she feels that way, what the dreams might mean, or what either character is going to do about it.
That's really all I got here. Amazing technical skill, would be a whopper of an entry if it was 1000-1500 words with an actual conclusion, but 750 isn't enough for it to fully execute. Ah, the pain of having an idea that just doesn't quite fit the format length. Author has my congratulations and sympathies, and probably an upper-mid or lower-high tier vote. Thanks for writing! Expand this one in your writing venue of choice!
Aaaaaaaaaugh. What a shame. For all that this manages to pack so much into so little, it still doesn't pack enough. The narrative arc does not complete. At least not to my satisfaction - one line of watered down Richard Cory isn't enough to put much of anything to rest here. Not enough to get at the meat of why she feels that way, what the dreams might mean, or what either character is going to do about it.
That's really all I got here. Amazing technical skill, would be a whopper of an entry if it was 1000-1500 words with an actual conclusion, but 750 isn't enough for it to fully execute. Ah, the pain of having an idea that just doesn't quite fit the format length. Author has my congratulations and sympathies, and probably an upper-mid or lower-high tier vote. Thanks for writing! Expand this one in your writing venue of choice!
but Emmie St. Augustine sat still as stone. No kid?? You have a passion for alliterations or tongue twisters?
I have – alas – to concur with what the other commenters said: this stops abruptly in the middle of the scene. I think you sacrificed too many words at the beginning to describe the surroundings and set up the scene. Had you been a little more skimpy, and hemmed it in but a paragraph or so – even at the risk of being telly – it would've given you a sort of gusset (© Cold in Gardez) – free space – to expand and maybe conclude the scene. But, as such, it remains very unsatisfactory, as everyone is left with their hunger (French expression).
I have – alas – to concur with what the other commenters said: this stops abruptly in the middle of the scene. I think you sacrificed too many words at the beginning to describe the surroundings and set up the scene. Had you been a little more skimpy, and hemmed it in but a paragraph or so – even at the risk of being telly – it would've given you a sort of gusset (© Cold in Gardez) – free space – to expand and maybe conclude the scene. But, as such, it remains very unsatisfactory, as everyone is left with their hunger (French expression).
Well, >>Ranmilia has pretty much said what I thought of the story, even if won't be as enthusiast as him/her/it/Apache helicopter.
I was engaged by the nice setting at the beginning but the story unfortunately stops before reaching something more emotionnal.
I salute the writing however, very solid.
If you ever expand this one, send me a link, I would like to see how this can ends.
I was engaged by the nice setting at the beginning but the story unfortunately stops before reaching something more emotionnal.
I salute the writing however, very solid.
If you ever expand this one, send me a link, I would like to see how this can ends.
While I agree this could've been more solid and I'd love an expanded ending, I really appreciate the ending that you did manage to get. The unnamed main character's explanation ending with a single shot and Emmie drinking a double that day actually stood out to me as more meaningful than I first thought. I don't think I've ever seen emotionally dissonant perspectives indicated with coffee before, so props for making that work. :twilightsmile:
My biggest criticism here would be the hook. The two opening lines are both incredibly long and filled with multiple commas. I think it'd be good to trim those down a bit.
My biggest criticism here would be the hook. The two opening lines are both incredibly long and filled with multiple commas. I think it'd be good to trim those down a bit.
I worked on a student lit journal once upon a time, and about two-thirds of the stories read like this one. The basic format was always, Misfit talks to psychologist. Psychologist psychoanalyzes misfit. Lessons about humanity are learned. Psychology is a favorite go-to subject for people writing on a budget. I get it. Psychology is a fascinating subject and we want to write stories about it. The easiest route is to write about psychologists talking psychology. But I'm just letting you know. There's a lot of psychology stories out there. It's a hard genre to stand out in.
You did dodge a lot of cliches though. It doesn't take place in a therapist's office. You get big points for that. Also, the psychologist is wrong. A lot of times these people are treated like holy prophets speaking the voice of God. Even better, there's almost a story here. The biggest problem with these kinds of stories is that there's really no story in them. At best, you can get a lot of character, and you've done a pretty good job with Emmie. But you're not really doing anything with her besides sitting in a coffee shop and talking pop pyschology.
I'll point you in the same direction that I point everyone else. Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Characters sitting around talking about their neuroses can make a good story. I don't know how, but Carver did it.
You did dodge a lot of cliches though. It doesn't take place in a therapist's office. You get big points for that. Also, the psychologist is wrong. A lot of times these people are treated like holy prophets speaking the voice of God. Even better, there's almost a story here. The biggest problem with these kinds of stories is that there's really no story in them. At best, you can get a lot of character, and you've done a pretty good job with Emmie. But you're not really doing anything with her besides sitting in a coffee shop and talking pop pyschology.
I'll point you in the same direction that I point everyone else. Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Characters sitting around talking about their neuroses can make a good story. I don't know how, but Carver did it.
So. This is well written, but I'm having trouble really enjoying it as I were. It certainly isn't bad or unlikable, it just doesn't really... hook me, I guess? Having thought about it, I suspect what the issue is is that it really lacks a solid hook out the gate. It isn't that the conversation is uninteresting, but it's that I really don't get a good sense of why I should care about it. I really lack a feel for the narrator and his relationship with Emmie.
This really feels like it begins right as its ending. And while I do think I get what you're going for with where it ends (provided that was an active choice), it really does just feel like you ran out of space and stopped, since it really isn't much of a resolution to any of the arcs. It is more the presentation of another issue that might be related, but is somewhat seperate.
That said, this really is solidly written which carries a lot of weight here.
Oh, and I forgot, I wanted to nitpick a line:
While I get the sentiment, you really need to provide more visual info on why the 15 minutes has tarnished the image, since you're going with a visual metaphor here.
This really feels like it begins right as its ending. And while I do think I get what you're going for with where it ends (provided that was an active choice), it really does just feel like you ran out of space and stopped, since it really isn't much of a resolution to any of the arcs. It is more the presentation of another issue that might be related, but is somewhat seperate.
That said, this really is solidly written which carries a lot of weight here.
Oh, and I forgot, I wanted to nitpick a line:
With a double shot espresso clutched in her hands, and her eyes fixed firmly on the distant horizon, she would have made a decent picture, immaculately dressed as she was, but the fact that we had been sitting in silence for nearly fifteen minutes somewhat tarnished the image.
While I get the sentiment, you really need to provide more visual info on why the 15 minutes has tarnished the image, since you're going with a visual metaphor here.