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Organised by
GaPJaxie
Judged by
Cold in Gardez
GaPJaxie
TitaniumDragon
Word limit
3000–12000
THE NEXT GENERATION
Full details here!
This is a special event that looks to have writers create a polished entry. To that end, there's a lot more writing time. There's also a #mentors channel where you can get help and feedback from people that you are allowed to reveal your authorship to.
Prizes
- 1ˢᵗ place $200
- 2ⁿᵈ place $100
- 3ʳᵈ place $50
Try-Again
When I was nine years old, you caught me reading a book with a flashlight under the covers. “Our youngest is a night owl,” you’d said to Mother later that evening. On the fourth trip up to New York to visit Mom-mom, you noticed that I always fell asleep in the car. “Like me, when I was his age. Whenever I was fussy my parents would put me in the car seat and drive around the block. I was out like a light before they turned the first corner.”
You never go to sleep before midnight, these days, and I wonder if you would have someone drive you around in the back seat, if you could.
It doesn’t surprise me that the clock reads 2:04 when I hear the creak of your bed through the wall. I wait another hour, to be certain, before I slip out of my room. The night is a cold one, and my feet freeze to the hardwood floor with every step I take. I imagine that if I stop moving, my toes will get stuck to the floor and snap off.
The moon is almost full tonight. You commented on it yesterday, and then paused as though you expected me to say something. You know there’s a specific word for it, but you’ve never bothered to look it up. Most of the dictionaries are in my room anyway. The moonlight’s reflecting off the snow coating the ground, streaming in through the windows. That light traveled 95 million miles to stretch across our living room.
Mother would always close the curtains in winter. You never bothered, but you’re a big man and the cold doesn’t sweep through you like it does for me.
Armistice is sleeping next to the door to the basement, right on top of a heating vent. As I open the door, he wakes up and yawns widely. Bending down, I scratch behind his big, floppy ears. “Good boy, Misti,” I murmur. His tail wags limply, and as he gets up to follow me downstairs I can hear his joints popping.
I learned the combination to the gun safe from watching you, when you come downstairs to clean the rifles after a day out hunting or target shooting. You never ask if I want to come with you, but I never ask if you want me to come.
The first time you took me out hunting, I carried my .22 rifle as though it were a sword and imagined that the squirrel we were out to end was really a monster from under my bed in disguise. I was just as slight and thin, back then, and I always stared at how you carried my rifle one-handed when my arms got sore. Once, I bragged to my friends that you never got tired.
You’re a night owl, too.
The movement behind the fallen tree had startled me, that first hunt, but you didn’t turn away then. You’d handed me my little-big rifle, and pointed. “Take aim,” you’d said, voice hushed.
I’d thought it was a squirrel, in that flash of motion and your voice in my ear yelling, “Now! Now!” I caught a bare glimpse of a head, but then it was gone. When we peered over the log, a dead chipmunk was lying there. Its hind leg was twitching.
I hadn’t picked up a firearm since then, except to help you sort through the gun safe, or to make appreciative noises over some new acquisition.
I know now you saw right through me, then.
There was one rifle you rarely took out to fire, and which you spent hours poring over every month, cleaning and adjusting and holding it with white knuckles. I once startled you when you were working on it, and you’d flowed out of your seat and raised it as though it were nothing but air.
The old rifle is heavy in my hands, as I turn it over and trace my fingers along the blued metal and dark wooden stock. The wood is stained lighter, by the grip and the forestock. There’s a crude inscription carved along one side. It reads, “Try-Again Tom.”
I struggle to keep the rifle steady as I press the stock against my shoulder, looking down the iron sights and imagining it weighs nothing, that the kick of recoil against me is nothing, and that my shoulder wouldn’t ache after pulling the trigger. The front sight sags as my arms tire, then shakes as my muscles strain, and finally I lower the rifle. It isn’t even loaded.
Try-Again Tom.
Misti hears you moving before I do. He grunts and raises his head from his paws, head cocked to one side. The floorboard beside your bed creaks, and then the hinge of your bedroom door groans. Your feet thump down the stairs to the basement just as I’m setting the old rifle back in the safe. The old dog stands shakily and greets you with a wagging tail as you pause at the bottom step.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you say, and scratch him behind the ears. It’s a question and an explanation.
“No,” I say. “I kept thinking about what you said about Mother and me. And….”
You nod slowly and then reach past me, picking up the old rifle. It rests easily in your big hands. The patches of lighter stained wood match your grip on it perfectly as you raise it to your shoulder, eyes locked on some distant target. The front sight sits unwavering for almost a minute before you look at me, rifle still at your shoulder, holding some clear enemy at bay.
“Today was Sunday. Don’t you have school tomorrow, Junior?” you ask. It’s really an order.
“They’ll probably cancel. There’s still snow on the ground,” I say, turning toward the stairs. “Good night, Dad.”
You hum in response, and set the rifle back in the safe. It’s 4:23 when I hear you walk up the stairs to bed, and I close my copy of The Hobbit.
Monday morning comes early, as Mother knocks on my door. The radio said school was canceled. My hands brush against the top bunk as I stretch. The curtains are glowing, and the world outside is bright as Heaven. My heavy eyelids are a brilliant orange when I blink.
When I trudge downstairs, you’re standing at the window in the kitchen. Your eyes are focused up the mountain, squinting.
“Is that a deer?” you ask, and point. I lean next to you, sighting down your arm. At the tip of your finger, a dark blotch moves against the canvas of trees and snow.
I nod quietly, and you grunt in reply, letting the silence stretch.
“Looks like a doe,” I say.
I’m still staring at the deer when you step back and go downstairs. You return with a rifle in your hands, and ask if it's still there.
I almost say no, but I nod instead.
The door slams a moment later, and you’re gone.
After breakfast, I yell upstairs to Mother that I’m going out for a short hike. She tells me not to leave the house without a hunting vest. I don’t reply, but I grab a blaze-orange vest and a matching hat on my way out.
A shot echoes through the woods when I close the door behind me.
I find you halfway up the mountain, in a small clearing where sometimes we find shed antlers in the fall. The doe is lying on her side at your feet. Pink froth dusts her muzzle, and there’s a neat and bloody hole in her chest. I stand still as you look up at me, the sun caught in your eyes like headlights. The light dies when you gesture for me to carry your rifle.
As you bend down to heave her carcass over your shoulder, I wonder if the she heard the bang, and saw the flash.
Later that night I find myself reading the last page of my book, over and over. I close it without a bookmark and turn off the light.
On Tuesday, school is canceled again even though all the snow will melt before noon. I wake up early, get dressed in warm hand-me-down clothing, and knock on the door to your room.
Mother answers.
I take a deep breath. “Ask Dad if he wants to go out target shooting.”
A few minutes later, still dressed in your striped pajamas, you walk past me without a word. I follow you downstairs, to the basement. You gesture at a couple of camo green ammunition boxes, holding your mug like a pistol. “See if the smaller one’s empty. I’ll grab us a rifle,” you say.
Shrugging out of my coat and draping it over a chair to keep it from getting dirty, I pick up the box. It’s light, and clearly empty. You tell me to fill it with .22 rounds from the ammunition shelf. The old rifle doesn’t take such a small caliber, but I don’t mention it.
The lid is stuck, and I struggle with it. A sharp edge of metal catches my finger, and I bite back a whimper as blood seeps out. You ignore me as I dash upstairs for a Band-Aid and antibacterial cream. When I get back, you’re running a cloth along the barrel of the small rifle I used to kill that chipmunk all those years ago. There’s another just like it resting on the workbench.
A hot feeling flickers in my chest.
My first try must have loosened the lid, because I manage to get the box open this time. I grimace as I start to fill the box with .22 ammunition. The box smells of dead things. You lean over it and take a sniff, and grunt. “The rubber seal is decaying,” you say, and indicate the rubber lining the top.
There’s a small cut on the back of your hand.
“Actually, it’s really cold out. Let’s go out tomorrow,” I say, and you look at me.
“Fine.”
You put away the rifle, and I replace the ammunition. I spend the rest of the day reading a book about a knight and a princess, but I can hear the sharp reports of the old rifle echoing through the valley.
It’s a Wednesday in spring when I finally get up the courage to ask you to take me shooting again. The sky is overcast and fog is winding its way through the trees as we set up a table for the rifles and ammo boxes. You pick up a couple of paper targets and nail them to a splintery post fifty yards away.
You don’t say much, other than to ask if I remember how to use a firearm, and correct me when I make a mistake. The rifle is lighter than I remember it, but the grip is familiar. I slide a loaded magazine into the receiver, pull back the bolt, and the targets become the deep black eyes of beasts.
I miss every shot in that first magazine, and half in the next. A few rounds later, though, I score a bullseye, and several shots are within the ten point circle.
You smile as you look at the target.
“You’re pulling too hard on the trigger. See how all these shots drift to the right?” You point at the sluggish trail of holes across the target’s middle and edge. “Problem runs in the family….”
You trail off, then show me how to do it right.
The next hour is spent on my technique and just as we’re packing up to go inside, as the sun is going down, you tell me a short story about your childhood and the forests of Alaska. Misti comes trotting out to greet us and wheezes when he reaches us, tail flopping back and forth. He was there with you, fighting wolves and bears.
I settle down to bed without a book that night.
In the summer, a windstorm fells a large number of trees in our county. It’s a Thursday and my arms are burning as I bring the splitting axe down on another hunk of log. It splits cleanly in two, both halves toppling off the large stump. The chainsaw revs loudly as you cut another section off the fallen tree blocking our driveway.
“I need a break,” I say as I lean the axe up against the stump. My hands have enough splinters that I’m certain a stray spark would set my hands ablaze.
You sigh and set down the chainsaw as you wait for me to recuperate.
Eventually, you turn it off and pick up the splitting axe yourself.
Once, I’d bragged to my friends that you never got tired.
Misti spends all day inside, curled up at Mother’s feet as she works the pedals of her sewing machine, hemming old shirts and pants so they’ll fit my slim frame.
It’s fall, and we’re working over in the woodshop. That Friday afternoon, I’d expressed an interest in making a decorative box out of walnut and mahogany. You’re drawing out figures and measurements on a piece of scrap paper with a pencil that’s barely as long as your little finger, and explaining as you go. No one in the world can crack the code that is your chicken scratch, Mother always said, and you agreed. Putting the finishing touches on the picture, you look up and find that I’m idly doodling a castle in the light coating of sawdust on the workbench. A king, a queen, and two knights watch from the battlements.
“Tom!”
I startle when you say my name. With that, you let out a deep breath, then walk back to the house. The diagram is abandoned on the workbench.
I wipe away the sawdust with my sleeve.
You were up in your room for several hours after that, until I slipped the diagram for the box under your door and knocked until you got out of bed to look at it. I’d corrected the numbers and the measurements, and re-written it all in my “perfect” handwriting.
Mother’s word, not mine.
I’m waiting in the living room when you come downstairs. Misti’s resting his head in my lap, and I’m combing through his fur looking for ticks bloated and fat with his blood. A few minutes pass, until I look up and you start talking about the tools we’ll need to set up, and the varnish that you think would be best for this project.
Nodding, I follow you to the woodshop, and we spend all night working.
We get up early one Saturday morning in October, and pack up a couple of carry boxes with ammunition. I want to bring the old rifle, but you pick up a couple of newer bolt-action 5.56’s that you bought a few weeks ago. You put in a couple boxes of .30-06 rounds, but I didn’t think to ask why.
The next two hours turn into a blur of spent brass and the meaty thump of recoiling rifles against our shoulders. You laugh when we realize that we were both shooting the same target for the first ten minutes and wave the tattered target like a flag. When I have to take a break to rest my aching shoulder, you tell me stories about your time living in Alaska and the wall of trophies your father had in the living room. I find myself smiling as you talk about the moose and the bears and the frozen expanses of wilderness with trees that stood like titans.
“Safeties on,” I say, and start reloading our magazines with fresh rounds. You grunt approvingly as you pick up a pair of fresh paper targets and make your way downrange to replace the old ones. The last magazine is filled just as you get back and set the used targets down on the table.
“You have your mother’s aim,” you say, and pat me on the shoulder as you pass by. I call after you, but you just tell me to keep shooting as you continue toward the house. With a shrug, I take aim at the distant targets, and shout “Fire on the line!”
It’s only a few magazines later that I think to look at the target sheets you’d brought back. Mine rests on the table, a neat cluster of holes centered on the bullseye. I look yours over. The holes are spread wide and uneven,
You come back half an hour later, carrying the old rifle.
The following day, the three of us head down the road to the apple orchard like we did when I was younger. You wink at me when I comment on the familiar .22 rifle you have slung over your shoulder. “To keep the birds from coming ‘round again,” you explain, though you don’t fire a single shot all day. We spend the afternoon running around shouting at the birds and eating Mother’s homemade sandwiches. Armistice takes a break under one of the apple trees and doesn’t wake up.
That evening, we take in some firewood we’d split a few months before, and start a crackling fire. There’s an old picture resting on the mantelpiece showing the four of us. I can’t remember the last time I saw Mother smiling like that, or the brilliant pride flickering in your eyes like the fire below. I’ve tried to follow in his footsteps, but his legs were longer than mine. The little notches on the doorframe to my bedroom end just an inch below you.
I tried his old boots on, when I moved into the bedroom. They were too big for me, but I like to think I’ll grow into them someday. Until then, they’re resting at the bottom of my shelf of science fiction books, next to a mahogany box full of bullseye’d paper targets.
The fire pops and a spark lands on the worn carpet. It dies out slowly.
Mother goes to bed early. You fall asleep on the couch with a hunting magazine sprawled open in your lap. I doze off with a book on dragons in mine.
I can’t remember what time it was when my eyes closed, but I like to think it was before midnight.
You never go to sleep before midnight, these days, and I wonder if you would have someone drive you around in the back seat, if you could.
It doesn’t surprise me that the clock reads 2:04 when I hear the creak of your bed through the wall. I wait another hour, to be certain, before I slip out of my room. The night is a cold one, and my feet freeze to the hardwood floor with every step I take. I imagine that if I stop moving, my toes will get stuck to the floor and snap off.
The moon is almost full tonight. You commented on it yesterday, and then paused as though you expected me to say something. You know there’s a specific word for it, but you’ve never bothered to look it up. Most of the dictionaries are in my room anyway. The moonlight’s reflecting off the snow coating the ground, streaming in through the windows. That light traveled 95 million miles to stretch across our living room.
Mother would always close the curtains in winter. You never bothered, but you’re a big man and the cold doesn’t sweep through you like it does for me.
Armistice is sleeping next to the door to the basement, right on top of a heating vent. As I open the door, he wakes up and yawns widely. Bending down, I scratch behind his big, floppy ears. “Good boy, Misti,” I murmur. His tail wags limply, and as he gets up to follow me downstairs I can hear his joints popping.
I learned the combination to the gun safe from watching you, when you come downstairs to clean the rifles after a day out hunting or target shooting. You never ask if I want to come with you, but I never ask if you want me to come.
The first time you took me out hunting, I carried my .22 rifle as though it were a sword and imagined that the squirrel we were out to end was really a monster from under my bed in disguise. I was just as slight and thin, back then, and I always stared at how you carried my rifle one-handed when my arms got sore. Once, I bragged to my friends that you never got tired.
You’re a night owl, too.
The movement behind the fallen tree had startled me, that first hunt, but you didn’t turn away then. You’d handed me my little-big rifle, and pointed. “Take aim,” you’d said, voice hushed.
I’d thought it was a squirrel, in that flash of motion and your voice in my ear yelling, “Now! Now!” I caught a bare glimpse of a head, but then it was gone. When we peered over the log, a dead chipmunk was lying there. Its hind leg was twitching.
I hadn’t picked up a firearm since then, except to help you sort through the gun safe, or to make appreciative noises over some new acquisition.
I know now you saw right through me, then.
There was one rifle you rarely took out to fire, and which you spent hours poring over every month, cleaning and adjusting and holding it with white knuckles. I once startled you when you were working on it, and you’d flowed out of your seat and raised it as though it were nothing but air.
The old rifle is heavy in my hands, as I turn it over and trace my fingers along the blued metal and dark wooden stock. The wood is stained lighter, by the grip and the forestock. There’s a crude inscription carved along one side. It reads, “Try-Again Tom.”
I struggle to keep the rifle steady as I press the stock against my shoulder, looking down the iron sights and imagining it weighs nothing, that the kick of recoil against me is nothing, and that my shoulder wouldn’t ache after pulling the trigger. The front sight sags as my arms tire, then shakes as my muscles strain, and finally I lower the rifle. It isn’t even loaded.
Try-Again Tom.
Misti hears you moving before I do. He grunts and raises his head from his paws, head cocked to one side. The floorboard beside your bed creaks, and then the hinge of your bedroom door groans. Your feet thump down the stairs to the basement just as I’m setting the old rifle back in the safe. The old dog stands shakily and greets you with a wagging tail as you pause at the bottom step.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you say, and scratch him behind the ears. It’s a question and an explanation.
“No,” I say. “I kept thinking about what you said about Mother and me. And….”
You nod slowly and then reach past me, picking up the old rifle. It rests easily in your big hands. The patches of lighter stained wood match your grip on it perfectly as you raise it to your shoulder, eyes locked on some distant target. The front sight sits unwavering for almost a minute before you look at me, rifle still at your shoulder, holding some clear enemy at bay.
“Today was Sunday. Don’t you have school tomorrow, Junior?” you ask. It’s really an order.
“They’ll probably cancel. There’s still snow on the ground,” I say, turning toward the stairs. “Good night, Dad.”
You hum in response, and set the rifle back in the safe. It’s 4:23 when I hear you walk up the stairs to bed, and I close my copy of The Hobbit.
Monday morning comes early, as Mother knocks on my door. The radio said school was canceled. My hands brush against the top bunk as I stretch. The curtains are glowing, and the world outside is bright as Heaven. My heavy eyelids are a brilliant orange when I blink.
When I trudge downstairs, you’re standing at the window in the kitchen. Your eyes are focused up the mountain, squinting.
“Is that a deer?” you ask, and point. I lean next to you, sighting down your arm. At the tip of your finger, a dark blotch moves against the canvas of trees and snow.
I nod quietly, and you grunt in reply, letting the silence stretch.
“Looks like a doe,” I say.
I’m still staring at the deer when you step back and go downstairs. You return with a rifle in your hands, and ask if it's still there.
I almost say no, but I nod instead.
The door slams a moment later, and you’re gone.
After breakfast, I yell upstairs to Mother that I’m going out for a short hike. She tells me not to leave the house without a hunting vest. I don’t reply, but I grab a blaze-orange vest and a matching hat on my way out.
A shot echoes through the woods when I close the door behind me.
I find you halfway up the mountain, in a small clearing where sometimes we find shed antlers in the fall. The doe is lying on her side at your feet. Pink froth dusts her muzzle, and there’s a neat and bloody hole in her chest. I stand still as you look up at me, the sun caught in your eyes like headlights. The light dies when you gesture for me to carry your rifle.
As you bend down to heave her carcass over your shoulder, I wonder if the she heard the bang, and saw the flash.
Later that night I find myself reading the last page of my book, over and over. I close it without a bookmark and turn off the light.
On Tuesday, school is canceled again even though all the snow will melt before noon. I wake up early, get dressed in warm hand-me-down clothing, and knock on the door to your room.
Mother answers.
I take a deep breath. “Ask Dad if he wants to go out target shooting.”
A few minutes later, still dressed in your striped pajamas, you walk past me without a word. I follow you downstairs, to the basement. You gesture at a couple of camo green ammunition boxes, holding your mug like a pistol. “See if the smaller one’s empty. I’ll grab us a rifle,” you say.
Shrugging out of my coat and draping it over a chair to keep it from getting dirty, I pick up the box. It’s light, and clearly empty. You tell me to fill it with .22 rounds from the ammunition shelf. The old rifle doesn’t take such a small caliber, but I don’t mention it.
The lid is stuck, and I struggle with it. A sharp edge of metal catches my finger, and I bite back a whimper as blood seeps out. You ignore me as I dash upstairs for a Band-Aid and antibacterial cream. When I get back, you’re running a cloth along the barrel of the small rifle I used to kill that chipmunk all those years ago. There’s another just like it resting on the workbench.
A hot feeling flickers in my chest.
My first try must have loosened the lid, because I manage to get the box open this time. I grimace as I start to fill the box with .22 ammunition. The box smells of dead things. You lean over it and take a sniff, and grunt. “The rubber seal is decaying,” you say, and indicate the rubber lining the top.
There’s a small cut on the back of your hand.
“Actually, it’s really cold out. Let’s go out tomorrow,” I say, and you look at me.
“Fine.”
You put away the rifle, and I replace the ammunition. I spend the rest of the day reading a book about a knight and a princess, but I can hear the sharp reports of the old rifle echoing through the valley.
It’s a Wednesday in spring when I finally get up the courage to ask you to take me shooting again. The sky is overcast and fog is winding its way through the trees as we set up a table for the rifles and ammo boxes. You pick up a couple of paper targets and nail them to a splintery post fifty yards away.
You don’t say much, other than to ask if I remember how to use a firearm, and correct me when I make a mistake. The rifle is lighter than I remember it, but the grip is familiar. I slide a loaded magazine into the receiver, pull back the bolt, and the targets become the deep black eyes of beasts.
I miss every shot in that first magazine, and half in the next. A few rounds later, though, I score a bullseye, and several shots are within the ten point circle.
You smile as you look at the target.
“You’re pulling too hard on the trigger. See how all these shots drift to the right?” You point at the sluggish trail of holes across the target’s middle and edge. “Problem runs in the family….”
You trail off, then show me how to do it right.
The next hour is spent on my technique and just as we’re packing up to go inside, as the sun is going down, you tell me a short story about your childhood and the forests of Alaska. Misti comes trotting out to greet us and wheezes when he reaches us, tail flopping back and forth. He was there with you, fighting wolves and bears.
I settle down to bed without a book that night.
In the summer, a windstorm fells a large number of trees in our county. It’s a Thursday and my arms are burning as I bring the splitting axe down on another hunk of log. It splits cleanly in two, both halves toppling off the large stump. The chainsaw revs loudly as you cut another section off the fallen tree blocking our driveway.
“I need a break,” I say as I lean the axe up against the stump. My hands have enough splinters that I’m certain a stray spark would set my hands ablaze.
You sigh and set down the chainsaw as you wait for me to recuperate.
Eventually, you turn it off and pick up the splitting axe yourself.
Once, I’d bragged to my friends that you never got tired.
Misti spends all day inside, curled up at Mother’s feet as she works the pedals of her sewing machine, hemming old shirts and pants so they’ll fit my slim frame.
It’s fall, and we’re working over in the woodshop. That Friday afternoon, I’d expressed an interest in making a decorative box out of walnut and mahogany. You’re drawing out figures and measurements on a piece of scrap paper with a pencil that’s barely as long as your little finger, and explaining as you go. No one in the world can crack the code that is your chicken scratch, Mother always said, and you agreed. Putting the finishing touches on the picture, you look up and find that I’m idly doodling a castle in the light coating of sawdust on the workbench. A king, a queen, and two knights watch from the battlements.
“Tom!”
I startle when you say my name. With that, you let out a deep breath, then walk back to the house. The diagram is abandoned on the workbench.
I wipe away the sawdust with my sleeve.
You were up in your room for several hours after that, until I slipped the diagram for the box under your door and knocked until you got out of bed to look at it. I’d corrected the numbers and the measurements, and re-written it all in my “perfect” handwriting.
Mother’s word, not mine.
I’m waiting in the living room when you come downstairs. Misti’s resting his head in my lap, and I’m combing through his fur looking for ticks bloated and fat with his blood. A few minutes pass, until I look up and you start talking about the tools we’ll need to set up, and the varnish that you think would be best for this project.
Nodding, I follow you to the woodshop, and we spend all night working.
We get up early one Saturday morning in October, and pack up a couple of carry boxes with ammunition. I want to bring the old rifle, but you pick up a couple of newer bolt-action 5.56’s that you bought a few weeks ago. You put in a couple boxes of .30-06 rounds, but I didn’t think to ask why.
The next two hours turn into a blur of spent brass and the meaty thump of recoiling rifles against our shoulders. You laugh when we realize that we were both shooting the same target for the first ten minutes and wave the tattered target like a flag. When I have to take a break to rest my aching shoulder, you tell me stories about your time living in Alaska and the wall of trophies your father had in the living room. I find myself smiling as you talk about the moose and the bears and the frozen expanses of wilderness with trees that stood like titans.
“Safeties on,” I say, and start reloading our magazines with fresh rounds. You grunt approvingly as you pick up a pair of fresh paper targets and make your way downrange to replace the old ones. The last magazine is filled just as you get back and set the used targets down on the table.
“You have your mother’s aim,” you say, and pat me on the shoulder as you pass by. I call after you, but you just tell me to keep shooting as you continue toward the house. With a shrug, I take aim at the distant targets, and shout “Fire on the line!”
It’s only a few magazines later that I think to look at the target sheets you’d brought back. Mine rests on the table, a neat cluster of holes centered on the bullseye. I look yours over. The holes are spread wide and uneven,
You come back half an hour later, carrying the old rifle.
The following day, the three of us head down the road to the apple orchard like we did when I was younger. You wink at me when I comment on the familiar .22 rifle you have slung over your shoulder. “To keep the birds from coming ‘round again,” you explain, though you don’t fire a single shot all day. We spend the afternoon running around shouting at the birds and eating Mother’s homemade sandwiches. Armistice takes a break under one of the apple trees and doesn’t wake up.
That evening, we take in some firewood we’d split a few months before, and start a crackling fire. There’s an old picture resting on the mantelpiece showing the four of us. I can’t remember the last time I saw Mother smiling like that, or the brilliant pride flickering in your eyes like the fire below. I’ve tried to follow in his footsteps, but his legs were longer than mine. The little notches on the doorframe to my bedroom end just an inch below you.
I tried his old boots on, when I moved into the bedroom. They were too big for me, but I like to think I’ll grow into them someday. Until then, they’re resting at the bottom of my shelf of science fiction books, next to a mahogany box full of bullseye’d paper targets.
The fire pops and a spark lands on the worn carpet. It dies out slowly.
Mother goes to bed early. You fall asleep on the couch with a hunting magazine sprawled open in your lap. I doze off with a book on dragons in mine.
I can’t remember what time it was when my eyes closed, but I like to think it was before midnight.
Second-person? Okay, sort of second-person? This is like one of those weird letters where you're addressing a person and they don't even know it, right? Takes a bit of getting used to, next to the rest. There seem to be a lot of stories with daddy issues, also.
I know I've been complaining about excessive words, but this is just. Sparse? Empty? I dunno, I feel like the lack of description hurts the story.
More to come.
I know I've been complaining about excessive words, but this is just. Sparse? Empty? I dunno, I feel like the lack of description hurts the story.
More to come.
Very nice, moody character piece:
I love how the story advances day by day through the week even though the days are actually separated from each other by months and maybe even years. That's such a terrific way of structuring a story, I may have to steal it. :)
But I need a few more markers set up in the text to direct me One of the problems with being subtle like this, author, is that oafs like me will latch onto things that we decide are hints and will use them to fill in blanks spots in ways that you maybe didn't intend. For instance, in that first Sunday section, when I read the paragraph that stars, "Mother would always close the curtains in winter" and then see that neither Tom nor his father is concerned about maybe waking her up as they stomp around in the middle of the night, I assume that she's dead.
So when she wakes Tom up at the beginning of the Monday section, I assume it's a flashback and that the school they talk about in the first section means that Tom is a teacher in the present day of that Sunday. I'm already filling in all kinds of details, not knowing if you want me to or not. If I'm making the right guesses, then all is well. But if I'm not, then things got confusing. Which is where Armistice the dog comes in.
See, in my reading, that first section says Mother is dead and Armistice is alive. And yet at the end of story, Mother is alive and "Armistice takes a break under one of the apple trees and doesn’t wake up." So I need a bit more guidance throughout as to what's actually happening and when it's happening. The same with the big brother I assume Tom's telling us about in the final paragraphs. I'd like more of this brother sprinkled in earlier so he doesn't appear so suddenly. Who's dead and when, I guess, is the question I'm left with at the end of the story...
Mike
I love how the story advances day by day through the week even though the days are actually separated from each other by months and maybe even years. That's such a terrific way of structuring a story, I may have to steal it. :)
But I need a few more markers set up in the text to direct me One of the problems with being subtle like this, author, is that oafs like me will latch onto things that we decide are hints and will use them to fill in blanks spots in ways that you maybe didn't intend. For instance, in that first Sunday section, when I read the paragraph that stars, "Mother would always close the curtains in winter" and then see that neither Tom nor his father is concerned about maybe waking her up as they stomp around in the middle of the night, I assume that she's dead.
So when she wakes Tom up at the beginning of the Monday section, I assume it's a flashback and that the school they talk about in the first section means that Tom is a teacher in the present day of that Sunday. I'm already filling in all kinds of details, not knowing if you want me to or not. If I'm making the right guesses, then all is well. But if I'm not, then things got confusing. Which is where Armistice the dog comes in.
See, in my reading, that first section says Mother is dead and Armistice is alive. And yet at the end of story, Mother is alive and "Armistice takes a break under one of the apple trees and doesn’t wake up." So I need a bit more guidance throughout as to what's actually happening and when it's happening. The same with the big brother I assume Tom's telling us about in the final paragraphs. I'd like more of this brother sprinkled in earlier so he doesn't appear so suddenly. Who's dead and when, I guess, is the question I'm left with at the end of the story...
Mike
I thought this story was good enough to make the finals round. My condolences that it didn't really pan out for you. But that could have just happened because this story is a lot different than what mlp fanfic readers are used to...
I had originally ranked this kind of mid-range on my slate, as it was well-written and evocative, and it avoided the melodramatic pitfalls like a pro, but it didn't really stick with me. And it wasn't until >>Baal Bunny's comment that I realized I had been totally daft and missed out on the entire point of the story. The missing older brother.
And when I read that comment I decided I wanted to read the story again. And I felt like a fool for not clueing in at the first line of dialogue:
"Our youngest is a night owl"
The story is shown in a whole new light when you actually pay attention to that line. But then, if I can defend myself, you didnt really draw attention to it. Or at least, not to the more important part of it. You focused in the night owl part instead. And as far as I can tell the reference to the older brother only comes back at the end, and it's even more subtle here.
In the end, the abundance of subtlety probably hurt this story the most, but it's not such a bad problem to have, especially considering the story ticks a lot more boxes otherwise.
Subtlety is a dangerous game, but I happen to think it's worth it. It's all about putting yourself in the reader's shoes and picking out what they're gonna latch on to and steering them in the right direction at the right time. And even if it doesnt totally work, it still makes for great second read, like this one did.
Thanks for the read, Author. This was a very pulling stiry among a lot of stories that struggled to engage. And it would be cool to see some more of your stuff on this website sometime in the future because I think it would fit right in.
I had originally ranked this kind of mid-range on my slate, as it was well-written and evocative, and it avoided the melodramatic pitfalls like a pro, but it didn't really stick with me. And it wasn't until >>Baal Bunny's comment that I realized I had been totally daft and missed out on the entire point of the story. The missing older brother.
And when I read that comment I decided I wanted to read the story again. And I felt like a fool for not clueing in at the first line of dialogue:
"Our youngest is a night owl"
The story is shown in a whole new light when you actually pay attention to that line. But then, if I can defend myself, you didnt really draw attention to it. Or at least, not to the more important part of it. You focused in the night owl part instead. And as far as I can tell the reference to the older brother only comes back at the end, and it's even more subtle here.
In the end, the abundance of subtlety probably hurt this story the most, but it's not such a bad problem to have, especially considering the story ticks a lot more boxes otherwise.
Subtlety is a dangerous game, but I happen to think it's worth it. It's all about putting yourself in the reader's shoes and picking out what they're gonna latch on to and steering them in the right direction at the right time. And even if it doesnt totally work, it still makes for great second read, like this one did.
Thanks for the read, Author. This was a very pulling stiry among a lot of stories that struggled to engage. And it would be cool to see some more of your stuff on this website sometime in the future because I think it would fit right in.
This is a nice little character piece, the sort of thing I’d expect to see in a magazine as an autobiographical or semi-autobiographical piece. A piece about what I think is a girl and her father, this is overall a pretty decent little piece. It is very much a piece about evoking a mood rather than delivering a message, but I think it does so rather nicely, with the setting, the writing, the protagonist feeling weak in the face of their father, worrying about not living up to their standards, and yet simultaneously the dad still clearly loves them and accepts them, even if it feels at time to the little girl that maybe he loves her a little bit less for her unwillingness to hunt.
While this doesn’t paint a complete picture of either character, we get little hints at what sort of person each of them is, as well as their feelings for each other, and the care and love.
My biggest problem with this piece was that it didn’t really stick with me. It isn’t bad in any way, but it simply felt kind of disposable – again, like something I’d read in a magazine, to pass the time, and then forget about on down the line. I think a big part of why is that it ends rather abruptly, without a really strong conclusion to tie it all together and give it a strong sense of purpose.
That being said, I liked this story on the whole; it didn’t end up making the finals, but the vivid writing did a good job of carrying me through this story.
While this doesn’t paint a complete picture of either character, we get little hints at what sort of person each of them is, as well as their feelings for each other, and the care and love.
My biggest problem with this piece was that it didn’t really stick with me. It isn’t bad in any way, but it simply felt kind of disposable – again, like something I’d read in a magazine, to pass the time, and then forget about on down the line. I think a big part of why is that it ends rather abruptly, without a really strong conclusion to tie it all together and give it a strong sense of purpose.
That being said, I liked this story on the whole; it didn’t end up making the finals, but the vivid writing did a good job of carrying me through this story.
Special bonus review! Though I’ll be coming back to review all the non-finalists in my own blog.
Try-Again gripped me more than any story but The Fixer. The first-person perspective with the second-person element of you throughout made for difficult reading, but as a literary exercise I could appreciate it. The frequent element of guns was interesting, not because I love guns but because a certain level of knowledge was clearly evident here -- we all know how frustrating it is to read an author expounding on some subject they have little expertise in, filling in the details with generic sketches rather than actual facts. But this struck me as authentic.
Then we get to the end, and… it ends. That final scene raises so many questions in my mind, but I’m left with no resolution. Why the sudden shift from ‘you’ to ‘him’? Is there a fourth character being introduced in that picture above the mantle, or is the fourth family member Armistice? Armistice doesn’t have boots, so that can’t be it, but why the pronoun change? Why? What’s going on?
This is the danger with close-in first- and second-person perspective -- it’s so easy to confuse the reader, especially if they’re not very insightful (like me). In the woodshop, Tom clearly alludes to four family members with the King, Queen and two Knights, but again I don’t know if Armistice is that other knight, or if there’s some hidden fourth character I’m just not seeing.
Frustrated. That’s how I feel, now. Like I should be smart enough to grasp this without having so many questions. Fortunately, we found had other rewards than just the top three finalists, and we agreed that the characterization here deserved its own set of laurels.
Try-Again gripped me more than any story but The Fixer. The first-person perspective with the second-person element of you throughout made for difficult reading, but as a literary exercise I could appreciate it. The frequent element of guns was interesting, not because I love guns but because a certain level of knowledge was clearly evident here -- we all know how frustrating it is to read an author expounding on some subject they have little expertise in, filling in the details with generic sketches rather than actual facts. But this struck me as authentic.
Then we get to the end, and… it ends. That final scene raises so many questions in my mind, but I’m left with no resolution. Why the sudden shift from ‘you’ to ‘him’? Is there a fourth character being introduced in that picture above the mantle, or is the fourth family member Armistice? Armistice doesn’t have boots, so that can’t be it, but why the pronoun change? Why? What’s going on?
This is the danger with close-in first- and second-person perspective -- it’s so easy to confuse the reader, especially if they’re not very insightful (like me). In the woodshop, Tom clearly alludes to four family members with the King, Queen and two Knights, but again I don’t know if Armistice is that other knight, or if there’s some hidden fourth character I’m just not seeing.
Frustrated. That’s how I feel, now. Like I should be smart enough to grasp this without having so many questions. Fortunately, we found had other rewards than just the top three finalists, and we agreed that the characterization here deserved its own set of laurels.
First things first: Thank you all so much for commenting!
>>Baal Bunny
I'm glad you enjoyed it! I thought it would be a neat way to introduce a little extra continuity, and by all means feel free to borrow it. I expect someone else has done it before me, and I lay no claim to it.
In hindsight, I should have named this fic "Read Me Twice." Mind you, I don't mean to offend or poke fun; in fact, I agree with you. I've previously been told that I have the Bad Habit of holding my readers' hands, so I made this an exercise in subtlety. Even then, I felt that the four or five hints that I dropped were pretty blatant. :P
It would seem, however, that I needed to make things clearer. Thanks for the feedback! I'd encourage you to go back and read it again slowly, because there were a few hints dropped about the older brother. Alternatively, read Miller's comment.
Again, thank you so much for the response!
>>Miller Minus
I would be lying if I said that I felt it measured up to the competition; The Fixer had my jaw dropped, and I adored To Drive The Cold Night Away. There were so many strong entries, and I recognize this was a bit of an oddity among its peers.
Great catch on the first line hint! That was the one I expected everyone to miss, which is why I added the other... four? Five? I think there's 4.5 hints at the older brother before we hit the final day.
As I said to Baal, I had a particular goal in writing this fic: be subtle, and leave it up to the reader to catch the words scribbled in the margins. There were a few extra hints tossed in between beginning and end, but they were on the order of a word or two. Some you'd have to pause a moment and think about. Well, that was the goal, anyway.
The narrator sleeps in a bunkbed. The father took out an identical rifle to the one the narrator killed that chipmunk with. There were two knights in his castle of dust. The trigger-drift problem runs in the family, and the mother was hemming old clothes to fit the narrator. I'll admit a couple of those were pretty vague, but I was more paranoid about people picking up on it too easily.
As you say, subtlety is a dangerous game, and I erred too far on the side of caution. "I'm being too blatant! Quick, make it more vague!" I succeeded in some ways, failed spectacularly in others.
But given that you enjoyed it and found that beautiful, sweet, delicious A-HA! moment, I'd say it was worth it.
As for further submissions... well, if I get a couple of days to write, I will. But one day mini-fics are impossible for me to do, given the nature of my work. Thank you so very much for the encouragement, and even more-so for the feedback!
>>TitaniumDragon
Thanks for the response! The narrator is a boy, but now that I go back and read through it, I didn't place much emphasis on that. It doesn't matter if the narrator is a boy or a girl, from my perspective. It might change how readers look at the relationship between father and child, but this could easily have been left gender neutral and I don't think it would have had too much impact on things.
You're right about this being more evocative than simply granting some lesson or moral. I was going for sadness, some grief, and that hole that opens up when you lose someone dearly loved and demand of yourself to fill in their shoes for others' sake. I'm not certain how well it worked, given I was mixing all that in with an unhealthy dose of subtlety.
That said, you hit most of the benchmarks! It's a combination of being unwilling to hunt, and being a daydreamer with their head off in the clouds. They're the scrawny young thing of Today, following in the footsteps of an older sibling who took more after their father's nature, of When Men Were Men.
I'm sorry to hear it didn't grab you, but I can't say I'm surprised to hear it. There was an incredible diversity and strength of character in the submissions in this contest; I found it rather humbling! The ending was meant to be abrupt, and to tie in the loose hints I'd dropped regarding the older brother throughout the narrative. I'll have to go back and think of ways to draw readers in deeper, I suppose.
Again, thank you for the review!
>>Cold in Gardez
*gasp* A Special Bonus Review?! For ME? :D Thank you!
I was aware that mucking around with the narration would be a risk, but it gave the prose the intimate, familiar tone I wanted. In comparison, the third-person version of this story just felt so... flat? I didn't like it at all, so you got to read this version instead.
Yeah... The ending fell flat for a couple of people, sounds like. >>Baal Bunny and >>Miller Minus (and now you!) really hit the nail on the head with the main problem I created for my readers in this story: Everyone Is Drowning In Subtlety. The shift to 'him' is in reference to the absent brother that's been hinted at throughout (As Miller noticed, from the very first line of dialogue!). The shift works only if you've cottoned on to there being a brother, which is definitely the main failing of this piece. I wasn't able to put forth his existence in a strong enough form to catch readers' attention. Granted, I was TRYING to be subtle, but it turned out to be the subtle where, at a wine tasting, someone comments on the gentle hints of vanilla flavor while I'm busy squinting my eyes and trying to figure out if this grape water is a red or a white.
Armistice is just an old dog who can't learn any new tricks. To be honest, I was never quite happy with how his symbolism turned out. He's meant to be a relic, proof of the Great Things the boy's father lived through, that the boy only knows secondhand in tales. Yet, that past is also something that keeps the boy and his father separate, and draws them together. The father's rough upbringing and his down-to-earth nature is at odds with the boy's head-in-the-clouds tendencies. Yet, it is through the boy's love of stories that the two bond over the father's tales of his time in Alaska. The same thing that splits them is what draws them together, and Armistice's passing was meant to symbolize that the past was no longer barring the two from a future. The shadow of the older brother no longer holds them back, kind of thing.
Like I said, I was never happy with how the Old Pooch's symbolism turned out. :P
The royalty in the sawdust was actually meant to be one of the hints at Tom's older brother. Armistice is a whole different level of symbolism, but I can understand where you're coming from, here. Like I said, one of the failings of this piece was that if you didn't catch on to what was going on early in the story, the ending and other hints would leave you lost. :P Anyways, I think I may have just gone overboard with the symbolism, subtlety, and shenanigans in this piece.
I'm sorry that it left you so frustrated, but I'm not sorry that you became invested enough in this story to BE frustrated by it. It's gratifying, in a way. Hopefully this sorted some things out, gave you a few answers. Thank you for taking to time to respond, really! I appreciate it. :)
>>Baal Bunny
I'm glad you enjoyed it! I thought it would be a neat way to introduce a little extra continuity, and by all means feel free to borrow it. I expect someone else has done it before me, and I lay no claim to it.
In hindsight, I should have named this fic "Read Me Twice." Mind you, I don't mean to offend or poke fun; in fact, I agree with you. I've previously been told that I have the Bad Habit of holding my readers' hands, so I made this an exercise in subtlety. Even then, I felt that the four or five hints that I dropped were pretty blatant. :P
It would seem, however, that I needed to make things clearer. Thanks for the feedback! I'd encourage you to go back and read it again slowly, because there were a few hints dropped about the older brother. Alternatively, read Miller's comment.
Again, thank you so much for the response!
>>Miller Minus
I would be lying if I said that I felt it measured up to the competition; The Fixer had my jaw dropped, and I adored To Drive The Cold Night Away. There were so many strong entries, and I recognize this was a bit of an oddity among its peers.
Great catch on the first line hint! That was the one I expected everyone to miss, which is why I added the other... four? Five? I think there's 4.5 hints at the older brother before we hit the final day.
As I said to Baal, I had a particular goal in writing this fic: be subtle, and leave it up to the reader to catch the words scribbled in the margins. There were a few extra hints tossed in between beginning and end, but they were on the order of a word or two. Some you'd have to pause a moment and think about. Well, that was the goal, anyway.
The narrator sleeps in a bunkbed. The father took out an identical rifle to the one the narrator killed that chipmunk with. There were two knights in his castle of dust. The trigger-drift problem runs in the family, and the mother was hemming old clothes to fit the narrator. I'll admit a couple of those were pretty vague, but I was more paranoid about people picking up on it too easily.
As you say, subtlety is a dangerous game, and I erred too far on the side of caution. "I'm being too blatant! Quick, make it more vague!" I succeeded in some ways, failed spectacularly in others.
But given that you enjoyed it and found that beautiful, sweet, delicious A-HA! moment, I'd say it was worth it.
As for further submissions... well, if I get a couple of days to write, I will. But one day mini-fics are impossible for me to do, given the nature of my work. Thank you so very much for the encouragement, and even more-so for the feedback!
>>TitaniumDragon
Thanks for the response! The narrator is a boy, but now that I go back and read through it, I didn't place much emphasis on that. It doesn't matter if the narrator is a boy or a girl, from my perspective. It might change how readers look at the relationship between father and child, but this could easily have been left gender neutral and I don't think it would have had too much impact on things.
You're right about this being more evocative than simply granting some lesson or moral. I was going for sadness, some grief, and that hole that opens up when you lose someone dearly loved and demand of yourself to fill in their shoes for others' sake. I'm not certain how well it worked, given I was mixing all that in with an unhealthy dose of subtlety.
That said, you hit most of the benchmarks! It's a combination of being unwilling to hunt, and being a daydreamer with their head off in the clouds. They're the scrawny young thing of Today, following in the footsteps of an older sibling who took more after their father's nature, of When Men Were Men.
I'm sorry to hear it didn't grab you, but I can't say I'm surprised to hear it. There was an incredible diversity and strength of character in the submissions in this contest; I found it rather humbling! The ending was meant to be abrupt, and to tie in the loose hints I'd dropped regarding the older brother throughout the narrative. I'll have to go back and think of ways to draw readers in deeper, I suppose.
Again, thank you for the review!
>>Cold in Gardez
*gasp* A Special Bonus Review?! For ME? :D Thank you!
I was aware that mucking around with the narration would be a risk, but it gave the prose the intimate, familiar tone I wanted. In comparison, the third-person version of this story just felt so... flat? I didn't like it at all, so you got to read this version instead.
Yeah... The ending fell flat for a couple of people, sounds like. >>Baal Bunny and >>Miller Minus (and now you!) really hit the nail on the head with the main problem I created for my readers in this story: Everyone Is Drowning In Subtlety. The shift to 'him' is in reference to the absent brother that's been hinted at throughout (As Miller noticed, from the very first line of dialogue!). The shift works only if you've cottoned on to there being a brother, which is definitely the main failing of this piece. I wasn't able to put forth his existence in a strong enough form to catch readers' attention. Granted, I was TRYING to be subtle, but it turned out to be the subtle where, at a wine tasting, someone comments on the gentle hints of vanilla flavor while I'm busy squinting my eyes and trying to figure out if this grape water is a red or a white.
Armistice is just an old dog who can't learn any new tricks. To be honest, I was never quite happy with how his symbolism turned out. He's meant to be a relic, proof of the Great Things the boy's father lived through, that the boy only knows secondhand in tales. Yet, that past is also something that keeps the boy and his father separate, and draws them together. The father's rough upbringing and his down-to-earth nature is at odds with the boy's head-in-the-clouds tendencies. Yet, it is through the boy's love of stories that the two bond over the father's tales of his time in Alaska. The same thing that splits them is what draws them together, and Armistice's passing was meant to symbolize that the past was no longer barring the two from a future. The shadow of the older brother no longer holds them back, kind of thing.
Like I said, I was never happy with how the Old Pooch's symbolism turned out. :P
The royalty in the sawdust was actually meant to be one of the hints at Tom's older brother. Armistice is a whole different level of symbolism, but I can understand where you're coming from, here. Like I said, one of the failings of this piece was that if you didn't catch on to what was going on early in the story, the ending and other hints would leave you lost. :P Anyways, I think I may have just gone overboard with the symbolism, subtlety, and shenanigans in this piece.
I'm sorry that it left you so frustrated, but I'm not sorry that you became invested enough in this story to BE frustrated by it. It's gratifying, in a way. Hopefully this sorted some things out, gave you a few answers. Thank you for taking to time to respond, really! I appreciate it. :)
>>This is a game I lost
I have more comments for you, but first! What's the best way to get in contact with you, Re: Prize stuff? Can you PM me on FiMFiction?
I have more comments for you, but first! What's the best way to get in contact with you, Re: Prize stuff? Can you PM me on FiMFiction?
>>GaPJaxie
Wait, I won a thing? .__.
OH, runners-up stuff! Sure thing. I'll poke you on the Fimfiction once I have a moment longer than this one!
Wait, I won a thing? .__.
OH, runners-up stuff! Sure thing. I'll poke you on the Fimfiction once I have a moment longer than this one!