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Years Ago
My stomach grumbled for the third time.
I slouched in a chair, eyes fixated at a monitor far too bright for its surroundings. The heater had failed weeks ago. I didn’t care.
Another click of the mouse. I was lost in its realm again, reading something by some nobody in Mississippi. Something about a perfect world with white picket fences and sunny weather seven days a week. Something so awful and saccharine that years ago it would have made my brain hurt. But nowadays it was better than what I was living with.
My stomach grumbled again.
Reluctantly, I pulled myself from the chair. I forced my legs towards the kitchen, but I only got an uneasy stagger in return. Objects and useless trinkets were strewn around the room, forcing me to pave my way around the mayhem. The eerie glow from the screen was enough to illuminate the far walls.
A livid voice in my brain demanded that I turn back. Back to the sugary realm of merriness and cookie-cutter neighbours. I clenched my eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away.
At last, I reached the kitchen and turned on the lights. The lights flickered every few seconds, blanketing the drab grey walls in darkness. Hidden in an alcove was a stove that hadn’t been used in months. The dried stains of tomato purée were still uncleaned.
I grabbed the table by the edge before I could stumble. For a while, I leant on it, taking greedy breaths. My legs continued to shake. Years ago, I could run a half-mile without much effort. But now…
I reached out the fridge door and yanked it open. Inside was a loaf of sliced bread, margarine and a few slices of cheese. I took all three of them and returned to the counter as hastily as I could, almost toppling.
I unknotted the packaging surrounding the bread. The thick slices of bread fell like dominoes. I took a slice from the loaf, keeping a hand on the counter. It felt overly dense and firm, almost unchewable. Pinching it didn’t make any difference. My hand released its grip, and the bread hit the counter with a small plonk.
Unsteadily, I unwrapped the slice of cheese. Mould had grown near a corner, turning the sickly cheddar yellow a dark green. I tore away the mould with a fingernail and flicked it somewhere else.
This left the margarine. A butter knife was lying on the counter as well, amidst piles upon piles of scrunched-up paper. There was probably even more on the floor. One of them was a guide to making a Hangman’s Noose. I was stupid then; I couldn’t commit anything to memory. Nor could I follow through.
They were from years ago, back when I had an unsatisfying job. It must have been retail. If only I knew what I had coming, then maybe…
I lifted open the lid and scraped the knife against the margarine. Still keeping one hand firmly on the counter, I sloppily lathered the margarine on the bread until the entire slice was coated in the thick, fatty substance.
Finally, after laying the slice of cheese on the margarine layer, I placed on it another slice of bread. It looked decent, at least. I couldn’t imagine how worse my own face looked.
Without any further delay, I firmly bit into it. It tasted of sand: tasteless and revolting. The margarine and cheese didn’t fare any better—there was a slightly rancid taste amongst the soft yellow centre. I wanted to throw it away.
My stomach grumbled once more.
Reluctantly, I continued with miniscule nibbles, retching at each one. It didn’t taste any better at the tenth than it did at the first. Yet it was good enough to sate my stomach’s complaining.
I hadn’t noticed that I was leaning further and further back by the second.
Suddenly, I fell on the unforgiving wooden floor. My body rattled like a shockwave. The burning pain coursed from my spine. I clenched my eyes shut and opened them just as quickly. They were drier than a desert.
Years ago, tears would spill from my eyes. Like a pitiful whelp, I’d curl up into a ball, wailing and whimpering at the pain. I’d lie there until the manager called, furious. Only then would I finally lift myself from the ground, tears streaked on my face.
But now I merely grunted softly as I lay on the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I slouched in a chair, eyes fixated at a monitor far too bright for its surroundings. The heater had failed weeks ago. I didn’t care.
Another click of the mouse. I was lost in its realm again, reading something by some nobody in Mississippi. Something about a perfect world with white picket fences and sunny weather seven days a week. Something so awful and saccharine that years ago it would have made my brain hurt. But nowadays it was better than what I was living with.
My stomach grumbled again.
Reluctantly, I pulled myself from the chair. I forced my legs towards the kitchen, but I only got an uneasy stagger in return. Objects and useless trinkets were strewn around the room, forcing me to pave my way around the mayhem. The eerie glow from the screen was enough to illuminate the far walls.
A livid voice in my brain demanded that I turn back. Back to the sugary realm of merriness and cookie-cutter neighbours. I clenched my eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away.
At last, I reached the kitchen and turned on the lights. The lights flickered every few seconds, blanketing the drab grey walls in darkness. Hidden in an alcove was a stove that hadn’t been used in months. The dried stains of tomato purée were still uncleaned.
I grabbed the table by the edge before I could stumble. For a while, I leant on it, taking greedy breaths. My legs continued to shake. Years ago, I could run a half-mile without much effort. But now…
I reached out the fridge door and yanked it open. Inside was a loaf of sliced bread, margarine and a few slices of cheese. I took all three of them and returned to the counter as hastily as I could, almost toppling.
I unknotted the packaging surrounding the bread. The thick slices of bread fell like dominoes. I took a slice from the loaf, keeping a hand on the counter. It felt overly dense and firm, almost unchewable. Pinching it didn’t make any difference. My hand released its grip, and the bread hit the counter with a small plonk.
Unsteadily, I unwrapped the slice of cheese. Mould had grown near a corner, turning the sickly cheddar yellow a dark green. I tore away the mould with a fingernail and flicked it somewhere else.
This left the margarine. A butter knife was lying on the counter as well, amidst piles upon piles of scrunched-up paper. There was probably even more on the floor. One of them was a guide to making a Hangman’s Noose. I was stupid then; I couldn’t commit anything to memory. Nor could I follow through.
They were from years ago, back when I had an unsatisfying job. It must have been retail. If only I knew what I had coming, then maybe…
I lifted open the lid and scraped the knife against the margarine. Still keeping one hand firmly on the counter, I sloppily lathered the margarine on the bread until the entire slice was coated in the thick, fatty substance.
Finally, after laying the slice of cheese on the margarine layer, I placed on it another slice of bread. It looked decent, at least. I couldn’t imagine how worse my own face looked.
Without any further delay, I firmly bit into it. It tasted of sand: tasteless and revolting. The margarine and cheese didn’t fare any better—there was a slightly rancid taste amongst the soft yellow centre. I wanted to throw it away.
My stomach grumbled once more.
Reluctantly, I continued with miniscule nibbles, retching at each one. It didn’t taste any better at the tenth than it did at the first. Yet it was good enough to sate my stomach’s complaining.
I hadn’t noticed that I was leaning further and further back by the second.
Suddenly, I fell on the unforgiving wooden floor. My body rattled like a shockwave. The burning pain coursed from my spine. I clenched my eyes shut and opened them just as quickly. They were drier than a desert.
Years ago, tears would spill from my eyes. Like a pitiful whelp, I’d curl up into a ball, wailing and whimpering at the pain. I’d lie there until the manager called, furious. Only then would I finally lift myself from the ground, tears streaked on my face.
But now I merely grunted softly as I lay on the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to care.
...and the point is...?
This is interesting enough, as a sketch of despair. However, some of these words and phrases... 'pave' for example. Paving your way would be laying something down to walk over it. That doesn't make a lot of sense here.
"A butter knife was lying on the counter as well, amidst piles upon piles of scrunched-up paper. There was probably even more on the floor. One of them was a guide to making a Hangman’s Noose." One of his butter knives is a guide to making a Hangman's Noose?
Even with those fixed, though, this seems week to me. I'd have liked... well, given my distaste for overly dark stories, maybe not 'liked'. But I'd have rated this better if it had any sort of plot or theme that I could guess at. As it is, I'm just not seeing anything of substance here. It doesn't even seem to have a trite message, like 'life sucks and then we die'.
This is interesting enough, as a sketch of despair. However, some of these words and phrases... 'pave' for example. Paving your way would be laying something down to walk over it. That doesn't make a lot of sense here.
"A butter knife was lying on the counter as well, amidst piles upon piles of scrunched-up paper. There was probably even more on the floor. One of them was a guide to making a Hangman’s Noose." One of his butter knives is a guide to making a Hangman's Noose?
Even with those fixed, though, this seems week to me. I'd have liked... well, given my distaste for overly dark stories, maybe not 'liked'. But I'd have rated this better if it had any sort of plot or theme that I could guess at. As it is, I'm just not seeing anything of substance here. It doesn't even seem to have a trite message, like 'life sucks and then we die'.
>>Not_A_Hat
The scrunched up paper in the floor was the one with the guide.
But yeah, can't say I see the point of the story beyond an exercise in nihilism. There's no ultimate statement to be made, no uplifiting possibilities for the future, no clear condemnation of the path his decisions have lead him to. It just feels like a moment in the life of a sad, sad person.
"A butter knife was lying on the counter as well, amidst piles upon piles of scrunched-up paper. There was probably even more on the floor. One of them was a guide to making a Hangman’s Noose." One of his butter knives is a guide to making a Hangman's Noose?
The scrunched up paper in the floor was the one with the guide.
But yeah, can't say I see the point of the story beyond an exercise in nihilism. There's no ultimate statement to be made, no uplifiting possibilities for the future, no clear condemnation of the path his decisions have lead him to. It just feels like a moment in the life of a sad, sad person.
Agreeing with the previous comments here. We don't see any evidence of what changed in this characters life, other than degradation by sloth I guess. That he would curl up on the floor and cry until a manager said something seems weird. Usually people don't do that at work, but at home. Now it's not clear where this is, or what stories from Mississippi have to do with his happiness or lack thereof. It feels like there should be some connections (is he originally from there? Is he remembering family life before something tragic?) but we're not given it. As such... yeah, nihilism. Well written nihilism, but... meh.
As an attempt to paint an increasingly bleak (and vivid!) picture of despair, this fic succeeds. I agree that there does feel as though some necessary connections aren't present, and that prevents this story from feeling like a complete whole. There's a lot left to be inferred too and, whilst I don't mind inferring things from a story, I feel that I shouldn't always be having to in this case.
Potent then, but a little too unfulfilling as a story for me. Thanks very much for sharing your work though.
Potent then, but a little too unfulfilling as a story for me. Thanks very much for sharing your work though.
>>Winston >>Ceffyl_Dwr
Firstly, congratulations to those who got in to the finals. Each and every one is definitely in the cream of the crop, and there’s even a few that I reckon should be in the finals but regrettably didn’t make it. cough—KwirkyJ—cough
Anyway, back to this story.
The original idea I had in mind was of a person whose entire life felt pointless, a sort of melancholic and meaningless nihilism throughout. As it turned out, I kinda botched the execution: the memories/events weren’t linked in any way and were almost rambly, causing the whole shebang to lack cohesion. And, as it also turned out, depressing stories with no meaningful change by the end aren’t satisfying to read. :(
>>ZaidValRoa >>Not_A_Hat
Woops, I’ve got no excuse there. My bad!
And this ambiguous sentence as well.
>>Xepher
About Mississippi—it was simply what came up when I searched up “boring states”. In other words, I intended it to be the equivalent of “someplace unnotable that nobody cared about”. (Sorry, Mississippians!) I’ll be careful to not put in unintentional Chekhov’s guns like these in the future.
All in all, I learnt a lot from writing this, especially from your feedback—thank you!
A retrospection of sorts
Firstly, congratulations to those who got in to the finals. Each and every one is definitely in the cream of the crop, and there’s even a few that I reckon should be in the finals but regrettably didn’t make it. cough—KwirkyJ—cough
Anyway, back to this story.
The original idea I had in mind was of a person whose entire life felt pointless, a sort of melancholic and meaningless nihilism throughout. As it turned out, I kinda botched the execution: the memories/events weren’t linked in any way and were almost rambly, causing the whole shebang to lack cohesion. And, as it also turned out, depressing stories with no meaningful change by the end aren’t satisfying to read. :(
>>ZaidValRoa >>Not_A_Hat
This is interesting enough, as a sketch of despair. However, some of these words and phrases... 'pave' for example. Paving your way would be laying something down to walk over it. That doesn't make a lot of sense here.
Woops, I’ve got no excuse there. My bad!
"A butter knife was lying on the counter as well, amidst piles upon piles of scrunched-up paper. There was probably even more on the floor. One of them was a guide to making a Hangman’s Noose."
And this ambiguous sentence as well.
>>Xepher
About Mississippi—it was simply what came up when I searched up “boring states”. In other words, I intended it to be the equivalent of “someplace unnotable that nobody cared about”. (Sorry, Mississippians!) I’ll be careful to not put in unintentional Chekhov’s guns like these in the future.
All in all, I learnt a lot from writing this, especially from your feedback—thank you!