I call it "Gladis, we've had this Date from the Begining." Any criticism would be apreciated. It was one of those truly dreadful days, being of the drab, almost morbid variety. I scuttled morosely and with great despondency to that most horrid of institutions, Benjamin Norris High School. The freezing rain that stabbed my flesh was overshadowed ten, one hundred, I say a thousand times by the frozen abaddon that blighted me upon view of that terrible spire! As an eastern fog encroached about the top of the thing, my soul sank to a depth so low that not even my usual emotional masochism could spare me any of this pain of pains. So phallic it was, that wretched spire- One could hardly fathom how it subjected me to it’s most insufferable woes at but a glance- how to gaze upon it was to be challenged and tormented, and how to approach it was to submit. Onward I drudged, with flaccid resolve into this ghastly place. It was so monotone, devoid of even the meekest vestiges of the human spirit, so frighteningly lifeless in it’s craft. It was in bitter retrospect not unlike it’s most tormented denizen (yours truly), as my fragile soul had long since wilted beneath the weight of this oppressive monolith of brick and misery, and I had been reshaped from a young man into the image of my loathsome, colorless captor. As I walked into this hopeless place, an old woman of that most androgynous and baron of character did shriek the most horrid of shrieks as if some unknown gas had been reverberating within the empty husk of a human being. “No hats!”, she did cry with a tone probably unheard since the morning criers of plague ridden Europe. “Take off your haaaaat!” This stirred in me some primal and terrible thing that I must confess had been fermenting within my heart for quite some time. I grabbed that dismal creature by the bosom, and thrust her into the little room directly behind her. Clogging the door shut with a folding chair, I turned around to see my quarry, squirming helpless on the hard floor. Her writhing was so surreal- from here on in, the whole incident took on a mystical quality that scarcely allows description. Her agonized writhing haunted me. Though in no way did it evoke in me a sense of pity or mercy, it all appeared as some sort of lucid dream. Suppressing the oddity of the situation, I did the sensible thing, pinning down and disrobing this screaming hag. “Squawking vermin!”, I screamed. “I will take you now!” Her response was, in my humble opinion, loud and incoherent enough to warrant consent. Still, her torso twitched and struggled, her teeth sank into my flesh, and her overall body language revealed some subtle discontent for my boisterous prose. No matter, I thought. This is how it’s supposed to happen, just like this. Only now did I realize the frenzy and panic outside this little room. There were curtains on the window for privacy, and that door did not budge. And indeed I was on the first floor, but this room had no windows. I was quite confident that I would have all the time I needed. The hag’s radio, lying on the floor beside her, made the most terrible, raspy, electric static noises. I threw it a few feet away, so it would not interfere with my pleasure. Finally, amid all this fuss and struggling, I finally reduced her to wearing no clothing at all. What I saw was hardly a woman. Her body was at once extremely frail and terribly bloated, with warts of all kinds, rancid odor, and the worst kind of bodily hair, seeming to grow out of varicose veins. From ancient pores flowed arcane pastes, semi-liquid aberrations unknown to the young and the well of health, who’s origins would require an admirable feat of comprehension to understand, as well as the blackest leap of faith. With great valor, I mounted her- removing my trousers and grabbing her triangular breasts as I penetrated her. Irony, I thought, that this woman’s anus would be more capable of the task at hand than her crusty and somewhat vestigial vagina. I indeed rejoiced in this, my finest hour in quite some time. My fevered thrusting- the musicality of her moans- My virility had at last returned! I had overcome this terrible place and unleashed the raging animal within. The tight resistance of her bashful rectum, how it did challenge me to go on! Great sport in this there was, but inevitably I did retreat my shaft, coated in a mix of stringy brown mush and blood. I had much more to do. Reaching for my trousers, I retrieved a small, old sheet of sandpaper from my pocket and did get to work on that large, salty cow of a clitoris. Rubbing and rubbing away, I heard her in the throws of such a passion one cannot describe! Blood did again flow about her womanhood, and those bulging eyes did look to the heavens in screaming gratitude. This great hag did once more discover her youth and her femininity, but such pleasures I am sad to say can be quite a strain on an old woman, especially one not used to such potent coitus. Rather than embracing her newfound lust, she chose to be sexually repressed and feel guilty, resulting in her death. Odd, I thought. It seemed so thoroughly fitting. I stood up, naked and refreshed. Removing the chair barricade from the door, I stepped outside and noticed a noxious miasma settling about the halls. This was a tear gas bombardment! It was so hard to breathe, but some sixth sense took control of me, guiding me down the hallway. I knew, I just knew- They had called the bomb squad and the marines. How they would work so ruthlessly and efficiently in godless tandem! I found a dark closet, tucked my knees to my chest and hid there. How awful it was to hear them, those hulking terrors with their automatic weapons and their hearts full of hate! Finally, one of those awful men opened the door and witnessed me, twitching naked and frightened. From that fearsome, vacant eyed gas mask, he looked into my eyes- I say, he looked into my eyes, your honor. And he knew it- He knew that he had hurt me! AQUITED!!!
This has sort of an eighteenth century English feel to it. However, just about every line contains a gross overstatement of this kid's feelings. Spelling errors need correction. I feel your writing would be far more effective if you tried understating your feelings rather than overstating them. Read Hemingway for awhile. Don't quit your day job.
I'm going to come out and say that this is one of the most disgusting, most pretentious, and at the same time one of the absolute best pieces of writing I have read on this site. When I first took a look at it I thought it was just some really odd high school kid going on about his woes, but after reading on I realized that was just a setup for the shocking events that follow. The pretentiousness of the feigned 'Olde English' actually pays off-- the mock-civility of the language serves as a dark and disturbing contrast to the events that follow. The pretentiousness is almost forgivable because you seem to have an excellent vocabulary and can use it well. And the ending is absolutely priceless... weird, insane, and totally effective. This character is very believable, very well done... disturbingly so. I have no question in my mind that he is capable of the horrible acts he commits. In fact, beyond the surrealism of the ending, there is something almost horrifyingly realistic about it-- you've totally nailed the psychology of the high school psychopath. And good for you for going for the jugular... it's creepy, but it makes for interesting and honest writing. At the same time, I'm a bit confused about the ending. I don't understand the sudden appearance of the bomb squad and the marines... and it doesn't really seem to fit with the rest of the story. I like the last line and the 'courtroom' approach, but I'm not so sure why it would be the bomb squad... exactly how long is he keeping her in this closet? Does he have a bomb with him? Or maybe this is an allusion to a Columbine-type situation? Anyway, definitely keep writing-- I'd like to see more!
Thanks a lot for the criticisms, both of you. This work means a lot to me, mostly because I've been in a writer's block for about three years. I hope and think that this has broken it. In response to the first poster, I can see what you mean in terms of me overstating the feelings, but I have to respectfully disagree. My character's life is monotonous and dark- He is an obsessive, brooding, unstable, sensitive and obviously quite deranged kid, and I felt that dwelling in his misery was an important part of the atmosphere of this story. As for your opinion that I didn't try to understand my character's feelings? Well, that's a mixed bag. Part of me wanted to leave the reader in the dark about his past and where he was coming from mentally. Still, his emotions aren't contradictory or confusing. I could be wrong, but I feel most readers would understand his feelings, because I pretty much laid him out bare, inevitably leaving little to the imagination in terms of his psychology. In response to the second poster, thanks! I did spend some hours struggling with myself over weather this little work counted as art. I mean, even though I consider this a dark comedy and not any kind of fully serious drama, I tried to put something sincere into it. You kind of validated my work, which is priceless. As for the pretentious aspect, a lot goes through my head when I write in this elaborate and almost forcefully articulate way. First off, I get very angry at modern culture and it's rape of the English language. This is in part an extreme reaction to that- Also, I'm extremely attracted to anything "dark", atmospheric or moody, and am heavily influenced by Edgar Allan Poe. For praising my character, thanks a lot. I based him partially on an even more tormented and disgruntled version of myself. I did try to make the character somewhat feasible, though my aim was more towards psychological satire than full reality. Three forces things shaped the ending: My desire to send the reader on a surreal, bizarre journey, A time restraint and my admiration of a close friend. I really did feel that some naked, mentally disturbed kid running through halls clouded with tear gas, guided by a "6th sense", made for a bizarre and dream like scene. About that time restraint, I hadn't really written in years, and I was scared as hell- scared that I could never create or complete something. I really wanted this out of my head and on paper, and fast. (This shows as my writing deteriorates: It was written in three nights, and I feel the mood changes, others might disagree.) And my friend's influence? He created this really wild and hilarious story that ended with hundreds of marines clogging a narrow hallway (in a way not physically possible no less) and shooting their rifles at the villain. The fact that a bad guy is there and they "Call the marines" is highly unrealistic in nearly any situation, and can be viewed as satirical of our society's reaction to school violence, or can just be taken as frenzied "just end the story now!" silliness. My thoughts are more or less the same on the bomb squad. How long is he keeping her in the closet? Well he has his way with her in a room, not necessarily a closet. He runs into a closet when the marines and bomb squad comes. How long was he in the room with her? How long was he in the closet? It is not supposed to be known or specified, as I felt the protagonists deranged mind makes it's own pace, uninfluenced by reality. Does he have a bomb with him? No. I may post more soon.
