shola
Pesto Nov 14
Posts: 79 
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Post by shola on Apr 1, 2015 15:47:30 GMT 7
It’s late and I can’t sleep. I reach out to find the other side of the bed empty and the indent that usually holds the sleeping figure of my wife Buki cold. The window is open just a crack and night sounds drift into the bedroom : the whistle of a breeze stirring the curtains, the rustle of paper somersaulting on the pavement, the white noise of a car on a parallel street. My hand glows in a square of moonlight. I wonder how long she's been up. I step out of the bed and raise the window, breathe in some North London air.
Out in the hallway it’s dark and my hands feel their way along the wall. The stairs creak as I descend, announcing my approach to my wife downstairs. She’s sat with her back toward me, facing the desktop computer and the light spilling from the screen frames her in an almost ethereal light. Buki would have heard me but she continues typing. I listen to the sound her fingers make as they land on the keys. It is interesting what I am able to decode. I hear the ping of some instant messaging device, so I know this is a conversation. The rapid-fire staccato of her fingers punching the keys tells me that she is not editing herself. Sometimes she pauses, drums her fingers on the side of the keyboard – gathering her thoughts I presume - then she continues, at the same breakneck speed, never once pausing at the delete button. She types as if something within her has been uncorked, as if she doesn’t want a single word or thought to be lost. She types as if she can’t go another minute without getting these words out, baring herself to some person who isn’t me.
I continue down the stairs. She stops typing when I place my hand on her shoulder.
'How long have you been up?' I ask.
I don’t know why I'm whispering. We are the only two people in the room but I can’t shake the feeling that I am intruding.
'Not long,' she says.
'How long is not long?'
She’s got a scarf tied around her head and clumps of her afro peek out at the sides, flat as matted grass. Up close, her face is dull and craggy.
She shrugs
The window is open down here too. Next to her is an ashtray and I count five cigarette butts inside. It’s not the worst thing in the world as far as vices go but still.
'How many are you smoking now?'
'I didn’t realise we were counting? I didn’t realise I was being monitored?'
I walked into that with my eyes open. I pull my hand away and up, in surrender and move across to the sofa.
Buki doesn’t really want to smoke. I know that. She’d always been looking for a reason to stop and she finally got one when she peed on a stick and saw those two blue lines. I stopped too. We agreed that if we were going to tell the world that ‘we’ had fallen pregnant and that ‘we’ were having a baby then ‘we’ would both cut out the booze and the fags. It was easier for her than for me of course. Just the smell of it was enough to make her nauseous and persistent exposure led to full on retching fits. The number of times I had to hold her braids while she buried her head in a toilet bowl. They were the third thing to go. She said she needed something short and easy to maintain, hence the low afro. I was absolved from having to do the same because I didn’t have any hair anyway.
She lights up another cigarette and coughs. She tokes gain and through the haze of smoke she says, ‘I’m worried.’
‘What about?’
‘The twins might have to go to hospital again.’
‘Again?’
‘The doctors say they just want to be careful. They want to run some more tests. But…well you can imagine how Lucy’s feeling.’
‘She’s lucky to have you,’ I say, trying not to be too off-hand in my tone. Buki tilts her head and looks at me like I’m a stranger.
‘Why does that sound so insincere?’
‘Look, you’re worried about her. I’m worried about you. It’s not that I’m insincere is that I’m more concerned about my own wife than some stranger. Surely you understand that.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ she says.
‘That’s what you keep telling me,’ I say.
She nods and I smile. We are getting good at this, circling each other but never getting close enough to draw blood. It’s not that I mind this group of hers. How can I? What kind of husband would that make me? Sisters in crisis she calls them, says they have come together in the trenches. But she sits at the computer day after day, night after night. I want for her to leave the room, disconnect for just a moment, see that I’m here.
(Sorry for posting late. This is something that I've just started. The idea works in my head but it's all feeling a bit flat and expected on the page. Just general thoughts would be welcome)
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Post by Marion on Apr 1, 2015 17:57:00 GMT 7
Thanks for posting Shola, I shall most certainly have a look!
Cheers now,
Marion
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Post by Mary-Anne on Apr 1, 2015 23:54:07 GMT 7
Hello Shola,
This is a quick response to your piece because I couldn't stop reading it once I'd started - I felt from the outset that it was a story with something much deeper and more complex going on underneath. It seemed like Buki and her husband were happy with the pregnancy (the 'we' approach), and yet she appears to care more for the internet mothers than for her own child (she'd surely give up cigarettes) and her husband. Intriguing. Both of these characters already seem very real - I like the husband and feel sympathetic towards him so I definitely want to know what happens next.
With best wishes,
Mary-Anne
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Post by bronwyn on Apr 2, 2015 20:28:38 GMT 7
Hi Shola. Your "flat" is very engaging to me  I'll tell you what I think and understand so far and you can see if it matches your expectations of what I might think. It's not quite clear what's going on yet so as a reader I'm open to the thought that my expectations might turn out to be false. If the information I get in the coming story proves something different to be true I'm prepared to discard pretty much all of what I'm about to say and that won't really annoy me. But so far what I understand is that they had a pregnancy. The pregnancy is now over. I sense that they may not have got a child out of it (although I'm not yet sure). The loss of the child may be the "crisis" that is being referred to, or it may turn out they have a child and the crisis is something different. Either way, I'm expecting that the crisis revolves around children and parenting and that it's quite a deep crisis. I gather the crisis is painful to both of them but they are not really coping effectively as a couple. The woman has found an online support group and the main character resents this (or rather her level of involvement in it). I gather that there may be some aspect of guilt/blame/frustration between them, whether this is for a good reason or just part of their emotional reaction to the crisis. Emotionally, I feel there is a lot being withheld, so to the extent you say it's "flat" and if this is what you mean then it's working ok for me so far. I am expecting it to build emotionally, though, starting soon (doesn't matter to me if the build up is slow though). You complain that it seems "expected" and I think there's still mystery here. I guess that one is easier to comment on when seeing the finished draft. But yes, strong start, and I want to read more. |
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shola
Pesto Nov 14
Posts: 79
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Post by shola on Apr 3, 2015 21:36:49 GMT 7
Thanks Mary-Anne and Bronwyn. I know there's not much there so really good just to get your first impressions and general feel. Yes, there is supposed to be a lot of subtext and withholding so glad that is sort of working. Now just have to finish the thing. Thanks again.
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Post by Marion on Apr 6, 2015 13:48:39 GMT 7
Hi Shola,
Sorry I am so late in posting this, I poured all my waking hours into draft critiques last week until the wild Irishman arrived back and have been quite absorbed since. However, let me add a few reading impressions of my own together with the demand for MORE.
First of all, I found this opening very accomplished, engaging, already pretty much pitch-perfect. Personally, I am getting exactly the amount of reveals that excites me, so would not want anything more just yet. The first person narrator works really well for me, the way he watches himself all the time, the way he records the microcosm around him. Back-story is very deftly pulled in. If anything, the narrator feels a bit passive for now, which suits the scene and its point, of course. But he remains nameless and comparatively featureless, even though I do feel great empathy and intimacy. It would be enough if for once he looked at his own hands or handled a personal object that belongs to him, just the tiniest peg for me to hook his physical reality and lived life on. Here are some line-comments:
It’s late and I can’t sleep. I reach out to find the other side of the bed empty and the indent that usually holds the sleeping figure of my wife Buki cold. The window is open just a crack and night sounds drift into the bedroom : the whistle of a breeze stirring the curtains, the rustle of paper somersaulting on the pavement, the white noise of a car on a parallel street. My hand glows in a square of moonlight. I wonder how long she's been up. I step out of the bed and raise the window, breathe in some North London air.
I absolutely love this opening. For various reasons. It develops a sense of setting, mood and character situation with slow and gentle brushstrokes - you pull me in without any showy special effects. The mystery of the missing Buki immediately has me intrigued, not just because I don't know what took her away, but because of the eerie atmosphere left behind. This you create from wonderfully simple words: indent - cold - breeze - rustle - paper - white noise - hand - square - moonlight. It reads very much like an accomplished Edward Hopper painting inviting me to find out more or spin my own thoughts.
Out in the hallway it’s dark and my hands feel their way along the wall. The stairs creak as I descend, announcing my approach to my wife downstairs. I like his awareness of her awareness of him. Also, the familiar home is like a foreign place. It feels like both of them have entered a parallel universe in the middle of the night. She’s sat with her back toward me, facing the desktop computer and the light spilling from the screen frames her in an almost ethereal light. This expands the atmosphere of mystery further. Buki would have heard me but she continues typing. I listen to the sound her fingers make as they land on the keys. It is interesting what I am able to decode. I like how much of this scene is about reading sounds and about non-verbal communication. I hear the ping of some instant messaging device, so I know this is a conversation. The rapid-fire staccato of her fingers punching the keys tells me that she is not editing herself. Sometimes she pauses, drums her fingers on the side of the keyboard – gathering her thoughts I presume - then she continues, at the same breakneck speed, never once pausing at the delete button. She types as if something within her has been uncorked, This word "uncorked" makes me feel as if more will spill during this story ... as if she doesn’t want a single word or thought to be lost. She types as if she can’t go another minute without getting these words out, baring herself to some person who isn’t me.
I continue down the stairs. She stops typing when I place my hand on her shoulder.
To me, this seems the ideal moment to move on to dialogue:
'How long have you been up?' I ask.
I don’t know why I'm whispering. We are the only two people in the room but I can’t shake the feeling that I am intruding. Your first person narrator has a wonderful way of revealing himself, as well as of reading (and thereby creating for us) the emotional situation he finds himself in.
'Not long,' she says.
'How long is not long?'
She’s got a scarf tied around her head and clumps of her afro peek out at the sides, flat as matted grass. Up close, her face is dull and craggy. This gives me a strong visual impression in very few words. It reminds me of how people I love very much can look aged and worn in an usual light and situation and how that feels. Many of the stories of yours I have read fire out quite a lot of characters in quick succession - it's a nice luxury for once to absorb everything slowly and it detail, but this is not a criticism of your other writing.
She shrugs
The window is open down here too. Next to her is an ashtray and I count five cigarette butts inside. It’s not the worst thing in the world as far as vices go but still.
'How many are you smoking now?' This seemed quite a bold and tactless thing for him to say (even if he realises that with his "walked into that" comment), especially after you have shown him as hyper-sensitive before - hesitant to intrude on her online conversation, whispering, picking up on her aura etc. It might be more in character if he were staring at the cigarette butts and she would ask is he countig them?
'I didn’t realise we were counting? I didn’t realise I was being monitored?'
I walked into that with my eyes open. I pull my hand away and up, in surrender and move across to the sofa.
Buki doesn’t really want to smoke. I know that. She’d always been looking for a reason to stop and she finally got one when she peed on a stick and saw those two blue lines. I stopped too. We agreed that if we were going to tell the world that ‘we’ had fallen pregnant and that ‘we’ were having a baby then ‘we’ would both cut out the booze and the fags. It was easier for her than for me of course. Not sure of this "of course" - I don't think all women react like that? Just the smell of it was enough to make her nauseous and persistent exposure led to full on retching fits. The number of times I had to hold her braids while she buried her head in a toilet bowl. They were the third thing to go. This is so well-written, the rapid walk through the concrete events that have led up to this, revealing just enough backstory, but not too much, always vivid, and in keeping with his voice. Love it. She said she needed something short and easy to maintain, hence the low afro. I was absolved from having to do the same because I didn’t have any hair anyway. Nice that you loosen things up with a half-arsed attempt at joking.
She lights up another cigarette and coughs. She tokes gain and through the haze of smoke she says, ‘I’m worried.’
‘What about?’
‘The twins might have to go to hospital again.’ Great, how this comes as a surprise and takes the conversation somewhere else.
‘Again?’
‘The doctors say they just want to be careful. They want to run some more tests. But…well you can imagine how Lucy’s feeling.’
‘She’s lucky to have you,’ I say, trying not to be too off-hand in my tone. Buki tilts her head and looks at me like I’m a stranger.
‘Why does that sound so insincere?’ It's interesting to see how he constantly checks on his every utterance and still manages to set her off. In this passage, it works quite well, I would avoid too much doubling though of him trying to avoid a certain reaction and then getting them anyways etc. In other words, we don't need to always be told what he thinks about how he says things.
‘Look, you’re worried about her. I’m worried about you. It’s not that I’m insincere is that I’m more concerned about my own wife than some stranger. Surely you understand that.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ she says. Great line.
‘That’s what you keep telling me,’ I say. Equally great.
She nods and I smile. We are getting good at this, circling each other but never getting close enough to draw blood. It’s not that I mind this group of hers. How can I? What kind of husband would that make me? Sisters in crisis she calls them, says they have come together in the trenches. But she sits at the computer day after day, night after night. I want for her to leave the room, disconnect for just a moment, see that I’m here. Really good stuff! The metaphor of the trenches for me hints at the fact that instead of beginning to cope with her loss, her emotions, how it affects their marriage, she has dug herself into a place where a constant war is raging - she is in armour, inaccessible, and the missiles are flying overhead, even though none of the battles are any of her concern, actually.
I was honestly thrilled to read this and can't wait for more. Hopefully at one of the short story meetups or the April Hub share?
Cheers now,
Marion
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heather
Batam Retreat Feb 15
Posts: 50
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Post by heather on Apr 11, 2015 12:36:19 GMT 7
Hi Shola,
Sorry I am late but I wanted to give you my comments anyway, in case they're helpful. I am trying to think about why you feel it is expected... I agree with the others that it doesn't feel expected to me. But perhaps its something in your vision for the piece... so let me try to look at the piece through that lens:
One thought is that the title - two blue lines - telegraphs the pregnancy too much so there's less surprise. On the other hand I didn't know what two blue lines meant till I got to the point when she peed on the stick. so, maybe that comment is a non starter.
Small logic problem with "its late and I can't sleep" tho he doesn't know that the wife has woken up and left the bed. Perhaps he's been lying there for quite a while pretending to be asleep, she unaware that he is still awake when she leaves the bed, him waiting waiting for her to return. just a thought
Overall I was intrigued by the idea that she is downstairs on the computer, connecting with someone who isn't her husband. I like how he approaches her - there is a tension going on because we don't yet know how they feel about each other.
i love that moment later when he says "see that I'm there" - so much is in there about his feelings for her. The gulf between them is interesting. It gets less interesting when they talk about something so prosaic as her worry for Lucy and the twins. Is that all it is that is causing her to stay up late? I at first thought that she was faking, misdirecting him with talk of lucy.
Also the language "she's lucky to have you" is a very cliched thing to say. is that why she thinks its insincere?
You know I think I was a bit disappointed when it turned out she was simply talking to other women in crisis. I was more intrigued when I didn't know who she was connecting with... and there was more tension when he didn't explain it either. Maybe its that he doesn't know who she is writing to and we later learn it. A women's group is threatening of course to a man - but that seems not very interesting. What is driving them apart - the loss of the child? their different reactions to that loss? her pain and pushing him away? is she totally at fault? is there something that he has done that justifies her pushing him away? Or is there something in him that is making him not actually as supportive as he thinks he is.
we are getting good at this ... neither one of us drawing blood. I think you haven't quite got them circling around each other yet. He is sort of vacillating between caring husband and husband threatened by women friends. She is struggling to deal with crisis and pushing him away - somewhat gently. Maybe you've started to early on the emotional arc. Perhaps they should be slightly farther along on the anger curve... a little more tension earlier.
those are my thoughts for now. a little scattered but maybe something's in them that will help....
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I'll tell you what I think and understand so far and you can see if it matches your expectations of what I might think. It's not quite clear what's going on yet so as a reader I'm open to the thought that my expectations might turn out to be false. If the information I get in the coming story proves something different to be true I'm prepared to discard pretty much all of what I'm about to say and that won't really annoy me. 