its actually called Catholic Univerity. and, set works in that context (although sit would be more common). thanks for the read.
Short Story / Meat and Lamb
That’s right, this is my place, Jake rents out the second bedroom. Occasionally, he gets me the check on time. The utility bills jumped after he moved in. Wherever he went, a trail of empty illuminated rooms, a swath of dripping faucets. Quarter loads of laundry, hot, extended spin. All winter long, he kept an electric heater at the foot of his bed, with the window cracked wide. Apparently he slept better with his breath frosting and his toes toasty. In the summer, it was down comforters and Aleutian air conditioning. The wattage meter knew no rest.
Why keep him around? Two highly visceral reasons. He could cook. He wielded that chef’s knife over the seasoned cutting board like it was a baton in front of the philharmonic, rendering passion and movement from the mise in place like it was a gifted yet reluctant woodwind prodigy. His Etouffees (last weeks included FedEx-ed alligator sausage), Mussel Marinara (a la Diablo for the adventurous), and Yellowtail Mango Cerviche (he called it Triton’s Manna), assuaged any ill feelings lingering beneath the palate. Granted, he made a pretty good mess when he cooked. Mostly, I put up with all the co-habitational transgressions because, his sister was forget-the-cable-bill gorgeous. That would be the second reason.
The first thing you see, can’t help but see, are those big, graham-cracker brown, eyes. Then, the most strategically placed mole. An ethno-ambiguous Mediterranean finish to the complexion that leaves the witness questioning whether it be Arab, Egyptian, or Grecian genetics responsible for that olive pout. Lips like they were stained in Shiraz. The smallest speck of a diamond stud in her left nostril that left you imagining, hoping, betting on, piercings hidden elsewhere. Tiziana diRaphael, sister to Jacob, daughter of Dominic and the late Talia, stunning even through the fishbowl lens, knocking on the front door.
“Hey, can you grab that,” Jake said, zesting blood oranges with a microplane.
A quick check of the hair, a maintenance tuck in of the shirt, and I went to greet our dinner guest. All for nothing. Crowding the frame of the front door stood Dan “Meat” Melbourne, the college rugby player turned Mortgage Fraud Investigator. His nickname survived the transition from muddy kit to business casual.
“For the chef, for the host, for the dog,” he said, handing me a brown grocery bag replete with imported aged balsamic, a bottle of ’94 Chateau Malescot, and a nearly empty jar of peanut butter. When the story of that evening would be retold, Meat’s Chateau would be the centerpiece, the keystone, the saving grace. When Meat told it, anyway. “If you get that wine breathing now, it’ll be perfect with the lamb.”
With my marching orders, I motioned for him to set on the couch, threw the dog the peanut butter detritus, and poured two glasses of a Chilean Carmenere I had decanting. I offered one to Jake, but he had his hands gloved in cornmeal and buttermilk, breading the fish bait that would become the amuse bouche. The dog bounced around the house, fully occupied, with his Skippy muzzle.
In the living room, Meat was working the iPod wheel with those salami fingers of his. He liked to brag that nearly every knuckle on his right hand had been broken at one time or another during his playing days, and the only match he ever missed, begrudgingly, was for his grandmother’s funeral. We volleyed for a while with small talk. The sub prime market, Capitols’ bullpen, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, early plans for a labor day fishing trip. The smell of papaya and caramelized ginger came from the kitchen. Jake was on the salad course.
“So, will Tiz be joining us this evening?” Meat said, glancing from the door to the clock on the wall.
“Okay, buddy, you’re going to sit there with that Brüt lathering and pretend you don’t know Tiz is already on her way.” His mouth half-curved into a Caliban grin.
“She said she’s bringing a friend,” Jake threw in from the kitchen.
With this, smiles abounded, we refilled our wine, and toasted the rookie quarterback the Skins drafted in April. Dan went out to the back patio to set the table and chew on one of his cigars. I rolled up my sleeves and entered the war zone. No sooner had I rinsed out the food processor than Jake had it loaded and churning again with rosemary, garlic, basil, almonds, olive oil, and a touch of that fancy vinegar. Jake was always soaking pots and rarely scraping them. I cycled the soiled bowls, plates, and whisks, emptied, loaded, and re-ran the dishwasher, “What are you planning for the antipasto?”
“Olives and roasted red peppers in the fridge,” Jake said, replacing the sweat on his brow with flour and crumbs. “Throw on some of that portabella hummus from last night, the pepperoni is in the plastic bag at the bottom there.”
Jake grabbed the tea-towel I had draped over my shoulder, used it to pull out the Dutch oven from the broiler. He tested the temperature of the lamb with his thumb before replacing it back into the heat. “I’m about ready for that wine. Meet me out back with a glass while I make nice with the grizzly bear.”
“Hey, who is Tiz bringing? Not that vegetarian I hope. How long is it going to take what’s her name to realize she’s the only Republican that doesn’t eat meat?”
“Nope, not her. She’s watching Clare’s kid for the night.”
Jake disappeared through the sliding glass doors and began nestling vegetable-oiled balls of newspaper beneath the coals of his Webber Grill. Meat pointed at something in the distance with the business end of his stogy, the smoke came through the open window and mingled with the aromatics. The flames from the grill distorted the view of the Basilica Shrine, it looked like it was melting as the sun set behind it. I held the two glasses of wine palm up in my right hand, answered the door with the left.
“Greetings Cletus. Meet Annabelle.”
Tiz helped herself to her brother’s glass, and uncoiled a black scarf contraption from around her neck. She would have been offended if I didn’t watch. The scarf hid a palm sized octopus pendant, the placement of which I envied greatly. What do they say about criminals needing to return to the scene of the crime?
Trailing behind, the unexpected Annabelle. All pigtails and ribbons, all eight years of age. I had wondered why there was a bottle of sparkling pomegranate next to the pepperoni.
“Did you let Meat near the music again? I’m not listening to any more Smashing Pumpkins. Not after last time,” Tiz said.
I shook hands with Annabelle and asked her if she’d like a drink. She followed me to the kitchen and I poured her a flute of the sparkling. I tried to hand it to her, but her hands were busy at the scruff of Jake’s husky.
“Don’t give him too much attention or he won’t leave you alone all night,” I told Annabelle. Tiz started rifling through drawers in the other room.
“Come over here, Annabelle, let’s make name cards so everybody knows where to sit,” Tiz said. Meat and Jake walked in, and in turn, were granted cheek kisses and hugs. I thought Meat lingered in the embrace a bit long. Mine would come later, and in quite a different context.
“And who is this pretty lady,” Meat said, picking Annabelle up in the crook of his elbow.
“Don’t give her too much attention, she won’t leave you alone all night,” Tiz said. Annabelle stuck her tongue out as Meat put her down. She stationed herself at the desk where Tiz had set up magic markers and construction paper. Jake asked her if she thought Cletus was a funny name.
“It’s a bit early to start trading shots, Jake. Drink your wine,” I nodded to where I put down my own glass. He swooped it up as he went into the kitchen, did a little pirouette around the end table. I put the flute of sparkling next to Annabelle and Jake told us dinner would be ready in ten minutes.
Meat told a story where he was both hero and clown, I had heard it before, had to restrain myself from correcting the embellishments. I countered with a card trick, the only one I know, promising to show Annabelle how to do it later, but not in front of the adults. She tricked us, did Tiz. With all our jostling, Meat and I became the babysitters. She was free to polish off the Carmenere and start on the Riesling (Jake reserved half for the Risotto).
A short time passed, seats were assigned, place-cards on top of napkins, and we sat down to the beginning of the meal. Jake walked out with a covered platter, and while we were all Pavlov salivating, my roommate, who’s nickname could have been “Can you post date this” transformed into master artisan, displaying his craft.
“To start, the amuse bouche, I call it Calamari Kiss. A lightly battered selection of the choicest Squid, on top of which, a mild poblano pico de gallo.” He unveiled the first course, and with a quick glance at the working cauldrons through the kitchen window, dictated the rest of the fare.
Spring Greens with Papaya and Ginger Salad.
Blood Orange Marinated Peppercorn Crusted Scallops with a Cumin Risotto. (he would grill the scallops as we dipped our warm marble rye in the olive oil and capers).
Braised Lamb Shanks with a Rosemary Pesto Glaze, over Butternut Squash Mashed Potatoes.
To finish, Mascarpone Espresso Milkshakes.
Annabelle looked at the tentacles on her plate in disgust and grew increasingly disheartened as the menu unraveled. I sensed a citizen rebellion. Jake retreated, and returned with gusto, “And for the guest of honor, if the squid doesn’t tickle your fancy (it would be nice if you tried it though, I think you’ll like it). Pretzel Crusted Chicken Fingers with Sweet Potato Curly Fries.”
“Do you have any ketchup?” Annabelle, now pleased, excited at the reinvention of the kid’s menu staple.
Jake did not sit down until he served the lamb. Annabelle had long since cleaned her plate, and was off playing with the dog. Meat was sucking the marrow out of the lamb bone before the dish hit the tablecloth.
“Hey Jake,” Tiz said, picking up on the college glory days conversation Meat started with the salad, “Tell them about your side gig junior year.”
“Which one, Essayist for Hire or Mischievous Note Taker?”
“The second one, with the notes.”
“Well, at U. Maryland, there was this off-campus business called ‘Terp Takers.’ They would pay students, in good standing mind you, to take notes every day in class, email them in every day after the seminar had ended. Students like myself, we’d buy them and only show up to class when there were exams.”
“This is where me and Cletus really hit it off. He lived in the apartment next to mine. We were drinking buddies up to this point, but there wasn’t much fraternizing during the day. Anyway, one afternoon, I’m reading over my purchased Comm 150 notes, and come across a magnificent typo.”
I smiled, checked to see that Annabelle was out of earshot. Jake went on.
“Whoever was being paid to take notes, they meant to write ‘some people who’re engaged in something communications related’ but they wrote ‘whore’ by accident. I saw my calling. I would become a note taker, and slip in as many curses, epithets, Freudian Slips, as humanly possible….” He looked at the egg timer he brought from the kitchen and stood up, “Cletus, keep it going for a minute.”
“Well,” I said, “This was senior year, and there was a GPA requirement to be a note taker. Jake, sadly, did not meet that requirement.”
“But Mr. Dean’s List over here,” Jake said through the window, and continued as he sidled through the sliding glass, “was the perfect surrogate. I was in Professor Trimble’s History of Television. Yes, a TV History class helped me earn a Bachelors Degree. Cletus signed up to scribe notes for that Theatre 201, and we skirted the note taking requirements. I, for the first time in my collegiate career, religiously attended an A.M. class.”
As Meat stood up, his knees knocked against the table, the wine glasses wobbled like grazed Ten-Pins. “Keep going, I know how it ends. I’m gonna stretch my legs.” The dog, long ago tired of the now dozing Annabelle, acted agitated when he saw the behemoth rise. On his return from the bathroom, Yoshi (did I tell you the dog’s name was Yoshi?) nuzzled at Meat’s hams. Meat carried four virgin wine glasses in one mitt, the bottle of Chateau Malescot in the other. “Start pouring these round. Me and Yoshi are gonna see the sights.”
Jake continued the story. I was a minor character, and Tiz had heard it, in one variation or the other, at least a dozen times, but still he went on. But that’s how it goes with friends and wine. The new material, it gets a bit commonplace. People get tired of hearing about how the day went, or if Tiz was finished her new mosaic (she worked for a city non-profit, tiling away walled fabrics of the pastoral where lawns and trees gave way to concrete and mounted citizen watch cameras), or if Jake was still getting Cobra benefits. The good stories, they get repeated, refashioned, embellished. The details get jumbled, but the tone keeps its note. The commonplace is for the beginning of the meal.
The ending? Well, Jake got a bit too brazen with all the cun’ts replacing can’ts and the like. Jake tells that bit better than I do, ask him about it sometime. I was called into the Terp Takers main office, and a stern looking thirty something told me our business relationship was officially disbanded. He went on about how my interloping (he actually used that word, I don’t know if quite applied) ruined the sanctity of an important scholastic endeavor. I told him I was a little disheartened at his decision to terminate my employment, but asked if he’d, after all we’d been through, be a positive reference for job opportunities after college. He didn’t see the humor in my request, and asked me to leave.
So we remaining in the backyard set to that expensive red. Tiz filled the glasses. Jake relaxed, for the first time, with only the cold dessert course left, already prepared, waiting in the refrigerator. He broke into a sommelier worthy tirade about how anyone who praised a wine by saying it had “legs” was pretentious and not worthy to sniff his cork. Legs, he told us, just meant the wine’s propensity to hang to the side of the glass, and had nothing to do with the quality of the wine in question. This was a function of the alcohol content in the wine. Since more alcohol meant more viscosity, a 20% Port would have more legs than a 14% Chablis. This didn’t speak to the quality of the wine at all. We digested this new bit Jeopardy trivia. Tiz took a sip from her glass. My eyes, entirely on their own, settled again on that bastard of an octopus. I was caught by those big brown eyes, with the lame excuse of “I was uh, looking at the octopus” poised, lame, and unfired, at the verge of my tongue. She smiled, a smile beyond this mortal’s interpretation, and I flushed just a shade closer to the wine. Annabelle got up from the sofa and, half still dreaming, sat next to the bug light affixed to the fence gate.
This last bit, this is where the typical Saturday night get together starts to bear any merit as a story to be re-told. I certainly won’t forget it anytime soon. Except for maybe the little details. I would never have thought it would end like it did. I’m glad, in a way, too. Is that odd? But anyway, back to the story.
As Annabelle settled in, I saw her eyes turn to question marks, aimed just over my shoulder. I was facing the house, but turned to follow her gaze to the gate behind me. Instead of the latched balustrade, I saw a hooded figure and the faint tiki light glint of iron in his hand.
“Give me your money,” our guest said, pointing the gun at the child like Meat had pointed his cigar to the horizon.
We all stood up. I took a couple steps back. Meat. Where was Meat. At first, I was angry. No way would this guy mess with us if he saw that galoot, straining the legs of the plastic chair even as he sat. Then I grew worried. Worried, at first, when Tiz asked the intruder to point the gun at her instead of the girl. He did, right at the octopus. I thought of all those westerns, where the bullet hits a metal lighter, a pocketed deck of cards, and the hero gets up unscathed. I shook that thought out quick. The octopus would not be any dues ex machina today. Then, I thought Meat might walk through the back gate with the dog. Would this spook the gunman into accidental discharge? Or would Meat tackle him into the table, saving the day, another dime novel account of Rugby Man, Savior? I doubted it. I don’t think bullets give a shit how big you are.
“Empty your wallets.”
I heard myself say we didn’t have any money on us, although I can’t be sure, it might have been Jake. He never had cash on him. What time was it? How long was Meat gone? How would this black guy from God Forgot Urban D.C., believe that these people, these white people, these white people drinking wine, didn’t have their money with them in the backyard for a friendly barbeque? Bzzzap, a dragonfly met his inquisitive demise in the bug lamp. Were the lights on, in the back yard, what attracted our new friend as well? Would we end up like the dragonfly? Where was Meat? Please god, don’t do anything stupid when you come through the back gate.
I measured the distances between Virgil (the gunman, a pseudonym, it makes it easier having something to call him), Annabelle, and Tiz. The gun seemed to be drooping, down towards Tiz’s abdomen. Was it heavy? His eyes were jaundiced. I remember that. Darting yellow pinpricks, where white should have been. He might have been on drugs. Are jaundiced eyes a side effect of meth, cocaine? Bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils, sure—but yellow?
“Don’t move. Slowly now, turn out your pockets.”
“Look, we don’t have anything on us,” Tiz again, hostage negotiating. Annabelle seemed to be taking it in stride, her eyes big, downloading the situation. My bladder, all of a sudden, shrunk to half capacity. Virgil looked again at Annabelle, the gun hovered towards the ground, in between the women. “Did you know there’d be a little girl here?” she said.
I thought this would pull the gun back to that magnetic pendant, somewhere, a foot and half below that mole, center mass, fixated. I was wrong. Virgil seemed to pause. Like he didn’t understand the question. No, like the question mattered. He lowered the gun to his side, still gripping it tightly. His fingernails, they were bitten down to the quick.
Virgil grew confused at this point. Well, confused is not the right word. He seemed to be considering something. The gun rose again, slightly, dangerously, but wasn’t pointed at anyone in particular. Jake stepped in at this point. I was surprised he had it in him. I certainly wouldn’t have thought of it.
“Hey, would you like a glass of wine? We have an extra one poured,” Jake asked. This had the exact same effect on Virgil as it did on me. For real? Did you just ask him that? I thought of a dozen other things to say, to ask, in the situation. I thought of two, maybe three appropriate responses from Virgil. Each reply punctuated with a loud bang and distant ambulance sirens. Again, I was mistaken.
“Can I?” Virgil said, taking the glass from Meats vacated spot. He seemed to devolve into a fourteen year old. A fourteen year old being offered alcohol at a cousin’s wedding. A fourteen year old still holding a gun. He looked into the crystal glass a moment before taking a sip. His eyes closed for a second, just a bit longer than a blink. He put the gun down into his jeans. They were dark, baggy, I didn’t catch the brand.
“This is really good wine,” Virgil told us.
Looking back, I should have smiled. Amber-eyed Virgil, intent on robbery, murder if it came to it, and he knew his stuff. I almost said, “it’s got legs.”
“Take the bottle, its yours,” I said, my only confirmed contribution to the ordeal. As if it was mine to give.
“Our friend, he’s out walking the dog. He should be back any second. I don’t want you to get startled if he walks in,” Jake said.
Forward thinking, Jake was. On another occasion, another catered event, we had two ladies stop by for supper. A double date, my dollar, his swordfish steaks. We were inside that night, there were Christmas lights up; it must have been December. My girl, she leaned over the table to offer her friend the plate of finger food that was making the rounds. Duck quesadillas, I think it was. Just before the plate touched down, she, my date, lost her buoyancy. The plate tilted, off plumb, and the yogurt sour cream, the mango salsa, slipped from the edge. The universe paused. The night all but destroyed for the embarrassed stains on the white blouse, the tan sarong. But there was Jake’s hand, stretched out like it was the Eucharistic paten, his hand gloved around the staining agent. Crisis averted. I told him later, that it was a game saving reaction. He said it had nothing to do with reflexes. He just figured, in the situation, there was a good possibility the salsa would end up in her lap.
“I think I’m at the wrong house,” Virgil said.
A pause.
“I’m at the wrong house, I’m going to go,” Virgil said.
And with that, he walked out of the gate, taking the glass of wine with him. Tiz collapsed into my arms, started crying. Jake walked Annabelle into the house. Tiz and I, still conjoined, followed. We locked the doors. Meat knocked on the front door, thinking we locked him out as a joke.
“What gives guys? Where’s my glass?” he said.
The rest you know from the police report. We called 911. They came, searched the area, found the wine glass in an alley not too far away. It was empty and unbroken. They said we’d get it back after they dusted it for fingerprints. I kind of hope Virgil didn’t leave any.
Why do I hope they won’t find him? They never found the gun, so sure, maybe he’s just going to walk up to some other barbeque, and fire away, not bothering with the pleasantries next time. There was something about that look as he tasted the wine. Listen, that was a sixty-dollar bottle. Or at least that’s what Meat quotes it at. Virgil, he knew it was good. How the hell would he have known such a thing? It’s not like he was born with that gun, those eyes, wearing that menacing drape of a hood. Virgil tasted wine like that before, or maybe tasted wine in a similar situation, with good friends and happy children and that opiate nothingness that washes over you after you’ve eaten too much, had too much to drink. You don’t get that feeling from holding people at gunpoint. Here he was, a cliff diver, troubled by the waking ripples radiating from the impact point in a previously serene and idyllic lagoon. Virgil saw that he destroyed that beautiful nothingness the permeated the backyard. I think it hurt him, to see the fear in Tiz’s eyes, to see an eight year old down the barrel of a gun. I think that unbroken glass tells us something. Or at least that’s what I’d like to think.
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metaphoricalsimile reviewed Version 5 -
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Nose studs are so ubiquitous, and even conformist, that if you want the sister to seem adventurous, maybe give her a monroe, eyebrow, or lip piercing.
The lack of any sort of dialog from Annabelle was conspicuous.
Given the tone of the story, the asides in parenthesis about the name of the dog and of the gunman both seem out of place.
Overall, this story was phenomenal. I could easily imagine reading it in a literary magazine. I normally don’t give two shits about the kind of bourgeois characters you describe in this story, but you did a good job of describing them as humans rather than as rich-kid cutouts.
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danisterror reviewed Version 5 -
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Wow. Of all I’ve read on this site, I think this is the most publishable piece around. Great job. The description did it for me to be honest. You have a way of sentence variation and word choice that keeps the flow flowing and the level of understanding rather low. I could see the people you described and I could tell how they were feeling at any given time. Hell, the dialouge was spot on. This is by far the most realistic account of something I’ve read on URBIS.
As for the ending, I was hoping you would get into why Virgil had decided not to shoot the gathering of friends. You came through with a great understanding that not only suited the story but made me think about life in general and people. This is a solid piece that I can’t strike down one bit.
DantianNeiJing reviewed Version 5 -
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You must have some culinary experience… Me being a chef myself really enjoyed reading this particular peice…. Overall I think I only found 2 or 3 grammar/spelling errors: Class instead of glass and No, instead of Not but honestly this was the only things I could “pick at” atleast at this point… I will also say it was very fast paced, which is nice… and ran smoothly while keeping my interest. It also made me very hungry lol… I hope you continue to write or perhaps expand on this peice… Id love to see more.
-Erin R
Vonprosie reviewed Version 5 -
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All the short sentences in the first paragraph make it very choppy. A few long ones will make the ones you keep short more effective, and help the beginning less frustrating to a semi-reluctant reader. The imagery is good, and all the details really give a sense of the characters, they are well developed. The part about the other “less calamitous occasion” distracts from the current situation, and one could even think that the original story ended and another is starting. Not a good thing in an otherwise fluid story.
Grammar:
“of Catholic University” – of a Catholic
“to set on the couch” – to sit on the
Olive_Air26 reviewed Version 5 -
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I liked the transition from serene party scene to the almost violent ending. And you have the story all in the first sentence of the story, “there was some food and wine, a little banter, one magic trick, gunplay, and dessert.” Very Greek of you to do that. It is a mistake that I felt a bit tense in that “gunplay” part?
Another thing, I could smell your words. You do have a pretty good sense with the words you use, for example, “big, graham-cracker brown, eyes.” Perhaps a bit more metaphors concerning food would be even better. Having that connection with food, being a party with food of course.
The dialogue was very honest meaning that it was very true to the characters (being in school and such). Another part of the honesty is in the way you say the stories of these characters change, “the good stories, they get repeated, refashioned, embellished. The details get jumbled, but the tone keeps its note.” This shows a good sense of humanity in the story especially as well as the gunman (Virgil) at the end.
Overall, it is a decent storyline with good dialogue and characters that you would know as your best friend. A great turnaround ending. I’d like to see more of Meat or the gunman, maybe even both.
ewilly75 reviewed Version 5 -
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a very nice piece overall. as to grammatical, spelling, punctuation, etc. my only criticisms is an abundant use of commas. while is usually a fine style of writing, a few times i felt they made the piece almost staccato. an example:
>>I countered with a card trick, the only one I know, promising to show Annabelle how to do it later, but not in front of the adults. She tricked us, did Tiz. With all our jostling, Meat and I became the babysitters.
these three sentences could easily be made into four. the first is a bit unwieldy. but overall the comma usage is not obscene.
as a short story i think this did a fine job. the characters were introduced, a event developed, and the story resolved. the only criticism here is the final paragraph. it seems a bit rushed at the very end. you write, ‘i’d like to think that glass, unbroken, tells us something.” instead, explain to us what that unbroken glass represents. whether it’s virgil’s guilt, need to do something non-destructive, or if he cherished the moment and the wine. any of those would be good, as long as the reader can get inside the narrator’s head.
thanks for sharing
Catastrophe reviewed Version 4 -
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This story has a very easy, casual style, which makes it effortless to get involved. The characters are individuals, and you hint at their facets. Lines like “Not after last time.” establish a history and continuity. It’s obvious these folks are friends, with ongoing arguments and alliances.
You have a good grasp of details (“I think that unbroken glass tells us something.”), and realize the scenes very effectively in describing the food and settings.
Well done.
Curtastrophe reviewed Version 4 -
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“Occasionally, he gets me the check on time.” I’d replace ‘check’ with rent’. It was a little confusing the first time I read it.
”...the window cracked wide.” I’d reword this.
The first three paragraphs (as I suspect the rest of the piece will follow) are written in a very unique voice. Not “bad” unique, just different, almost like slipstreamy.
The description of the sister is dazzling, “Lips like they were stained in Shiraz.” being one of the best.
”...uncoiled a black scarf --contraption-- from…”
Okay, I’m halway through this and I’ll give you my impressions so far. First, this story is hard to critique. I like it, and therefore find myself paying attention much more to the story than trying to scan for grammatical and sentence errors. I’m sure somebody else will be happy to do that for you. The story itself I like because it’s told very well – The narration’s good. The reader empathizes with the protag for a number of reasons. I’m a big fan of cooking shows so the descriptions of the food don’t bother me, but I suspect that to others this could be a bit distracting. The characters are all portrayed very humanely; everybody knows a “Meat”, and the contradictory qualities of the roomate are those which anyone who’s ever had to rent with someone else can easily relate to.
I like the information this piece is stacked with. For instance, the wine’s “legs”. This is something I’d never heard before, but is explained well enough that it makes sense in the very trivial, “keep the wine friends entertained” kind of way.
”...half still dreaming..” I’d switch around ‘still’ and ‘half’.
“I heard myself say we didn’t…” This is a good observation, one that shows the trauma felt by the narrator.
At first I felt that Virgil accepting the wine was unrealistic and trite, but then given the assumption of the narrator (and the reader) that he could be on any number of mind-altering drugs, I reconsidered it as something possible.
””I almost said, “it’s got legs.”” Ha!
“Forward thinking…” This paragraph I’ve got mixed feelings about… I don’t really understand how it progresses the story. But then again, it seems necessary to slow down the tension for Virgil’s realization proceeding it.
”...the permeated…” I’d replace ‘the’ with ‘that had’.
I thought the story was good. It had an awesome climax and a solid ending. I like how it wraps up with the narrator ruminating on the fate of the gunman. Thanks for sharing.
-Curt
DCAllen reviewed Version 4 -
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Love the fishbowl-lense transition to the scene. Excellent. And the unexpected turn with Virgil. Very nice. Love the foodiness. My only criticism in terms of content is that the second story (the attempted robbery) could be foreshadowed more/better in the first part.
You are obviously a talented to writer, so please take the following proofreading notes as positively as I mean them:
window cracked wide (seems like a contradiction)
last weeks = last week’s ?
because, his sister (no comma here)
set on the couch = sit ?
sub prime = subprime
labor day = Labor Day
antipasto (I know this is OK for the course, but an Italian would say antipasti if the course included a variety of dishes.)
palm sized = palm-sized
At around page 4, I wondered why Jake’s dog hadn’t been mentioned in the story’s opening paragraph.
On page 5, Meat asks a question for the second time that is oddly not represented as a question. This time even without a question mark.
clown, I had (comma splice)
These are obviously people who know a lot about wine, so it seems implausible that they would start with a wine as big as a Carménère and then proceed to a Riesling. Also, half a bottle of Riesling doesn’t sound like enough for a risotto.
egg timer he brought = he had brought
Bachelors Degree = bachelor’s degree
I do, ask him (comma splice)
disband means to cease to function as an organization. I’m not sure if this is correct when describing the business relationship between two parties.
So we remaining in the backyard set (Syntax better IMO: So, remaining in the backyard, we set . . .)
sommelier worthy tirade = sommelier-worthy
bit Jeopardy trivia (of missing)
Where was Meat. (question mark missing)
Meats vacated spot = Meat’s
a fourteen year old = a fourteen-year-old
bottle, its yours,” = it’s
a game saving reaction = game-saving
Virgil tasted wine = had tasted
Virgil saw that he destroyed = had destroyed, had permeated
an eight year old = an eight-year-old
pdk19 reviewed Version 4 -
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The dabbling into stories and memories helps strengthen the impressions of the characters. This worked best in this story before the puzzling appearance of Virgil. After he’s invited, the narrator shares the story of the other occasion of Jake’s forward thinking and it helps create a pause to allow Virgil’s saying “I think I’m at the wrong house” to hit with greater force. This worked well, forcing me to look back and question what could have triggered Virgil’s unease.
You succeed in describing Jake well, and Cletus’ observations begin to reveal his personality. I think you could definitely develop a larger work around these characters.
You also do well in documenting the shifts in mood of the night. How it begins with ephemeral talk and develops into the make or break portion,then the absurd hits with virgil’s appearance. It transitions smoothly.
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