Hi Kitty, thanks for the kind words. Since you are 15 I thought I’d play professor. Your comment about the commas may be valid but you need to site them, be specific. Even in your praise, say why. This not only helps me but helps you. By having to explain what you mean that knowledge transfers to your own writing. Urbis is a great site and you’ll meet some rough characters who are going to refund you for not being specific. Take a look at the other reviews on this page, especially the one by DC Allen. DC is one of the best on the site.
Short Story / The Cove (Analysis)
Heather - I still smell it - matted down blue gray with tiny lavender flowers, baked in the hot summer sun. It covered the rocky hillside in back of the house, cementing the maze of granite steps leading down to the dock and the boats on their nails. I was ten years old that July. It was to be a big year for me, the year I would leave the cove. I had already passed the swimming test. I could launch the dory all on my own. Tenth summers were grand events on The Hill - the world was about to open.
“Maybe Tuesday.” my father said. We were still in the car, a blue Biscayne with a big chrome radio, driving up to my grandparent’s house in Connecticut. New Haven was to our left, Long Island Sound to our right. I’d been trying to wear them down from the moment we got in the car.
“We can’t have the party. Everyone will be back at work,” my mother said.
“I don’t need a party.”
“The Hill needs a party. Remember your friend Mark and his brother’s Barmitsva? “This is like that.”
“Ya mean I have to give a speech?”
“No, you won’t have to give a speech,” my father said, “And no one’s going to give you any money, either.”
“That was a lot of money,” my sister said. She had been quiet the entire ride, actually falling asleep at one point.
“This is an event, Richard; you have to think of others.”
My mother was always saying that – the part about others.
“So we have to have a party?”
“Yes, and a toast.”
“Do I have to dress up?”
My sister, Christina, shoved her doll in my face, pretending that it could talk. “One simply must have a toast at one’s leaving-the-cove party.”
I pushed the doll away. “Shut up,” I said.
“Richard.”
“He’s not very nice today, is he?” my sister said to the doll.
“No," the doll said, "I shant be attending his party.” She turned the doll to face me. “Richard, you are a rude boy.”
“Mom, make her stop.”
Memorial Day weekend not only marked the beginning of summer but also the start of Sunday races, the changing of storm windows for screens, sharpening the rotary mower. Grandfather’s car had to polished, the tires cleaned and the battery charged. It had been a tradition since WWII – the parade, the school band, my grandfather leading in his restored Model “A” and Mr. Bullard in his Phantom. I liked the parade.
“You’ll have to be patient this year,” my mother said for the umpteenth time, turning around to face me, “You’re grandfather isn’t feeling well.”
“What’s wrong?” my sister asked. “Yes,” the doll added, “What’s wrong?”
“Gettin’ old,” my father said, looking at me in the rear view mirror, “Gettin’ old.”
“How old is Grandpa?” my sister asked.
“Eighty two.”
“Eighty three,” my mother corrected.
“That’s right,” my father said, “Mother is eighty two.”
“That’s because they’re pickled inside,” my sister made the doll say, and giggled.
We all laughed at that one. My grandparents were in the habit of taking one teaspoon of pickle juice everyday before lunch. There were other ablutions but that was our favorite. The adults had taught us to play with the word, where one might run into a “picklish” situation, or find one’s self in a heck of pickle or even a pickle fight. A sideways glance at the dining room table meant we had glimpsed some elevated adult world where common words have different meanings. Once my grandmother actually blushed and left the room. I forget which pickle we had gotten into that time. “Francis,” my grandfather had called after my grandmother that day, “You’re an open book, young lady.”
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, we turned off the highway and onto back roads. The Creek only had one road running through it. Once it had once been a quarry town, now it was simply a cute little place waiting for gentrification. The Hill, where my great grandfather had built a small frame cottage, stood at the end the road, a mixture of wealthy and middle class homes, an enclave of sorts, a way of being and a throwback to the golden years of commuter trains and trolleys and grand summer cottages. As soon as we saw the water my sister began looking for boats in the harbor. To launch before the tourists arrived was a matter of local pride, a claim, of sorts, to the harbor and the islands, as if to say we would tolerate strangers but don’t ever get too comfortable.
“What comes after twenty?” the doll asked.
“Twenty one,” I said.
I looked for signs of my friends, Chris Robinson’s yellow bicycle, Danny’s wood canoe. We crossed the creek, nearly high tide. Before us the cove began to emerge, at first a patch of blue sky framed in tight by the trees and the windshield, then houses and boulder strewn shoreline, gray and green islands out in The Sound. Eventually, through open side windows, Ball’s Dock appeared, then the blue slate roof of the Abbot’s house, Smitty’s black runabout, the rotting pilings that once were the oyster dock.
“Bob says they’re going to pull all those pilings this year,” my father announced.
“Blanch has been saying that every summer since I can remember,” my mother answered, “She won’t spend the money.” My mother and father had been saying the same thing, more or less, since I could remember. It had become a kind of incantation, the equivalent of “Open, O Sesame”.
“Open, O Sesame seed,” Chrissy said in her little doll voice. She looked at me and smiled. We had thought of the joke together on the way up, remembering how my grandfather liked to repeat himself, and how my father was starting to do the same. They were both known for telling the same joke to the same person three or even four times.
“We’ll see,” my father said.
That was another thing he said whenever he and my mother disagreed. I was going to point it out. It seemed like a mature thing to comment upon, maturity being that summer’s theme, an attempt by me to demonstrate, yet again, that I was ready to leave the cove, but my luck was running already and I knew it. Better to keep my mouth shut and let it ride. That was also a mature thing.
I congratulated myself on being mature as we turned the corner and drove up The Hill. As always, the great magic doors opened wide and there they all were, sitting outside on the Ross’s front porch, the Camps and the Colgate’s, Doctor Zimmerman and Billy, Bodie Wren in one of her hats, all of the Connors, like one of those paintings I’d seen on our class trip to the Art Museum. With my father’s arrival the hill was complete. Both Chrissy and I jumped from the car and ran up the road to my grandmother’s, waving toward the adults but hell bent on getting our hugs. I opened the door to the cottage and instantly smelled her cooking, always fried chicken that first day back. My parents, still down the hill, got lost in the pack of smiles and sun dresses, milky white legs and loud, happy voices. “Of course,” I heard Blanch cry out as we entered the dark paneled cottage.
“What’s that sound?” my grandmother said. The house was not large and the walls only paneled one side. The open studs and rails were ideal for decorative plates and knick-knacks. Little framed photos were everywhere. “Who’s in my house?” she said again.
“We are,” we cried as my sister ran up, getting lost in the arms and the cotton dress. To this day I believe my grandmother only had one dress, white with blue flowers, and a yellow apron with three red roses. I waited for my turn.
“Where’s Grandpa?” I said.
“What, no hug for your grandmother before running off?” She had buried her face in Christina’s hair. “This better not be because someone I know is about to have his tenth summer here on The Hill.”
I didn’t know how to answer. “Aw, grandma.” I was ashamed to think all I wanted was to see my grandfather and hear him agree that Tuesday would be the day, the day I could take the dory and row around Cut ‘n Two and back again by myself. The heck with the party; no warrior’s quest ever mattered more. We could have party some other time.
“Come here, young man, give grandma a hug,”
My sister stepped back and I threw my arms around her soft body, smelling of muffins and roasts, Murphy’s Soap and Dr. Dodson’s Famous Foot Powder, vinegar breath, wrinkled, care worn hands. I was almost as tall as her now. “So where is he?” I asked, smiling to show that I knew.
She pulled back, looked at me in a way I’d never seen before. For a moment I thought there would be no tenth summer, that they had decided I wasn’t ready; that maybe the dory was lost in a storm.
“I believe Grand Father is bailing the Star.”
Was that all? The Star was my grandfather’s pride and joy, an Olympic class sloop he still raced on Sundays.
“I believe you will find Mr. Hendrickson there.”
They always referred to each other that way, a kind of formality that sounded both strange and endearing. It was Father or Mother when speaking to my parents, Grand father or Grand Mother when speaking to us. At parties they referred to one another as Mrs. or Mr. Hendrickson, and to each other, when in our presence, as “Dear Wife” or “Beloved Husband”. The only time I had ever heard either of them use first names was the day of the pickle reference. My grandfather calling her “Frances” and then “young lady” only made for more intrigue.
“Did he take the dory?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, “Mr. Hendrickson always takes his skiff to tend the fleet.”
The “fleet” was every boat on the hill. A common deed gave each home-owner property rights to the waterfront and cove. Even though your stone steps led down from your own back yard to your dock, it was anyone’s guess as to who’s boat would be tied there, or who might be using the diving board; and your own boat God knows where, a note tacked to the door or the gate giving an approximate time as to when it might return. The dory was one of the special boats in the fleet, built by my grandfather along the lines of a Sea Bright Skiff, an exceptionally strong and sea worthy craft designed to be launched in ocean surf, or lashed to a ship as a life boat. It was the one we all learned to row, not just my sister and I but every kid on the hill and half the others in town. It was the boat you took out to Cut ‘n Two, far beyond the cove, out beside Davis and Bear Islands, then down along shore past the marsh and the Bullard Estate and then, finally, back to the cove. A ritual, they called it. An adult could make the journey in twenty minutes, but a ten year old boy or girl, alone on the open water for their very first time, an epic they had been told about since that first naked swim as a toddler at low tide by the jetty, that trip sometimes took years.
“It might be a good idea for father to go and check on him,” my grandmother said.
“Check on him?”
“Yes, you know Grand Father,” she said. She had lost her smile. Chrissy and I looked at each other.
“Do you want help, grandma?” my sister asked.
“That’s my favorite girl, and as for you, young man, be back here in an hour or you’ll miss lunch.”
The smile had returned.
“Ok, grandma.”
I was already out the door.
“Be sure and tell Father,” my sister called after. I liked my sister. People often said that was rare but I never understood what they meant by it.
My parents were still at the Ross’s, drinks in hand and laughing at something Rossi was saying. Everyone called Mr. Ross “Rossi” because his first name was actually Herb, but there was already another Herb on the hill that everyone called “Herbie.”
“The Big Ten,” Rossi said as I walked up onto their lawn. “Yes” they all seemed to be saying, “The big ten, the grand moment, the big whammy jammy.” This last from Doctor Zimmerman. He had a big bushy mustache and went to church on Saturdays, like my friend, Mark. “Is today the big day?”
“Marvin, I’ll kill you,” my mother scolded, “He’s talked about nothing else all week. Next Saturday is the day and that’s the end of it. We’ve got too much to do before the parade, and I have to plan the party.
“We’ve already got the party,” Doctor. Zimmerman said, “The parade, I forgot.” He looked down at me and smiled. “Patience, my boy, patience.”
Rossi looked down as well. He was holding a big glass of water with ice and a slice of lime. Like my grandmother’s dress, it seemed that I never saw Rossi in anything more than a pair of bathing trunks and a sleeveless white tee, always with his glass of water. He had crashed his plane in the Korean War and it looked like someone had run him through an electric can opener, the scars running in spirals up his leg and then across his stomach and chest, all the way around. He always smiled, like he was in on some secret, and you could be too someday if you wanted.
“I think your grandfather went out to bail the Star,” he said, looking across the harbor toward our mooring ball, just this side of Cut ‘n Two.
The island was aptly named, two large piles of rock with a house on the left and a small grove of pines on the right, the two tied together by the remains of a foot bridge. The bridge, like many things in The Creek, had been destroyed by the Hurricane of ’38. There were pictures of The Hill up at my grandmother’s, houses with delicate gingerbread lattice and the famous house on Outer Island that disappeared, only the chimney remaining. At low tide, where the Cut n’ Two bridge had once been, you could walk along a narrow sand bar full of crabs and tidal pools. The water this side was deep enough for the my grandfather’s boat - she leaked like a sieve - but none of the modern boats with their fancy rigs or light-weight hulls could even come close when my grandfather and father took her out for the open class races. I went along as bailer, small and agile even in my bulky orange life vest, something else I looked forward to shedding this tenth summer. “We’d sink without him,” my grandfather would say when asked if I was a sanctioned member of the crew. “He’s really a pump we’ve disguised as a boy.”
I looked out now past the cove toward the islands. Tied to the stern of the Star was my grandfather’s skiff, and old workboat he’d salvaged from one of the lobstermen, painted dark green with a red boot stripe, our families trademark color scheme. I could see him bailing, rhythmically dipping down and up, down and up, as if he was also a pump like me. Behind him the island rose in two small castles, the Star moored perfectly between, a part of the stone pillared bridge and the mast blending together like the island’s flag pole. Because you could walk the sandy spit of land connecting the halves at high tide, Cut n’ Two was technically one single island. In the early ‘20’s, Thom Thumb, the Barnum & Bailey Circus performer, had lived there, and the living room of the cabin still had all his headliner posters decorating the ceiling.
“Dad,” I said, “Grandma says lunch in an hour.”
“Guess Irv’s going to miss his fried chicken,” Rossi said. My grandfather’s name was Irving.
“Mother will have a snit,” my father said, mimicking grandma’s tone. I saw him catch Rossi’s eye, they had grown up together there on The Hill.
“Edward,” my mother warned, eyeing the two men, knowing they were not much older than ten themselves, “Let’s stick to the plan.”
“Aw hell, honey, what’s a couple of days gonna matter?”
“And we already have the party,” Mr. Zimmerman added.
“Not until you prove to me we’ve got a good motor up and running,” my mother demanded.
“We do,” Rossi said, the grin growing wider, “Just tuned it today.”
“Well son?”
“Well what?”
“Want to row out and tell your grandfather it’s time for lunch?”
They all saw the look on my face. I was still praying they wouldn’t find some excuse to call off Tuesday; now this was just too good to be true. The afternoon sun invaded my body. I felt as though I could jump all seven steps of the porch.
“Really?”
“Come on, everybody,” Rossi announced, “Ricky’s gonna leave the cove.”
A round of applause burst out. People refilled their glasses and opened fresh bottles of beer. Suddenly, Mr. Camp and Mr. Conner were grabbing my arms and hoisting me onto their shoulders. “Hip hip, hooray!” they cried. “Hip hip, hooray!”
We all crossed the little road and paraded between Herbie’s house and the Doctor’s side porch, walking across the grand lawn behind Blanche’s, stopping just at the top of the steps leading off to Camp’s dock. The men put me down and Rossi came up with a pair of varnished ash oars, the leathers newly sewn.
“This is an early birthday gift from all of us,” he said, handing them to me. I looked around the group, these adults with whom I had spent every summer. I thought they’d be happy, but they all seemed sad for some reason. Then Bodie raised up her glass and one by one they were smiling again. I took the oars and hefted them over my shoulder, the way I had seen my father do it, turning to walk down the granite steps.
“Wait a minute,” Rossi said. “We have to toast.”
Bodie stepped forward. The wind blew her dress and her wide brimmed hat struggled to stay on her head. She was older than most of the others, but not as old as Blanche or my grandparents. She had never been married.
“Gods of the oceans,” she said, holding her glass up high as the others followed, “We ask that you protect this young man. Watch over him now in all his endeavors, and remember that we of The Hill honor your greatness. Through tempest and calm, show him the way, let the North Star always…..”
“Christ, Bodie,” someone said, “Don’t scare the kid.”
They all laughed. I laughed, too.
“Well, then – be off,” she said, with a wave of her hand, and they all drained their glasses.
I turned to walk down the steps. The heather struck, a wall of warm scent, so thick and bitter my eyes watered. It grew all over the hill, especially that side with its steep granite outcroppings. The quarried steps leading down to the dock seemed anchored by it, only foot worn patches of speckled stoneshowed where bare feet and boat shoes had been. I walked down feeling dried flowers crunch in between my toes, the warm stone, the water bright in the afternoon and the smells of Long Island Sound hanging over the railings, the mooring lines, the green stained pilings under the dock. When I got out to the platform I turned and looked back up the hill. They all raised their glasses again and Doctor Zimmerman called out, “Lacheim.” Everyone laughed. Each motion seemed magical. I hauled in the dory, walked down the moss covered stairs with their pieces of asphalt shingle nailed to each step, put my new pair of oars under the center seat and, resting the opposite rail as I had been taught, untied the bowline, stepping down into the boat. I coiled the line, laid it neatly on the bow seat, then sat down and set my oars. At first stroke the adults cheered again.
“Bon voyage!” they cried.
“Send us a postcard.”
“Don’t forget your grandfather,” I heard my mother say.
I pulled on the oars, posing my best technique. I rowed past the other boats tied to their stakes and then past the swim float. The wind had kicked up; I compensated by pulling just a little more on my starboard oar. Looking over my shoulder now and again, I set a course for Cut ‘n Two and the Star. It was as if I had never seen The Hill from the water, how the widow’s watch above the Wren house peaked out over the two big Oaks in our yard, how the bright yellow paint my grandfather used shot out between other houses in bright, sharp angles, the red roof of the Camp’s garage, the white columns spanning the Ross’s front porch. One of the local lobster boats crossed my stern, the man standing by his wheelhouse staring intently, his yellow overalls stained with fish guts and grease. I nodded, taking another stroke. He nodded back.
I rowed for a while, feeling the dory cut through the chop. It was a heavy boat, and once she got going moved well with a solid inertia. When I got close to the Star I noticed my grandfather’s skiff was gone. I stopped at the oars and looked about. I was now a good quarter mile from the dock. I may as well have been half way round the world. My grandfather was nowhere to be seen.
I continued to row. I could see the adults; they had all come down the steps, standing now on the big platform at the end of the Ross’s dock. Chrissy was out at the end of the diving board waving. My grandmother stood up on the lawn above. I continued to row. As I got to the island I noticed my grandfather’s skiff pulled up on the last spot of sand near one of the old foundations, its dark green hull hidden by shadows cast by the pines. They grew right down to the water’s edge. He was nowhere to be seen. I gauged the available sand left for me and then saw that the little skiff was not even tied or anchored. It was only resting there. It seemed odd that my grandfather would do that. If I left a boat in that way I’d never hear the end of it.
It was then I heard singing, or what I took to be someone singing. It sounded like him; at least, it sounded how my grandfather might if he sang. Though the island was narrow there by the bridge I would have to row around to the other side. The skiff worried me. I maneuvered beside it, grabbed the bow line and tied it to the stern of the dory. Then I continued around the island, towing my grandfather’s skiff behind.
I had some idea where he was. There was a formation of rock on the other side we called the wishing well. At high tide, the water formed a small pool and the shade from the pines darkened it to a mirror. My sister and I loved to hang over the edge and make funny sounds that would bounce off the rock and echo over that end of the island. I rowed around and came beneath the shelter of the pines. The water there was quiet and the two boats slipped along easily. I had forgotten about the adults. Drifting up to the rock, I saw my grandfather. He was kneeling by the edge of the pool, gazing down and holding his red skipper’s hat in his hands.
“Grandpa,” I said, standing up in the dory. He seemed not to hear. I was close, less than a few yards below him.
“Grandpa,” I said again.
It startled him. He looked up and scowled.
“Grandpa, I did it,” I said.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
I thought he was joking, as if he did not recognize me all grown up and out alone in the dory, away from the cove.
“It’s your grandson,” I said, deepening my voice and standing up tall and proud, “I have left the cove.”
‘You’re not my grandson,” he said, getting up and dusting his knees.
"You forgot to tie up your skiff,” I countered, pretending to scold him.
“Where did you get that?” he said suddenly, pointing now at the skiff. He took a step back and looked around. “What in God’s name?” He looked down at me again.
“Grandpa, its Ricky.”
“Ricky? Who is Ricky? And why are you calling me grandfather? My grandson is dead.”
“No grandpa, I’m right here,” I said, “It’s me. I rowed out in the dory to get you.”
I heard the sound of another boat rush past the other side of the island. A moment later my father came around. He saw me and throttled down, cutting the motor and running Rossi’s motorboat up alongside.
“Edward,” my grandfather said, “Where have you been? This boy insists I’m his grandfather. Do you know him? Why has he got my skiff?”
I looked at my father. The tears we were starting to come. “Dad,” I said.
“It’s okay Rick, its okay. You’re grandfather’s not feeling well these days.”
“What do you mean?” he shot back, standing there over us, “I feel fine. I just want to know where this boy got my boat.”
“Grandpa, it’s me,” I pleaded.
“Rick. Look at me. Rick? Look at me.”
I looked at my father.
“I’ll explain when we’re back at the house.”
“But Dad.”
“When we get back.”
“He’s not your son. Your son died.”
“Ricky, look at me. I want you to finish your row. Do it now, the entire way, past Bear Island and past the Bullard’s. All the way along the marsh. Everyone will be at the dock, waiting.”
“But Dad.”
“I’ll get grandpa home. Go on now, go on.”
“Billy’s dead,” my grandfather said, looking back down at the pool. “Nothing will bring him back.”
“Dad, who’s Billy?”
“I’ll explain when you get back. Grandpa needs a nap and then he’ll be fine.”
“Who’s Billy?”
“Go on, Rick, finish your journey.”
I looked back to the top of the rock. My grandfather was kneeling once more by the side of the pool, gazing into the water, mumbling words I could not make out. I sat down in the dory, untied the skiff and handed my father the line. He had this look on his face, the smile I’d seen so often in Rossi’s eyes, only my father’s eyes were sad, like I would not like what he knew.
I pulled on the oars, away from my father and grandfather, away from the far side of Cut n’ Two. Through the break and remains of the bridge the Star’s mast stood tall and white against the blue sky and the town beyond. It was quiet there among the big rocks. I rowed in the shallows along Bear Island. Giant stone shelves lurked just beneath the surface. The dory glided over, my new oars occasionally bumping the ledge, sending a jolt of surprise. I pulled now in a steady rhythm, pacing myself, checking over my shoulder, adjusting the boat’s direction. The marsh smelled ripe and geese fought on the beach. I stayed a safe distance off shore, imagining wild animals hidden in the reeds, waiting to pounce on any unsuspecting prey. The bottom gradually changed from rock to sand. I continued to row, mechanically, just wanting to get back now. When I passed the Bullard’s their grand kids were playing croquet on the great sweeping lawn. They waved and I waved back. Mr. Bullard was by the garage, polishing his silver-gray Phantom. He saw me, waived and then clasped both hands together, shaking them in victory over his shoulder, as if I were some kind of hero.
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Oookookachoo reviewed Version 1 -
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You wanted to know about emotional impact. My girlfriend read it with me. She’s crying…are you happy?
A voice and a rythem picked up about half way through. Like yourself,I don’t like tags in dialog. But you need a few tags or parathetical statements to make your dialog a bit more clear. I loved the ending.
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KittyNadem reviewed Version 1 -
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It’s a really nice short story that you wrote. I throughly enjoyed reading it the characters are realistic and all in all it’s just a really great story with an plot. You use the first person point of view very well, I think that this particular story needed to be told in first person and choosing that you did very well. I did notice some errors a lot of punctuation errors, there are some places where you should be putting a comma before and after the name of someone and you don’t. There are some places where inside of the quotation marks you put a comma at the ending where a period is necessary, and I saw that a lot all through your entire story. More towards the beginning rather than the end. So you might just go through it with a highlighter and fix all of the errors. After they are fixed this will be just a wonderful and really enjoyable story to read. I noticed that you used “my grandmother” and “my grandfather” and other things that just make the story less personal, I think that you should just call them Grandma and Grandpa, it’s more personal and more true to the first person POV. You’ve got the creativity, you’ve got the talent, you’ve got the characters, now all you need is a fine toothed comb and an hour or two.
Live Long Laugh Hard!
KittyNadem
KindredSpirit reviewed Version 1 -
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Tried to jot impressions down as I read. Hope I can be of help. Easy read, well-written.
Nice set up – year he’d leave the cove.
dory – don’t know much about boats, a brief description would be nice, similar to how you describe the car in next paragraph.
Love the brother/sister spat.
How old is sister? Her name? (Okay, it’s Chrissy. Why not tell us right away?)
If you always refer to one specific location being the Hill, try to be consistent with capitalization. Otherwise how is the Hill different from the hill?
“… hell bent… hugs.” How well those of us growing up with cuddly grandmothers can relate to this.
“… lost in the arms” seems awkward. Maybe a bit more description – “… lost in grandmother’s warm, chubby arms and familiar cotton dress.”
“… not much older than ten… “ – they didn’t act much older than ten themselves…
Not so sure you need to include Thom Thumb info, unless it will have impact on story later. Same with reference to church on Saturdays like Mark (lost me a bit with that one).
No life vest for the boy?
Before he takes that first stroke, I feel like it needs just a moment of acknowledgment, this is it, he takes a breath and plunges the oars into the water and smiles as the boat propels forward. You could build the drama here, it’s an important moment. And would he maybe feel some apprehension with this event happening sooner than he thought? With all those eyes on him? Maybe a clumsy moment to have us wonder if he’s really ready for this. After that, your description of this rowing episode is nice.
Man in lobster boat could be surprised at seeing a child? Or give the kid a salute? A little more than just a nod would underscore the event.
Ho! Very mysterious feeling, “my grandson is dead.” Feel a definite possibility Billy was for real. Like this twist.
Really like the grandpa/grandson/father dialogue near the end, short and fast-paced, builds momentum/suspense.
You have me hooked with the grandfather’s condition and Billy so I hope you continue this story. It can still be a short story but just more of it. Or, if there is no more, we need some sort of resolution and addressing of the above two topics.
jhmckeogh reviewed Version 1 -
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This is well written and coherent. Good work so far.
I didn’t know how the dad got to be on the island with the boy and the grandfather in the end. I thought granddad went off missing, and that the kid was making a solo flight. I probably just missed something.
The beggining section is a beautiful slice of life, but i think it can be trimmed down. Not in overall pages or words, but in relation to the conflict/plot/suspense going on. I know you need to build up the family life, but can you multitask, and pepper in some dirt there. The grandfather being sick i think is a good undercurrent for the family, but its really the grandsons reaction to it that is the plot. Get me inside his head a little more. Foreshadowing, having people be talking about a storm, having the kid be nervous about the conditions on the lake before his turn comes up. He could be all smiles and dying inside so that no one knows it but the reader.
Sometimes, your dialogue gets a little parrotting. Things are repeated, sometimes for effect, but i started to get wary of it. Every word should be weighed, i feel like some of your double talk can be cut out…
for instance
“Ya mean I have to give a speech?”
“No, you won’t have to give a speech,
“What’s wrong?” my sister asked. “Yes,” the doll added, “What’s wrong?”
Also, if this is to be a stand alone short story, i’m not digging your ending. If its a chapter with more to come, it works fine though.
Cheers,
James
Olive147 reviewed Version 1 -
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Very good. Easy to relate to.
BrianA reviewed Version 1 -
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I see this as a quite symbolic piece. The title itself `The Cove’ – safe harbour. It is about a boy experiencing a local rite of passage. Of itself, usually uneventful, though the boy notes ` that trip sometimes took years.’. I thought the revelations and general tone of the boy’s presentation as a character was good.
The setting, a place called The Hill, with stone steps and heather leading down to the shore, and the Cut’n’Half, and the cliffs etc put me in mind of Victor Hugo’s Toilers of the Sea set I think in the Orkney Islands. It is a lost world, a small world cut off, and retaining its own character by virtue of land-holding arrangement (Lord Howe is similar) and the retention of traditions (name reference).
I liked the little pocket histories the boy character provides of other characters. The pickle story seemed a bit long – integral purpose with names called by relatives later on.
The line:` I liked my sister….but I never understood what they meant by it.’ – reinforces the `adoptee’ argument at the close of story i.e. not really his sister. Here put, I suppose, it adds depth to character i.e. not further alluded to in story, but something allied the character is already aware of.
Rossi: ` like he was in on some secret, and you could be too someday if you wanted.’ – you use this reference late in the story when boy looks at father `... the smile I’d seen so often in Rossi’s eyes, only my father’s eyes were sad,’ – I wondered, cohesion is fine, but at that moment, it seemed to me that reference first to a subsidiary character, compared with emotions between father and son seemed off a little. My opinion – I think fathers look of emotion should be his own – unreferenced.
As the story progresses there is considerable whipping up of anticipation – but this does not seem contrived. And the surprise (he get to do his row a week early), before the surprise (his Grandfather doesn’t recognize him) means that there is an elevation in the story, as the boys dreams are fulfilled. This is satisfying to the reader. The ending comes as a surprise, and it is somewhat confusing. Is the Grandfather suffering from Alzheimer’s or due to it, or some disorder has reverted to the truth, with the mention of Billy. Perhaps a real grandson that has perished somehow.
Now some of these thoughts must be in the boys head as he rows off on his task. I believe to an extent you have tried to represent these fears and concerns symbolically, and you close them with ` The bottom gradually changed from rock to sand.’ The solid footing that was his secure life – his relationships and that with his grandfather have now turned to sand. He has no firm footing. And in the end it seems like a hollow victory for the boy when someone else’s grandfather waves at him like he is a hero, not his own. He continues to row `mechanically’. So in actual effect, instead of being just a ritual, this has been an actual rite of passage.
I like the story; it was wholesome, in a way dealing with the time and people. The group like the garden party and the grandparents, the car ride where identifiable connections for the reader. It was subtle and not pointed and so came across as real, and so was effective.
Thanks for the read. How above helps or confirms something for you.
DCAllen reviewed Version 1 -
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For the most part, this is a compelling story. It is, however, a long way to go for the theme of dementia that slips in. I think this weakens the story. I was expecting some sort of creepy rite-of-passage story that never materialized. Still, a very well-written piece.
Notes:
grandparent’s house = grandparents’ (plural and possessive)
actually falling asleep (awkward. I’d recast this to give a more specific detail.)
I’d identify the sister as Christina the first time you mention her.
had to polished = had to be polished (typo)
You’re grandfather = Your
Eighty two, Eighty three, twenty one = Eighty-two (hyphenate up to ninety-nine. Check throughout.)
everyday = every day (everyday is an adjective as in an everyday occurrence)
The pickle section is very nice.
Once it had once been (awkward repetition. A typo?)
quarry town, now… (While accepted usually in creative prose, this is a classic comma splice. A semicolon would be perfect here.)
at the end the road (insert of)
middle class homes = middle-class (hyphenate prenominal compound adjectives)
a way of being and a throwback (Why not simply a throwback?)
The Creek or the creek (decide. The Creek sounds creepier, which I hope this story turns out to be. Also: the hill, later in the text.)
and boulder strewn shoreline = boulder-strewn (would sound better with the)
Colgate’s = Colgates (not possessive)
Both Chrissy (delete Both)
give grandma a hug = Grandma (when used in place of a name. Check throughout.)
care worn = careworn
home-owner = homeowner
who’s boat = whose (possessive)
sea worthy = seaworthy
life boat = lifeboat
ten year old boy = ten-year-old (hyphenate when used as a prenominal modifier or a noun)
The sentence beginning “An adult could make…” is too long and ends in a comma splice. I’d recast it.
Ok = OK, O.K., or okay
The description of Rossi’s scars is quite good.
grandmother’s, houses with delicate (This comma needs to be a colon. Using the comma indicates a list: There were pictures, houses, and the famous house. You mean, however, that there were pictures of these houses, right? Colon.)
light-weight = lightweight
and old workboat = an (typo?)
our families trademark = family’s (possessive, not plural, right?)
stone pillared bridge = stone-pillared
early ‘20’s = ‘20s
not much older than ten themselves (an odd statment. Hmmm.)
The wind blew her dress and her wide brimmed hat… (Without a comma before the conjunction and, here the reader sees at first The wind blew…her wide-brimmed hat…, which is not what you mean.)
foot worn = footworn
stoneshowed (typo)
The sentence beginning “I hauled in the dory…” is too looooooonnnnng. :)
It was a heavy boat, and once she got going moved… (This syntax bothered me. What about A heavy boat, once she got going she moved…? You call the boat It and then she.)
“Grandpa, its Ricky.” = it’s
Rick, its okay. = it’s
waived = waved (typo near the end)
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