Thanks for all the great advice man! Sorry it took me so long to unlock this but everything costs sooo much! It’s good to get such useful criticisms! Thanks again!
Short Story / A True Tale of a Total Idiot
A True Tale of a Complete and Total Idiot
Yes, it is true. I am an idiot. I would love to deny it, but I simply can’t. Much to my embarrassment, this tale will illustrate just how stupid I can be. I wish I could say that I was tricked, or duped, or even drunk at the time, but alas, the impressive display of foolishness you are about to read is all me.
Let me begin by introducing myself. My name is Gunther Kilby and I’m a writer. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I used to be famous. I’ve written two novels, a collection of short fiction – one of which was adapted into a movie that happened to star a certain actor by the name of DeNiro! – and more than a few articles in various well known and widely circulated magazines.
After my second book of short stories was published – and lauded by numerous critics for its, “…wonderful attention to detail, subtlety of its many diverse characters, and Kilby’s knack for making the outrageous not only seem plausible but apropos.” (Jack Winsotte, Chicago Sun Times, April 13th, 1995) – I was given the opportunity to go to South America to do a cover story. Non-fiction wasn’t really my forte, but I was young and adventurous and didn’t want to pass up the chance.
In ’97, at the ripe old age of 27, I hit my professional peak by winning an Inky (shorthand term for an Inkwell Award, very prestigious, very important) for that story. It was about a tribe called Tehaneshu (pronounced ti-HAN-EE-shoe) located in western Chile. Fascinating people, really, with an incredibly rich and unique culture in which its leaders are not chosen by age, gender, or family lineage but rather, the leaders are found from the balance of married couples. Their philosophy dictates that only those capable of successfully raising a family can successfully govern their people. If you would like more details please read the story published in Corners of the World (issue 132, Feb. 1996, pg. 44).
Yeah, I used to be cool. But now, not so much. On the mantle above my fireplace sits a series photos of me that eerily mimic – or mock, depending how you look at it – that famous picture in every high school kid’s Biology book depicting the evolution of man. Except instead of showing a hairy little chimp turning into a sharp looking man in a three-piece suit, mine is pretty much the reverse. The photo on the far left shows me as a young man with thick black hair, a wide smile, and a perfectly fit body – showed off by the tight tee-shirt and shorts I wore – leaning on the bike on which I used to perform my job as a sandwich delivery-boy in the city. The next picture is a few years later, just after my first book, and my cheeks are a bit fuller, the slouch of my shoulders a bit more pronounced, and the tight tee shirt I wore in that photo only showed off the paunch I had begun to develop. Over the course of the next five pictures I’ve traded in too much of my hair for sixty pounds I don’t need and a full-blown gut, swapped my form-fitting tee shirt and shorts for a baggy sweatshirt and a pair of wrinkled Dockers that were probably two years out of style, and replaced my dependable 10-speed with a bag of Doritos. No, the only thing that I can say that I like about my own personal Darwinism was the addition of a small piece of gold around my finger, between pictures four and five. I got married and I’m quite convinced that she is the best thing that anyone could ever say about me.
Her name is Heather. Ah, my beautiful Heather.
In a word, wow! Other appropriate words would be: spectacular, fabulous, wonderful, hell, just about everything in the thesaurus under “amazing.” I could sit here and spout off hundreds of words, adjectives and metaphors about her beauty but all of them would fall hollow and unfulfilled should you ever chance to meet her. Blonde, green-eyed, with a small toned body, she could always make my brain flatline every time I see her. She had a very sharp analytical mind that made her a top-notch accountant and a very sharp creative eye that made her a top-notch amateur photographer – for which she won a couple of awards at local area fairs – and is single-handedly responsible for all the photos in our home, including the seven on our mantle.
When I met her she already had a job at a very large and prominent advertising firm. The job paid well, but not great, and it was the perfect fit for her structured meticulous mind making her the quintessential combination of brains and beauty. At that time I was delivering sandwiches (see photo #1 as described above) to her building and was trying to break into the difficult world of writing, and it was slow going. Once I met her, though, it seemed like I couldn’t get the stories out fast enough. Her firm handled the advertising on both of my books and soon we were dating. We announced the wedding after the awards ceremony at which I had won the Inky for the aforementioned Tehaneshu piece. The middle picture on our mantle was of me receiving my Inky and only a few hours later the girl of my dreams would in fact say yes.
Right now, I’m sure you’re thinking, I thought this guy was supposed to be an idiot! Patience, my dear reader, patience. The stupidity will come, I assure you.
So, now that you’ve gotten to know me a little bit better, I feel more comfortable in telling the narrative of my shame. It begins three weeks ago in my usual spot on the couch dressed in my usual pair of sweats and flannel, my hand in my usual bag of cheese-curls, and staring miserably at a re-run of the A-Team. Heather, meanwhile, was upstairs dressed in a fine red silk dress, silently applying eye-shadow, trying to decide on diamonds or pearls, and staring miserably at the mirror. Ah, to be happily married!
Truth be told – and I promise, every word of this is true – those cheese-curls were the closest thing to happiness I had found in longer than I care to admit. I offered one to our black and gray striped cat called Evilpuss (Heather calls her Trixie, but trust me, Evilpuss is a far more apt name) and she just glared at me with her fierce yellow eyes from her perch on the armrest of the couch. An interesting fact about Evilpuss: while she hates just about all life in general, and me in particular, she only comes near me when I’m feeling miserable or worse. And not to give me comfort at such times, I’m convinced she comes over to gloat. So, I wasn’t surprised to feel those awful eyes staring at me from the other end of the couch because at that moment I was feeling particularly low. Heather and I had just had another fight.
This fight was nothing special, and it wasn’t special because it was about something stupid, like forgetting to take out the garbage or leaving the toilet seat up. It wasn’t special because after you do the same thing over and over again fifty times or more the specialness has a way of fading. Our fights usually centered on the same theme, and such a common theme at that: money and the lack of it. Actually, if you were to ask me, money wasn’t a problem. Yes, the bills were piling up, and maybe the mortgage was a little behind but I was taking care of it. I had a few deals in the works and once those came through we would be set again. The problem was that she came from money. Lots and lots of money. Consequently, she had a few expectations about life that I seemed to have difficulty securing for her.
“Hey Gunny,” she had said earlier that evening when she had gotten home from work. I tore my eyes away from the TV long enough to give her a quick smile. “How was your day?”
“Um…” I said, shrugging noncommittally. “I finished a couple pages today.” Her green eyes perked up at the news of my writing, I only curled my lip at the thought. “I don’t know, I think I have to re-write them. There’s just nothing to them, no spark, no life.”
“Is there something I can do to help,” she said with a semi-hopeful grin. “I could read them and maybe…”
“Maybe what? Tell me how write?” I glared at her for a moment, annoyed that she thought she could possibly understand how hard it was to create. I didn’t go to her work and tell her how to add, did I?
She looked at me and I could tell she was a bit saddened, or perhaps even sickened, by me. I suppose I should be grateful she’s not the kind of girl who rolls her eyes because if she were, they would have rolled right out of her head and hid in the closet where they wouldn’t have to look at me. A flash of anger flared in my mind. How dare she presume that writing be such a simple thing? With a surprising amount of restraint, she said, “What did your editor say?”
“My editor? I didn’t talk to him today.”
“Gunny, you said you had to talk to him today. You told me that you needed to talk to him.”
“Yeah, I know, but that was before I thought I had to re-write stuff!”
“You always have to re-write something!”
“It’s a process!”
We stared at each other for a moment and, as though the tension in the air was calling her name, Evilpuss slinked silently into the room, sat neatly at the base of the television and glared at me. Heather was holding her brow and taking long slow breathes trying to calm down.
“All I’m saying is, you better not lose this one.”
“Heather, I—“
“You can’t lose this one, Gunny, not another one!”
I spluttered something indignantly but I couldn’t look her in the eye; it is hard to argue against something you both know is true. I hadn’t written anything since I had won that award. And I don’t mean that I didn’t get anything published, I mean that I hadn’t written anything! I had started writing many things; novels, short stories, articles, even a script, but nothing was ever completed. I found some reason, however small, to not finish. The tone wasn’t right, or I didn’t have enough research, or the characterization was flawed; it didn’t matter, they all ended up being re-written into oblivion.
Maybe it’s the jagged edge of success that I kept getting stuck on, but everything I wrote I judged against the story that got my name engraved onto a piece of bronze. And each new attempt had to be better than it, good wouldn’t cut it and great had to be my starting point. It needed to have wittier dialogue, crisper imagery, sharper points. Its amazing how short a trip it is from ambition to arrogance and how easy it is to become paralyzed by pride.
Naturally, with my productivity going from up-and-coming A-lister to junk food-inhaling lazy ass content to sit on my laurels in front of my new 48” plasma screen, my first editor dropped me. Then another. And another until I was being passed around like a bag of corner store jelly beans in which all the good flavors were gone except the black licorice. I had become the black licorice of the publishing world.
“Listen,” she said once again in her usual calm tones, “my parents are having another dinner party tonight.”
“They are? First I hear of it. They usually announce their parties weeks in advance, give the common people time to prepare themselves to enter your parents’ wonderful presence.” The faint taste of black licorice in my mouth may have had something to do with how bitter my words were.
“They do, I mean they did,” she said. “Mother called me at work today. She really wanted me to come. She practically insisted.”
“And since you’re such a good little girl you just drop everything and go.”
“Gunny, I’m going because I want to.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not!” I said, a bit more harshly than I intended. I do not like her parents and, more importantly, they do not like me. As I said, Heather came from money and they felt that I was beneath her. Very far beneath her.
“It never crossed my mind that you would come,” she said coldly.
“It’s just a big room full of fake smiles on fake bodies with fake personalities. Why the hell would I want to go?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said bristling. “Maybe make some contacts? Make some friends? Or maybe just the idea of going somewhere with your wife?”
I snorted. “Right, like you really want me to show up on your arm. Think your parents will like my outfit? Perhaps we could convince them red plaid is the new ‘fashion?’ Oh wait, there’s no way we could do that! Once they get a glimpse of me and my low-class attire they will not even acknowledge my presence let alone a word I say! To do so would cause such an embarrassment for them!”
“You’re an embarrassment to yourself,” she said quietly, dangerously, barely louder than the rumbling purr coming from Evilpuss.
“Ah, so there’s the truth of it,” I said cruelly, “I’m not good enough for you, am I? AM I? “
“I used to think so, but right now, I’m not so sure.”
“Yeah? Well, gosh, I guess I had better get cleaned up real quick so we can get over there and pimp myself out to your parents and their inane sycophantic friends! Apparently I need a few more zeroes in my bank account to gain the affection, correction: the simple respect, of my wife!”
Even in my anger I could feel the acid in my words burn my own tongue. To Heather’s credit she never flinched but I could see in her eyes, her beautiful green eyes, something whither and fade. When she spoke it was not filled with anger or spite. It was filled with sadness.
“Gunny, you know me. The amount of money you had never mattered. Not for me. But we are in trouble. Big trouble. I’m talking about losing the house kind of trouble.”
“I’ll take care of it! I’ll fix—“
“When?”
“I’ll write something and get paid and then we’ll be all set again!”
“You’ve been saying that for seven years now.”
“Heather, I’m telling you—“
“No.” The quiet finality of her tone cut me off like a gun shot. “I’m tired of this. I can’t do this anymore. If you’re not going to change anything then I will. Now, I’m going to get ready.”
And then Heather, my sweet Heather, stalked past me, ignoring all my shouts, pleas and empty threats and proceeded to get herself ready. I, meanwhile, flopped myself onto the couch, tore open a new bag of cheesy-curls and fumed. Evilpuss happily took up her position on the armrest of the couch and basked in my misery.
An hour later I heard her shut a cabinet door in the kitchen. Regret over what I said had been gnawing at me since the words had left my lips. I couldn’t let her leave without saying something, and, if I were smart enough, attempt to apologize. I dusted the cheesy-crumbs from my flannel and sweats and made my way to the kitchen.
As soon as I entered my eyes landed on her and the old sensation of numbness swept over my body.
“Wow,” I said, and it was the only thing I could think. Her hair was pulled back in an elegant swirl to reveal diamond earrings that I bought her for our second anniversary. They matched perfectly with the necklace I bought her on our first anniversary. The red silk dress wasn’t so much a dress as it was an event of color and fabric that transformed my beautiful wife into an immortal goddess of desire. I’m not kidding. Immortal goddess of desire!
“Wow,” I said again, still unable to think properly.
“Oh,” she said contemptuously as she looked up briefly from stuffing something big and round into her bag, which made it bulge. I felt sorely underdressed and inadequate, even in my own kitchen, and my hand reflexively tried to smooth down what little remained of my hair.
“So,” I said and cleared my throat a little, “your parents have been throwing a lot of these parties lately, huh?”
“They have a lot of friends.”
“Yeah. Um…when will you be home?”
“Late,” she said with a sigh. Then she looked up at me and I could see it in her face; something was different, something was wrong. She almost looked afraid, that she had made a decision that she didn’t like. It looked almost as if something had died inside her. I feared that “something” was hope.
“Heather, I love you so much.” These are the words I should have said right then and there. Knowing what I know now, those few words would have made all the difference in the world. Instead, when I opened my mouth, these were the words that came out:
“Well, drive safe then.” Idiot.
She smiled at me. Well, I’m calling it a smile because that’s what I wanted to see, but in fact it was barely more than a twitch of the corners of her mouth. And then she walked out the door into the darkness.
I meandered around the house for a bit, thinking of things I should have said, regretting some of the things I did say. I picked up a photo – one of the many she had taken of us that were framed and scattered about the house – one she had taken not long after we had started dating. I still had almost all of my hair and only one chin back then and she looked so pretty and happy with her arms wrapped tightly around me. Yes, she looked happy. Then I titled the frame a bit and I saw my reflection in the glass: I was a flabby balding thirty-something standing in his kitchen in sweatpants and a cheese-stained flannel while his stunningly beautiful wife had just walked out the door.
“I am such an ass.”
I ran upstairs so I could take a shower and shave. I was going to meet her at her parents’ house and tell her just how much I loved her and beg her to forgive me for my behavior. I pulled off my shirt, snapped on the shower and took out my shaving kit; I was going to make myself as handsome as she was beautiful, or at least as handsome as I could be. I pulled off a sock and put my foot down so I could remove the other. But when I put my foot down instead of feeling only cold tile my toe nudged a crumpled piece of paper that had fallen under the toilet.
I picked it up and read it.
Dinner
8:00pm
Tom S
The note was written in a shaky scrawl barely recognizable as Heather’s handwriting. I sat on the toilet, bare-chested and with only one sock, the steam from the shower beginning to fill the bathroom, and I stared at the crumpled note. What did it mean? Who was this “Tom S?” I looked down at my watch and it read 7:55. Whoever he was she would be meeting him in five minutes for dinner. Why would she be meeting him this late though and why wouldn’t she tell me?
Yes, I realize that these particular dots can be very easily connected, but you must remember, I am an idiot. It takes a man in my condition a bit longer to process this kind of thing.
Numbly, I turned the shower off and opened the door into our bedroom. It was a large master bedroom with plenty of open space, three large windows and a four-poster king-sized bed. Heather had decorated the room, as with the whole house, with a conservative classy touch that was designed to be both soothing and striking at the same time. A dozen more of her photos hung on the walls and sat on the shelves and dressers, half of those of her and I. The only contribution I had made to our bedroom were the artifacts I brought back with me from the Tehaneshu people and, of course, the Inky I won.
“Dinner. 8:00pm. Tom S.,” I muttered.
I heard a meow from the doorway and Evilpuss gleefully padded into the room, those horrible yellow eyes fixated on me. I swear she was smiling.
Suddenly, everything clicked. I think I even heard the sound “click” in my brain. The things of that evening, the little clues I hadn’t picked up on earlier, zoomed through my thoughts. She said if I wasn’t going to change anything she would. How glamorous she was that night, she never gets that fancy for a party at her parents. And how frequently they were having parties, way more frequently than they ever had before! The note. And that look in her face, like she had given up, like she had lost hope…
“I’m tired of this,” she had said. “I can’t do this anymore.”
I looked down to Evilpuss and said, “She’s cheating on me, isn’t she?”
For an answer, the cat rolled onto its back, playfully batted her paws at me and began to purr. If anyone would know of the misdeeds of others it would be Evilpuss, such is the wisdom of cats.
Somehow, I trudged over to our bed and let myself fall onto it. I don’t know how long I stayed there like that, but I do know that the whole time I kept trying to deny what was right in front of me. I kept trying to make excuses for her. Kept trying to think of someway to explain things in a way that didn’t end up with her betrayal of me. I lied there on the bed thinking, crying, and breathing in the scent of her that lingered on the sheets. This was our bed; this was where we shared everything, this was where we loved…
Wait a minute…what if…what if I wasn’t the only one she loved in this bed?
I barely made it to the toilet before I threw up.
When I was finished I went to the sink and began cleaning myself up. As I washed my hands I became aware of something that I don’t think I had noticed in years: my wedding ring. It was simple and plain. For seven years it had stayed on my finger, paying it no more attention than I would my thumbnail; it was just there, a part of me. Now, it felt hot and uncomfortable. With an effort, I pulled it off. I placed it gently on the edge of the sink.
I caught my reflection in the mirror and for the second time that night I didn’t like what I saw. My dull dark eyes were rimmed in red, my normally round face was even more swollen and damp. My chin trembled a bit involuntarily as I tried to control my sobs. Look what she had reduced me to. Look what she had done to me! I looked and I hated it.
For those men reading this story, I’m sure you can understand what happened next and if you have ever gone through anything remotely similar you have my most heartfelt sympathy. For those women reading this story, well, all I can do is apologize and pray that you won’t hold it against me. You see, when men are in situations in which we are hurt or threatened or confused the most common response to that situation is anger. And I am a common man; a stupid, foolish and utterly common man.
I stared at my face in the mirror and I hated it. I scrubbed at my eyes with my fists, grinding away any tears I might have had left. How could she do this to me? How could she do something so…so…selfish! I had done nothing to deserve this! I was her husband and she was not supposed do to anything to turn me into this blubbering cry-baby! No. I wouldn’t let her do this to me, couldn’t let her do this to me.
I stalked into our bedroom and surveyed every thing that showed her selfishness and greed. That bed, that stupid four-poster bed, the one she had pleaded with me to buy, claiming how romantic it would be to wake up in one of those. Expensive. The bureaus and wardrobes were antiques that we had paid to be restored, “to their original luster.” Useless and expensive. I went to her vanity and viciously knocked over her jewelry boxes, letting their sparkling contents fall where ever they may. I closed my fist around stands of gold, silver and platinum necklaces and bracelets, nearly all of which I had bought her. She had pounds and pounds of glittering gems and shining diamonds – oh, how she adored her diamonds! – and yet she still wanted more, more than I could give her. So she found someone else who could! I threw the expensive and pointless trinkets at the wall where they clattered and fell, some of them breaking for I could hear random pearls or gems rolling about on our hardwood floors.
I couldn’t afford to cater to her every desire, every senseless whim that happened to scurry through her mind so she decided to replace me! How could she think that? I gave her all I had, she wanted for nothing! We were in danger of losing our home and now that this well is going dry she decides she had better find another one? Is that all I was to her? Someone to buy her pretty things and provide a place to keep them?
I tore open the door to her massive walk-in closet and the sight of rack upon rack of clothes and shoes only made my contempt deepen. Designer skirts, label jeans, imported sandals, all of it, I had provided for her! Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, Coco Channel and countless other designers and trendy labels were stylishly displayed in a way that aggravated me even further.
“This is why we have no money! This is why!” Impulsively, I wrapped my arms around as many dresses and blouses and skirts as I could and ran to the top of the stairs. I heaved them down in rage. Chic clothes cascaded haphazardly from our room as I made trip after trip, hurling her precious wardrobe everywhere. Then I began tossing her shoes carelessly from the closet, pelting them off the walls, bouncing them off the bed, knocking a few of her photos from the wall, cracking when the hit the hard floor.. Evilpuss delightedly chased the wayward shoes and waited anxiously for each new piece of footwear that would come flying out. When there was nothing left but hangers and empty racks, I left my wife’s closet.
I stood in the middle of our room, our one-time sanctuary now defiled, and breathed hard, trying to find an outlet for my well-stoked rage. Evilpuss meowed at my feet and my eyes locked onto her ugly yellow orbs that seemed to revel in my despair, encouraging me to continue my destructive actions. As if I needed any urging, ha!
Under the cat’s paw lay the note. That tiny scrap of paper that was the physical root of all the pain I was feeling. I reached down and snatched it, the cat deftly dodging my swipe that I would catch her too.
“Tom S. Who the hell are you Tom S.!” It occurred to me then, that it was quite foolish of me to be angry at Heather, it was this jerk who was to blame! Sure, things haven’t been all that great between us lately but he, Tom, was the one who came between us. He took advantage of her! Perhaps she had been talking about our issues to one of her girlfriends at work and he overheard them, saw an opportunity!
“Work,” I growled, “Of course!” Stuffing the note into the back pocket of my sweatpants, I rushed over to Heather’s nightstand and emptied the drawer onto the floor until I found what I was looking for. Her firm was large enough to warrant it’s own employee directory. She had taken one home with her in case of emergencies and this situation was quickly deteriorating from emergency to catastrophe. Within seconds I had found the S’s and had dialed.
“Hi, you’ve reached the desk of Tom Sanderson,” said a cheery voice. How dare he be cheery at time like this! I hated him instantly. “I’m either on the phone or away from my desk, so please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!”
“I know what you’ve done,” I said as soon as the beep finished. I was choking on my rage and it was impossible to keep my voice from shaking. “Did you think you could get away with it? Huh?! If you ever even THINK of touching my wife again, I’ll…I’ll…BASTARD!”
I slammed the phone down with a satisfying crash. I was about to toss the directory away when I happened to notice that there was another Tom S. that worked at Heather’s firm. In fact, by some odd cosmic quirk, there were eleven. How was I supposed to know which one was…was…involved with my wife? (Let me take this opportunity to point out that I do realize that I really had no way of knowing if “Tom S.” actually worked with my wife, but at the time it made perfect sense.) Since I couldn’t know, I decided the shotgun approach would work best.
“Thomas Scattivius’ desk. Leave a message.”
“How can you sleep at night? Have you no shame for sleeping with another man’s wife? God damn you! God DAMN you!!”
“This is Tommy Seville. When you hear the beep you know what to do.”
“You’re damn straight I know what to do! I’m going to kick your ass if I ever see you, THAT’S what I’m going to do!”
“Tom J. Sherwin—“
“HOMEWRECKER!!”
I carried on calling them, swearing at them, cursing them. I shouted and screamed through the phone at whichever Tom S. I happened to have dialed. Venom poured from my mouth while Evilpuss lay amidst the wreckage of shoes, clothes and jewelry and dozed happily to the sound of my tirades. I went through Tomazo Silcuzo, Thomas Smalls, Tomas Southerby, Tom Square, accidentally dialed Warren Stratti and yelled at him anyway, when I got to…
“Tom Sweltzer’s office. Thanks for calling, let me know what I can do for you!”
“I’ll tell you what you can do for me! You can stay the hell away from my wife!! Just because we’re having a few problems right now doesn’t give you the right to come waltzing in and try to steal her! Whatever problems we have are between her and me! You got that? You don’t fit into this equation. It’s just her and me! Her and me!”
With one last angry grunt I crammed the phone home and tossed it aside. I was no longer getting enough satisfaction yelling at random people. The queasy feeling returned to my stomach so I got up the pace the room. Evilpuss gleefully danced between my legs. My shoulders spasmed with the need to release my rage and I grabbed the first thing I could. I grabbed my Inky.
The bronze award was heavy in my hands; heavy with prestige and respect and honor. Things that were no longer mine. Things I no longer deserved. The rage swelled within me again, swelled completely and overwhelmingly. I closed my eyes, spun and threw it not caring where it landed. Two sounds followed my outburst and each carried and emotional impact.
The first was the satisfying THUNK! of the award as it buried itself into the far wall.
The second was the sickening SMASH! of pottery shattering on the floor. Instantly I knew what it was and I dreaded to open my eyes lest they prove my fears true. There was only one thing on that far wall, the only thing I had added to the décor; the artifacts I had taken back with me from the Tehaneshu tribe.
I felt Evilpuss rub her head along my leg, purring as loudly as she could and I opened my eyes.
There was the Inky sticking out of the wall at an awkward angle and there on the floor beneath it was the shattered remains of the Rel Atchela, roughly translated as “memory jar.” To the Tehaneshu people, whose whole culture was dependant on the cooperation and balance of man and woman, husband and wife, the Rel Atchela was a necessary and profound tool. Given to a newlywed couple on the day of their marriage, the bride and groom were required to each place an object into the jar that reminded them of the love they felt for each other. The idea is that when a rift develops between the two they were to open the jar and remember. I had taken Heather back to the tribe as part of our honeymoon and they had presented it to us as a wedding gift. It was always my most treasured item. I suppose that I had hoped, somehow, that the secrets of the Tehaneshu would be with me just by having it my home.
Slowly, I made my way to the broken jar and the closer I went the more I noticed something about it that I had never noticed before, something that actually took my breath away. It was nothing about the exterior or the craftsmanship; it was an extraordinarily plain piece of pottery, flat blue with thin red and orange stripes at the top. No, I had studied these sacred jars very thoroughly and there was nothing amazing about this one. The amazing thing that I had noticed was that there was something inside the jar.
I crouched before the shattered mess and tried to wrap my mind around what I was seeing. There, mingled amongst the ceramic shards, were dozens of folded pieces of paper and photos and other mementos. I grabbed a paper and unfolded it. It was a letter I had written to her not long after we had met, it was the first time I said I love you.
There was a receipt from the sandwich shop I worked at all those years ago. And a photo of our first apartment; a tiny craphole of a studio that couldn’t fit a king-sized bed if you took out all the other furniture and knocked down a wall and Heather was smiling so brightly in it. Here, one of our wedding invitations.
I found a letter – a thick faded letter that had the look of being read too many times and filled its envelope near to bursting – that was written in my hand. Odd, I didn’t recognize it. So, sitting there on the floor, the shattered remains of the Rel Atchela scattered about me, I took out the worn letter and read it.
It was written well before we were married, perhaps after our third date. Ideas. That’s what the letter was about. Ideas and ideas and more ideas. Ideas for stories and books; good ones and bad ones and down-right nutty ones. For six two-sided pages I went on and on detailing every thought and asking her opinions. I told her she was my inspiration, my muse and that as long as she was there with me I would never run out of ideas. I read and I remembered how I felt writing it, the excitement that made my hand shake, smudging the ink and blurring my words. I remembered all the discussions we had about the letter, about each idea, which would work and which wouldn’t and why. I remembered how I felt when I wrote all the stories that would become my first book. How I felt all those years ago when I could actually write. I wrote them for her, for my beautiful Heather.
I had forgotten about this letter.
And that was the moment, dear reader. That was it right there. Epiphany is defined as, “a sudden striking understanding of something.” You don’t need to be kneeling in church or studying some ancient philosopher to have one. I had mine sitting on the floor of my trashed bedroom surrounded by broken artifacts, random shoes and shattered jewelry.
Yes, I can confidently say that I was the proud owner of my very own epiphany, but that doesn’t mean I liked it. Frankly, it made me feel like crap. No, it made me feel like whatever crap feels like when it feels bad. What I understood, what I finally comprehended, was that it was my fault. Everything that happened between Heather and me, I was to blame.
One could argue that it wasn’t just my fault, that it takes two to tussle, but the simple truth is that I wasn’t doing anything to fix that problem. I had left it all to her. I did what I wanted and just expected her to follow me. What the hell was I thinking? Was I really that selfish? For the first time in my life I felt like the bad guy, and worse, I knew I deserved it. She was cheating on me and suddenly I felt like I was the one who betrayed her. Because, quite frankly, I had. I didn’t deserve her. I truly was beneath her. Very far beneath her. And now she was gone. She had all but said goodbye tonight and there was nothing I could do. How did I let myself become like this? How?!
But it was a useless question. Asking how at that point was not unlike asking how there got to be a huge hole in the bottom of the ship when it was already going under. It no longer mattered how it happened, Heather and I were sinking and while she was trying to repair the breach I was too busy listening to the band play to even notice we were taking on water. It’s no wonder she made it to a lifeboat.
Regrettably, only one questioned remained. Do I go down with the ship or do I grab one of the round life rings, jump into those dark and cold waters and try to swim for it? Nautical metaphors aside, I knew if I stayed things would go on as they were in a downward spiral until all that remained would be hatred and recrimination. If I left, then life as I knew it would end. But she had already made the choice, hadn’t she? All there was left to do was walk out that door. It was over.
Yeah, epiphanies pretty much suck.
I still sat stupidly among the fragments of the Rel Atchela, turning the letter over and over in my hands. Some part of my brain – no doubt the that is so easily distracted by bright and shiny objects – became amazed at just how much Heather had fit into the ceremonial pottery. There were still dozens of small photos I hadn’t seen before. One showed me scratching my butt. Another was of me about to sneeze. In another I was staring out a window with a pen between my teeth, completely distracted by nothing at all. I shuffled through the photos faster, realizing they were all like that, candid photos of me and I had no idea they were taken. The last picture showed me in bed, the remnants of my hair greasy and mussed, the sheets twined between my legs and an unmistakable trail of drool oozing from my mouth. It was dated two days ago.
“Why the hell are these in here?” The Rel Atchela was supposed to be a place to put things to remind you why you love the other person, not a place to put embarrassing pictures. Unless…unless…
“My God,” I whispered, “she does love me! She does love me!” I jumped to my feet and danced a little dance. “HA! Evilpuss, she does love me!” The cat, now unsettled by my apparent moment of happiness, retreated under the bed where she could glower at me in peace.
I could get her back! There was still a chance! I could show Heather that I still loved her and that whatever needed to be done to make things right between us I would do it. No more Tom S., no more lies, no more secrets. I would be the husband I wanted to be. I would start writing again, really writing and get us—
CRUNCH!!
I looked down at my foot and saw that I had stepped on a piece of the Rel Atchela while I was doing my dance of joy. At first I was relieved that I hadn’t cut my foot, then I realized that I had just stepped on a piece of the REL ATCHELA!
“SHIT! What have I done! What have I…glue, I need the superglue.” Of all the things I had ruined that evening this was the one thing I absolutely had to have fixed. She apparently believed in this very much, so much that she had been using it for the last seven years and for all I know this was the only thing that kept her with me that long. I wondered how many times she opened it to remember. I wonder how many times I had done something to make her open it. I had to fix it.
Within moments I was back at the pile of broken pottery with a tube of superglue I had found way in the back of the junk drawer. Hastily, I began arranging the shards as best I could. The pressure of the situation made my hands shake and I could tell I was doing a terrible job making me more anxious which in turn made my hands shake all the more. And the glue – the stupid glue! – was so old a thick layer of crust had formed around the top preventing the glue from coming out. I squeezed the tube harder, praying to whatever god would have such a fool as I, and screamed when my prayer was answered. Unfortunately, whichever god helped me was also a very mischievous deity because the entire tube burst and drenched my whole hand in super strong quick-drying crazy glue.
As noted before, I tend to panic and when faced with the dilemma of a handful of extremely sticky glue I followed my gut instincts and screwed things up even worse.
I ran to the bathroom in hopes of washing it off, but Evilpuss, who was apparently in a poor viewing position and wanted to see what would happen next, choose that exact moment to sit right where I was about to step. Despite all the harsh things I say about the wicked animal, I wasn’t about to step on her, so I altered my stride at the last second, lost my balance, tripped over a pair of high-end clogs that I had earlier pitched out of the closet, careened into the bathroom and only just managed to save myself from face-planting into the bathtub by catching myself on the sink with my elbow.
My wedding ring, which had been resting peacefully on the edge of the sink for some time now, was jostled and it slid gently into the basin.
I watched in thunderstruck horror as my simple golden band rolled around and around the porcelain until it fell unceremoniously into the little black hole with a quiet PLUNK!
I stood frozen for an eons-long second, and then I ripped open the cabinet beneath sink, dove headfirst underneath into the tight, cramped space, shoved my way past bottles of various bathroom cleaners, sponges and whatever else accumulates under a bathroom sink. I grabbed the piping and attempted to rip them open with my bare hands.
“Please be in the U-bend, please be in the U-bend!” I repeated it over and over like a mantra as I squeezed and turned the old piping with all my might. I strained and pulled for five minutes before I admitted to myself that I couldn’t budge it by my strength alone. I needed a wrench. We had one in the basement.
Hurriedly, I began to back out of the cabinet, desperate to make it downstairs. I had to get it back, I had—
“Oww!” I shouted because for some reason it felt as though something were trying to pull the skin off my right hand. I shook the pain from my mind and tried to pull away for a second time. Again, the pain was excruciating.
And then came that horrible sickening feeling, the kind that only comes from realizing that you had just done something terribly, disgustingly, and embarrassingly stupid.
For those of you reading this and paying careful attention to what I was doing, this really won’t be a shock to you and you can probably skip to the next paragraph. For the rest of you, I’ll say this as concisely as possible in hopes of avoiding as much embarrassment as I can: it appeared I had glued myself to the drainpipe.
Yes, I had done it. In my panic over the thought of losing my ring, it must have slipped my mind that my hand was covered in superglue. And while all that squeezing and straining for five minutes did just about nothing to get my ring back, it sure did wonders to help that glue set. The next couple of minutes were spent violently thrashing about the inside of the cluttered cabinet with the only results being a few new bumps and bruises and a splinter in my flabby stomach. Exhausted, I went limp and let my head fall into a pile of old cleaning solvents.
I was stuck, imprisoned and bound. The only thing I could do was think, and the only thing I could think of was how badly I messed everything up. And now there was nothing I could do…truly nothing…
I lied there, despairing, no longer even trying to get myself out when I felt Evilpuss climb atop my legs and settle herself neatly in the small of my back. Defeated, I wept in the darkness until I was lulled to sleep by the sound of her perfectly contented purrs.
“OH MY GOD!” screamed Heather from somewhere downstairs. Startled by the shriek of terror I let out one of my own and promptly cracked my head on the porcelain above me. Evilpuss scratched my bare back in her terror-filled leap to anywhere that she could hide. The next thing I remember for certain was that Heather had come into our bathroom.
“Gunny! No, Gunny, please no!” she said in a hysterically high-pitched voice.
“Heather,” I croaked, fighting to get my bearings. She was home already? But I didn’t fix anything! I didn’t know what to say, I wasn’t prepared. I twisted around to try and see her, but no matter how I moved I couldn’t see much of her.
“Thank God, you’re alive! Are you okay? What happened—“
“Heather, I love you!” I blurted.
“I love you, too,” she said dismissively, “but what in God’s name happened here? Are you hurt?”
“No, Heather! I love you!” I wanted desperately to look in her in the eyes when I said this but I couldn’t get a clear view. She was moving around and I could only catch a glimpse of her legs. God, I was so nervous. I felt like throwing up. “I mean, I really love—“
“What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you well while you’re in there. Come out and tell me what happened. Why are my clothes everywhere and why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
“I-I can’t.”
“What?”
“I can’t come out,” I shouted so she could hear me.
“Gunny, this isn’t time for games, someone trashed the house, I’m calling the police—“
“NO Don’t call the police, I can explain. But…”
“But what?”
“I…I glued myself to the drainpipe.”
Again she didn’t say anything. She crouched down to look into the cupboard and she looked as fabulous as she did when she left. My head spun again. “What do you mean you glued yourself to the drainpipe?”
“I had to get my ring back but I had superglue on my hand.”
“Superglue?” she asked, a bewildered quality to her voice.
“From when I tried to fix the Rel Atchela.”
“What?” she said, alarmed. “Why does it need to be fixed?”
“No, wait, I’m not saying this right,” I said, realizing that things were not going as I wanted. This wasn’t the ideal circumstance in which to make my stand but it had to be done and it had to be done right then. “Okay, these fumes are making my brain all wrong and I don’t know what we have under here but its potent. What I’m trying to say is that I love you very, very, very much and…um…I’m sorry, and…”
“Okay,” she said in a slightly confused tone. “But wouldn’t you rather we get you out of there first, before we talk—“
“No! Please, honey, I need to say this. I promise you I will make it up to you. I will love you as you should be loved and I won’t take you for granted. I will be the man you always saw in me. Please, just give me a chance. Don’t leave me.”
“Leave you?” she said.
“No! You can’t! Please, I know I can change, I know it! Tonight I had an epiphany! I discovered how much you mean to me, and how much I mean to you! I know you’ve cheated but we can get pass this, I am as much blame if not more.”
“Wait, what?”
“I don’t care who this other guy is, it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to give up! I’m going to fight for you!” I could only hope my declaration didn’t sound as lame to her as it did to me.
“Did you say I cheated on you?” she said testily.
“I said I don’t care, it’s not important because I’m going to do whatever it takes to win—“
“HEY!” she said and slapped my exposed back. “What makes you think I’ve cheated on you?”
“Heather,” I said as solemnly and as bravely as I could. “I found the note.”
“The note?”
“Yes, the note! The one I found! You know, the note! It’s in my pocket!” She reached into the back pocket of my sweatpants and pulled out the awful note. As she unfolded it I could hear her gasp. For some odd reason that gasp, that smallest of confirmations, gave me a queasy feeling in my gut. But it didn’t matter, I told myself, I couldn’t let it matter.
“I still love you,” I said as reassuringly as I could and waited for her to say something. I steeled myself for anything she might say no matter how harsh, angry or hurt it might be.
Too bad for me she did something I would never have expected – correction, she did something I would never have even considered to think about expecting. She laughed.
Not just a little chuckle or even a hearty guffaw. She was laughing so hard she rolled onto her back and stopped breathing for a few seconds, tears coming down her cheeks and everything. I must say that I was a little bit unsettled by how well she was taking this.
That was when it first occurred to me that perhaps, I could be missing something.
“This note?” she said through gasps as she tried to reestablish control over her breathing. “This note right here? This is your big evidence that I’ve been cheating?”
“Um…yeah? What! It says ‘Dinner. 8:00pm. Tom S.!’” Again she started laughing. “What? What’s so funny?”
“Tom S.!” she said snorting again.
“What was I suppose to think!”
“Tomato soup!”
“What…?”
It took Heather another full minute to regain enough composure to talk without hysterically laughing again. “Tom S is tomato soup, not a person! My mother called me at work just as I was walking out the door. She wanted to have tomato soup at the party tonight but you know how she doesn’t trust the caterers. She asked if I could bring some.”
“But…what…I don’t…?” My brain, already taxed beyond its normal limits for the evening, seemed to be working extremely sluggishly at the moment. Tomato soup? Could it be? Then I remembered her standing in front of the kitchen cabinet stuffing something large and round into her bag, something about the size of a can of soup.
“You dressed up tonight…I mean really dressed up, you never get that dressy.”
“The governor was there.”
“Oh. The governor was…I see. But…but you seemed so depressed when you left tonight.”
“We just had a fight, Gunny! And I had made a decision. Remember, I said if you wouldn’t fix things, then I would.”
“That didn’t mean you were leaving me for another guy?”
“No!” she shouted and slapped my back again. She leaned over me so I could see her face and it looked like an angel’s face to me. Well, maybe an upset and worried angel at that moment. “How could you even think that? Gunny, I asked my parents for some money, you know, to help us get back on track.”
And then she tossed a slip of paper into the cabinet with me. Not the note that I thought had condemned her, but rather, a piece of evidence that exonerated her. A check, made out to Gunther and Heather Kilby, for more than enough to help us get back on track.
“You asked your parents for…that’s what was bothering you?”
“Bothering me? Do you even know how close we are to losing everything?”
Yes, I thought, in fact I was certain it was already gone.
“But Evilpuss-“
“Stop calling her that! Her name is Trixie. You make her sound so…so diabolical or something. She’s just a cat.”
“I…I’m so sorry,” I said lamely. “I didn’t mean…I’m so sorry. I just love you so much and I thought I was losing you and…”
“I know Gunny,” she said and I felt her wrap her arms around my torso and amazingly she stuck her head under the sink with me. She kissed me sweetly. “God help me but I love you too. Now, tell me, how in the hell did you glue yourself under the sink?”
I told her. I told her everything that happened. Every stupid little thing I did that night. We talked as we removed the pipe and retrieved my ring. We talked as we waited in the emergency room to get the glue dissolved. We talked as we hadn’t talked in ages; truthfully, soulfully and completely.
So now it’s three weeks later and we cleaned up the house, picked up her clothes, shoes, jewelry, and fixed the wall. My ring is back where it belongs and the Rel Atchela has been repaired, though I use that word in its loosest possible sense, and it once again sits in its rightful place. There was an inquiry at Heather’s office regarding the “random” phone received by many of her co-workers and they are seriously looking to revise their policy of an employee directory. Evilpuss is just as ornery as ever, probably even more so now that I’m actually happy.
Best of all, I’m writing again – as I’m sure you can tell – and I’m having fun, like I used to. If you, reading this, were hoping from some sort of enlightenment or moral then I apologize because I wasn’t trying to offer any. If you gleaned some insight from my stupidity than I’m glad to be of assistance. But know that I didn’t tell my tale because I thought it was important or profound, and I didn’t tell it in hopes of getting it published, and I certainly didn’t tell it to make myself feel better. So, why would write of these events that border on slanderous to my character? I’m telling it for my wife, for my sweet Heather.
This is my own Rel Atchela and I will remember.
That night, that long and revealing night, when we finished talking, Heather looked at me and started laughing again. “You really are an idiot, you know this, right?” she said with a smile. “A complete and total idiot.” I smiled back at her and kissed her, then carried her off to bed in my arms.
I almost ruined my life over a can of tomato soup, who was I to argue?
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Mayday29 reviewed Version 1 -
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FriendsSmile reviewed Version 1 -
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jkazimer reviewed Version 1 -
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If I published the New Yorker, you’d have a spot for this piece anytime. I loved it, it was funny and sweet. You led the reader through each emotion perfectly. Just as I was wondering so why is Gunny an idiot, you answered the question. Just as I was wondering if Heath was cheating, boom the answer was there. Just when I knew I was watching a train wreck, you made me laugh.
This was a wonderful piece. As far as suggestions or any other helpful commentary, I have none. This was an excellent work, and the realization it all comes down to a can of tomato soup.
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Dr_Z reviewed Version 1 -
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Markmmc098 reviewed Version 1 -
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>>>>>First, do not apologize for the length. I don’t know when short
>>>>>fiction become 500 word or less. Second, the title might put some
>>>>>people off, personally I loved it. It drew me in. Third, my comments
>>>>>precede the offending item.
>>>>>Skip the first paragraph of explanation. Not needed. You already say
>>>>>it in the title.
>>>>>>A tendency toward long sentences. And too many of them in a row. Mix
>>>>>>up the lengths for better flow. Below WAS two sentences. One of them
>>>>>>had at least three ‘and’s. I believe that’s called a run on.
The next picture is a few years later, just after my first book. My cheeks
are a bit fuller, the slouch of my shoulders a bit more pronounced, and the
tight tee shirt I wore in that photo showed off the paunch I had begun to
develop. Over the course of the next five pictures I’ve traded in too much
of my hair for sixty pounds I don’t (didn’t) need and a full-blown gut. I’ve
now swapped my form-fitting tee shirt and shorts for a baggy sweatshirt and
a pair of wrinkled Dockers that were probably two years out of style. I had
replaced my dependable 10-speed with a bag of Doritos.
>>>>Strange transition here.
Her name is Heather. Ah, my beautiful Heather.
In a word, wow!
>>>>You spend 40 words telling me what your not going to tell me.
Other appropriate words would be: spectacular, fabulous, wonderful, hell,
just about everything in the thesaurus under “amazing.” I could sit here
and spout off hundreds of words, adjectives and metaphors about her beauty
but all of them would fall hollow and unfulfilled should you ever chance to
meet her.
>>>>Don’t tell me what I’m thinking. I’ll figure it out and enjoy it more
>>>>when I do. And don’t call me dear you don’t know me that well. J
Right now, I’m sure you’re thinking, I thought this guy was supposed to be
an idiot! Patience, my dear reader, patience. The stupidity will come, I
assure you.
>>you don’t seemed shamed. Just get into it already.
So, now that you’ve gotten to know me a little bit better, I feel more
comfortable in telling the narrative of my shame.
>>>> commentary not needed
Ah, to be happily married!
>>>> you are talking about your marriage and how cheescurls and the cat –
>>>> what is the subject of this paragraph. I don’t care about at least two
>>>> of them. I also assume you are telling the truth.
cheese-curls – happiness – Evilpuss
>>>Ahh – some meat to go with the chees puffs
Heather and I had just had another fight.
>>>>>If it wasn;t special, why am I reading about it? Money issue? I
>>>>>thought gunny was successful and so was she.
>>>>Okay nevermind, you managed to get to the root of the money issue. Took
>>>>a long route to get there.
I mean that I hadn’t written anything!
>>>>Spluttered? Is that a word?
>>>>> See now we are SEEING what an ass he is. He is totally unlikable at
>>>>> this point. I love it.
I snorted. . . . . . To do so would cause such an embarrassment
for them!”
>>>>> and she’s not all that likable either. Love it! I’ve been
>>>>> married so this is very familiar. Real.
“You’re an embarrassment to yourself,” she said quietly, dangerously,
barely louder than the rumbling purr coming from Evilpuss.
>>>>> now you have me hooked. What is that bulge? His regret. His fear
>>>>> that something had changed. Really good stuff.
She almost looked afraid, that she had made a decision that she didn’t like.
It looked almost as if something had died inside her. I feared that
“something” was hope.
>>>>Ahh – the plot thickens.
Dinner
8:00pm
Tom S
>>>>save this for later – you digress at a time that you have us hooked.
>>>>Don’t let us squirm off the line while you lollygag.
For those men reading this story, I’m sure you can understand what happened
next and if you have ever gone through anything remotely similar you have my
most heartfelt sympathy. For those women reading this story, well, all I
can do is apologize and pray that you won’t hold it against me. You see,
when men are in situations in which we are hurt or threatened or confused
the most common response to that situation is anger. And I am a common man;
a stupid, foolish and utterly common man.
>>>>love the rage. We feel for him (even if he is wrong and going to regret
>>>>all of this). He is stupid and human.
“This is why we have no money! This is why!”
>>>>Don’t know if we need the explaination, but it reads well.
(Let me take this opportunity to point out that I do realize that I really
had no way of knowing if “Tom S.” actually worked with my wife, but at the
time it made perfect sense.)
>>>>>>>>>>>>mmmm seems like we are getting sidetracked again. Do I really
>>>>>>>>>>>>want to read about a craft project. I can go glue something
>>>>>>>>>>>>myself if I want that kinf of excitement.
CRUNCH!!
I looked down at my foot and saw that I had stepped on a piece of
the Rel Atchela while I was doing my dance of joy. At first I was relieved
that I hadn’t cut my foot, then I realized that I had just stepped on a
piece of the REL ATCHELA!
>>>>>>>>Okay I will skip this one and maybe the next and the next.
For those of you reading this and paying careful attention to what I
was doing, this really won’t be a shock to you and you can probably skip to
the next paragraph. For the rest of you, I’ll say this as concisely as
possible in hopes of avoiding as much embarrassment as I can: it appeared I
had glued myself to the drainpipe.
>>>> yeh we get it - you glued youself to the drain
>>>> Wait a second. She brought a can of soup to an event with the
>>>> governor?
“You dressed up tonight.I mean really dressed up, you never get
that dressy.”
“The governor was there.”
“Oh. The governor was.I see. But.but you seemed so depressed
when you left tonight.”
“We just had a fight, Gunny! And I had made a decision.
Remember, I said if you wouldn’t fix things, then I would.”
Overall:
I liked it, despite the happy ending. A bit wordy. You will get more
affect if you tighten it up a bit. You tend to overexplain the obvious.
Give us a little credit. The reader knew she hadn’t cheated the moment he
flipped out. I still wanted to know what the answer was and how it resolved
itself. I would have had her shoot him and end up in the hospital but I’m a
bit morbid. Don’t iversell the idiot thing. As strated earlier, let us
figure that one out. Good descriptions, I like and dislike your characters,
which means they are three dimentional and real to me. The marriage and
description of the reactions to the marriage are very real. Too real maybe.
Again a good piece. I read it through even though its after midnight.
Tighter tighter tighter, I can’t say it enough. It will only give the
piece more umpf.
Sorry for any spelling grammer mistakes. Its late, the spell check is not
working and I’m too lazy to edit this.
September71 reviewed Version 1 -
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Overall I liked this. I have to admit that at the beginning and through the middle I was worried. Worried that your wife was having an affair and that your marriage was over. You painted such a idyllic picture about the beginning of your relationship and I was immediately drawn in wondering what ultimately would happen. I really liked the mystery created by the bulging object in her handbag. Is it a gun? A rock? A huge jewel?
The whole idea of your wife being your muse and reason for so much of your success was really effective. I kept thinking how a writer and his muse are bound for better or for worse. How your wife was at first propelled forward and uplifted by the stories you wrote for her and then dragged down behind you as you and your career started to spiral.
The only thing that really didn’t ring true for me was the whole canned tomato soup thing. If Heathers parents are so wealthy would canned soup really fly at a dinner that the governor was attending? I will admit though that it did catch me off guard. I was convinced that “Tom S.” was an editor or publisher friend that was going to save the day.
The metaphor of the Rel Atchela for the broken and then repaired marriage was a good anchor for the whole story. The fact that your wife was the only one contributing to the marriage and that the notes, pictures, and memories that she placed in the vessel were proof of this. Meanwhile the only contributions that you had made to the marriage/Rel Atchela were long ago and had since been forgotten.
I would say that this piece was filled with hope. And I love the images of you as a cheese-curl-dust covered slob.
Good work.
mannythepoolshark reviewed Version 1 -
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kittykatrivera reviewed Version 1 -
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hockeyslife reviewed Version 1 -
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Wow, I really don’t know what to say. That was wonderful! I can tell that you have experience writing. I found one grammar mistake, one! That’s amazing. It was intriguing and showed how easily life can change from something so small, and how we must think before we act, even if we are incredibly angered by the situation. I loved it, and I think you can achieve your goal of having it published in the New Yorker.
WordsAreViolent reviewed Version 1 -
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