Apologies, I didn’t know proactive criticism was a requirement for commenting on work here. I was more curious about your work than wanting to critique it. I’m unfamiliar with flash fiction, would you mind explaining how it works?
Short Story / A Conversation with Shadows
In the early afternoon, I wake up in the house of the dying man. I walk downstairs, still in my pajamas, hair all tangles and curls, to drink a cup of coffee bigger than my face. The stairs moan like a feverish child, and acquiesce to the weight of my step.
“I give up,” says the house.
“Me too,” I say.
“Me too,” says the dying man.
The house is twice as old as me, and half the age of the dying man. In addition to the hard wear from a family of six, it has suffered significant flood damage. Poor city-planning and the tireless reach of suburban sprawl were the cause of that.
The house was built by another family in the 1970s. It was the second house built on this street, which used to be a dirt road in the middle of a field of rolling hills and farms. The other family had two children—a boy and a girl. I sleep in the girl’s room, which was built to be half the size of the boy’s. Their parents got a divorce. That is why they left the house.
The kitchen is all midday shadows, and I can clearly see the spotty topography of the mustard-colored linoleum. The man who built the house was in demolitions. He built it using spare parts from other homes he had torn down.
I stand at the pale yellow kitchen counter and make a cup of coffee, recalling the time in the not-so-distant-past when I didn’t know how—my easy, thoughtless ignorance.
It’s a small coffeemaker. It only makes four cups, but I will drink them all at once, in an enormous blue mug that could probably accommodate five. When I was young, I watched with envy as the dying man drank coffee from a glossy red cup and ate buttered English muffins, wearing a suit and tie in the gray light of morning. In those days, I wore no bra and ate rice cereal from a white plastic bowl.
“Wake up, Mary Sunshine,” the house says.
“I’m awake,” I say. “I’m awake.”
“Wake up,” echoes the dying man.
I rest my chin on the handle of the mug, and try to smell the filtered, freeze-dried Columbian beans. The steam wafts toward my face and I feel my pores open, gently, and my left leg starts to shake. It shakes the table and the coffee and the spoon on the white folded napkin.
The spoon is small, with starbursts engraved in the handle. I stir the coffee to release a little of the heat, and hear the familiar strike of silver on fired clay. Carefully, I replace the spoon on the white paper napkin, and watch as a brown stain spreads. My tired eyes water, as does my mouth, and my empty stomach smirks.
The house is quiet.
I drink the coffee with complete concentration, thinking of nothing but its bottom.
In another room, the dying man lies breathing, still.
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ifonlyiknew reviewed Version 1 -
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Let me start off by saying that I found this piece very enjoyable to read. The imagery is fantastic, and I especially like the lines ”... a cup of coffee bigger than my face” and “The kitchen is all midday shadows, and I can clearly see the spotty topography of the mustard-colored linoleum” – the former because that describes my coffee bowl so perfectly, and the latter because it just brings a picture perfectly clear into my mind. You have a wonderful talent for painting pictures with words.
If I could suggest a change, though, it would be nice if you were to solidify the real point, or meaning, behind the story a bit more. While I realize that it is a sort of “slice of life” story, it just seems as though maybe a bit more explaining could be done with the connection between the old dying man, the house, and the narrator. As it is, it seems almost as though it’s more about the people who owned it before – and while that may be the case, it wasn’t the feeling that I got from the piece.
This is my first review here, so I hope it was helpful, and I look forward to reading more of your writing!
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Jazzcat reviewed Version 1 -
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Poetry in short-story form – lovely! You have great attention to detail – the brown stain spreading on the napkin under the spoon, the enormous mug of coffee, the shaking leg, and on and on. The colors you’ve painted bring out a nice picture in its utter simplicity… a detailed picture. The kind of spoons you described sound like the ones that have been in my house forever!
Again, it’s beautiful. I love your use of the English language – “spotty topography” of the linoleum; that was great! Nonetheless, I have a few minor comments to make, all of a more technical (not creative) nature, which is of much lesser importance and must be left to the discresion of the writer.
• I’m not sure who the dying man is. I imagine it’s this girl’s (the heroine’s) father, now dying… but of what? Old age? Slavery in the coal mines? But! If she’s his daughter, then how can the house be twice as old as her and half the age of the dying man? In such a case, I would imagine she’s his wife… again, I’m not sure.
• A sense of age about your heroine was never established. This is alright, since most people don’t wake up in the morning and think “Gosh, I’m 43” or whatever, but if she’s an older woman, perhaps she’s got a bit of a creak in her bones, wrinkles on her hands and a gray cast to her hair. In fact, what color is her hair? What color are her pajamas, and what material are they made of? (I can hardly believe I’m asking for more color, LOL! There’s so much in it already…)
• Is there any view out the windows? What sort of land is this city built in – is it so city that the landscape isn’t recognizable anymore, or is it green hills with mountains beyond? Or, perhaps, was it once green hills that have been covered over in black pavement and gray cement over time? (This would further the sense of her age, alluding to it without saying outright, “I’m 51” or some such thing; and the whole story is abstract enough that to say her age in black-and-white would be out of place, IMHO.)
Other than that, it’s quite lovely. You drew me in from the first sentence and held me until the end. A short-story snapshot, a history, all contained within the context of a single morning. Thanks for sharing!
Happy writing!
Blessings,
Jazzcat
Zhengi reviewed Version 1 -
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This story needs more showing rather than telling. For example, when you talk about the house going through flood damage, you can probably show us stains or some proof that there has been flood damage. If the narrator is staying in the girl’s room, you can possibly have a picture the girl drew on the wall and can’t be erased. Just subtle hints like that could add a lot to your story.
I think you’re hinting that the dying man is the narrator’s father, which is cool. I just want to know a little more about him. If you can add a bit more details as to who he is, it’ll definitely make the piece better.
GemmaLeigh reviewed Version 1 -
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I like it. The line; “The stairs moan like a feverish child” melted my heart. You could have written complete shit after it and I still would have liked it.
My only suggestion would be about the 3rd full paragraph. When you talk about the size of the rooms. You just got done talking about the age of the house being half of the dying man’s age and then go on to say the room is half the size of the boy’s room. I would just think of another way to describe it.
FaithMargaret reviewed Version 1 -
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Overall I enjoyed the piece, though as I began reading I felt confused by an out-of-place ‘acquiesce’ (which admittedly I had to look up), as I’m not a huge fan of unnecessarily fancy words. However as I read on I saw a word like ‘acquiesce’ fit as the whole story was essentially a descriptive piece that requires this type of stylish vocabulary. This is not to its detriment; it seems to build towards something as it draws to its one-sentenced paragraph finish, which is an achievement for a piece of this size. I’m wondering is this part of a bigger piece of work being planned or is it more of a personal essay?
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