I'd Like Some Opinions on My Short Story

[Slim the BoxingManiac]

Well, this is the fourth draft of this short story that I just started working on again. I originally put it together in September. It seems beautiful to me, but I wanted more opinions.

The Alley Man

The deflated family sat, missing his company. There were books in the house that lay unread. Nobody bothered to read them. There were games to be played, but they remained unplayed as the energy of the family just wasn’t there. So they sat alone in their bitter and pessimistic thoughts. Seated on the lounge couch, husband and wife were together in melancholy. It seemed to be such a surrealistic situation, and they felt surreal themselves, not sure how to feel about anything. The thought popped in both of their heads from time to time, ‘How did he leave so fast?’ It felt like yesterday that he’d left, yet the memories of him paled as if they barely remembered how exceptional life was with him.

All feelings and thought aside, the reality remained the same. He was gone, and they yearned for his companionship.

Sam and Eleanor had been married for twenty-three years. In the dead air of their home, they leaned on each other, faces devoid of any actual emotion. Their only son, Billy, had left to go overseas. That was four months earlier. They hadn’t the energy to even change the calendar, for it stayed on December of 1917, the month that Billy had left. He was only seventeen; nothing but a mere boy.

That mere boy was what kept the family together. Sam and Eleanor would always bicker amongst themselves, but it was usually Billy who made them get along with each other. For the two parents, it was worth it to have the happiness of their son. The great thing about Billy was that he was such a happy kid, always bringing hope and optimism to the family. He was overseas, and the only thing the couple could do was work and wait. The walls colored a dull grey, and the carpet matching its static misery, the room coincided with itself in thorough monotony. Dust covered half of the furniture in the house. Certainly the atmosphere of the place didn’t help the way the two were feeling. Sam always felt indifferent. He just didn’t know who to blame for the way things had gone in the war. Emotionally let down by the circumstances, the once happy father felt anger at the fact that he couldn’t do anything about the now inherent void that existed in the depths of his soul.

Sam stood up solemnly and slowly. Eleanor cast him a slow, tired and weary glance.

“Where are you going, Sam?” she asked.

He replied, “ I’m going out to visit some of the fellas again.” Eleanor releases a cold, hard stagnant sigh. He was going out to ‘visit some of the fellas’ every night, and coming back drunk off of his ass and miserable. She absolutely despised it. Turning his back to her, Sam started his way towards the door.

“Wait, Sam!” she interrupted, halting him in his tracks. Sam turns to the side to see his wife. “Why don’t you just stay here? I don’t want to be doing this every night. I hate seeing you like this, Sam. Stay here with me, please.” She was pleading with him, hoping that he might listen. The only reaction was the increased bitterness of her dear husband.

“There isn’t a god damned thing for me to be doing here. I’d rather bore a hole in my skull than to continue to sit in the silence like we’ve been doing.” He stepped away glumly, dragging the door open before snapping it shut behind himself.

Meandering down the steps from his apartment complex where he and his wife lived, Sam started to hurriedly walk on the sidewalk down the street. It’d been almost an entire day since he’d had a drink, and he didn’t want to wait another minute to hit the booze. New Ford cars whizzing by him on the street, Sam comes to a stop to wait for an opening in traffic. After a few seconds had passed, he’d slipped through a narrow opening amongst roaring automobiles. He was then on the other side of the street, facing a city building built of sad maroon bricks. There was an old and crusty sign hanging up above the doorway that said in ordinary, weather worn letters, “The Drinking Hole Salon.”

As if he were just clocking in for another hard day of work, Sam wearingly pulled open the door and walked in. Dimly lit, the room was furnished with tables occupying the area before the bar, which was located in the middle of the left side wall. Cheerily standing behind the bar was Jack, the bartender. Considering Jack a very close friend of his, Sam always told him about the woes of life during his evening drinking sessions. If he were sober, he might have noticed that Jack didn’t bother to even pay attention to what he’d ramble on about. Maybe he wouldn’t have cared, and just needed a person to talk at. Looking up from a few of the usual customers, Jack spots him on his way up to the bar.

“Sammy boy! Back again for some funky juice, are ya? Should I start you off with some good old whiskey?” Jack was always friendly. That’s why the bar always kept afloat, because the drunks took a liking to the guy.

Sam hardly displays any emotion at all, saying, “I don’t really care, just give me something that’ll make me see three of you.” They laugh together, but without Sam feeling the hearty effects of what a laugh should give oneself. The cheery Irish bartender set up four shot glasses, quickly filling each of them to the brim with golden-brown, bittersweet, and harsh whiskey. Not wasting a second, Sam slammed them down his gullet, eyes watered up from the burning sensation in his throat. He didn’t know it, but a large shady man was studying him from the corner of the room.

Over the following half hour, Sam drank five more shots and consumed three beers. He was getting pretty tipsy. Looking around the room, he dizzily observed the large man approaching him. He was inches taller than most men and had a thick body frame. Sporting a thick, well groomed handlebar mustache, the man was interesting looking indeed.

Looking at the bartender, the man says, “Hiya, Jack. If you don’t mind, I’m going to help this guy to a better place.” He spoke with a hearty deepness in his voice that was simply downright jolly.

“Certainly not a problem, fella.” The bartender was only too happy to get rid of Sam, knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to handle much more alcohol. Sam was barely paying attention to his surroundings, and only realized what was happening after he was gently led out of the bar by the strange man.

“The hell do you think you’re doing? I was happy in the bar by myself. Leave me be!” Sam slurred out his proclamations, hoping for the man to let him drink. The man only smiled.

He spoke in a soft, soothing voice, “It’s okay, buddy. Come along with me. There’s plenty to enjoy where we’re going.” As inert as he was, Sam didn’t want to go. Yet, it sounded good to him. So he allowed himself to be pulled in to the alley across the street. In the dark, damp alley, the strange man found a door. Sam had never noticed that door, and it rather surprised him. Springing the door open, the man led Sam behind him.

[Slim the BoxingManiac]

Sam was hit with a breath of fresh air that joyously filled his lungs with the cleanest oxygen he’d ever inhaled. The air seemed to make him absolutely sober. But he didn’t feel sober. The astonishing sight that laid before him was a short and evergreen hill, with the healthiest grass ever seen by human eyes. On the north side of that hill, there was a small forest of large trees so thick that they appeared oddly juicy. At the bottom of the west side of the hill was a small pond with water as clear as the filter water we drink. It was filled with large, elegantly colored fish. Defying all logic, on the east side there was a wonderfully glowing horizon in the distance with an unobstructed view. Peeking up at the corner of the sky was a shining sun accompanied by gracious clouds of shade. There was the perfect amount of sunlight throughout the land.

Stumbling in, Sam became astonished as he saw beautiful furry squirrels and rabbits playing down by the forest. The rabbits he’d seen in the city were always flea bitten and rotten creatures, but these rabbits appeared to be groomed to perfection as the light from the clouded and sunny sky reflected off of their backs to produce a gleaming shine. Running up the hill and playfully falling on his side, Sam smiled as he felt comfortable for the first time in months. He glances over at the strange man, who was then grinning from cheek to cheek.

“Wow! This place is great!” Sam professed. After a sigh and a deep inhale, he wondered to the man, “Tell me, fella. What’s your name?”

“Well, funny story. I don’t actually have a name,” the man declared, “but you can keep calling me Fella if you’d like,” he lightly chuckled. Sam wondered to himself why the man would have no name, but he blew it off, as he was sure that the Fella had heard enough inquiries about his lack of a name from other folk. Joining Sam on the ground, the Fella takes a seat next to him in the grass.

Sam wasn’t done asking questions. “So why’d you take me here? You don’t even know me.”

Shrugging, the emboldened powerful man explained, “You looked to be in terrible shape, Sam. I brought you here so that you could learn to be happy.”

Continuing the festivities, the pair of newfound friends explored the alley wonderland. They hiked deep into the woods, observing wildlife that lived peacefully amongst one another with no fear of outside forces taking what they have. Then they sat by the pond to watch the fish glide through the transparent water. At the very end, they lied on the east side of the hill to experience the sun set in the scenery and the silence of nature. Lit by the moonshine, Sam reflected upon himself, feeling the first considerate wave of happiness that he’d felt in months. But he wasn’t completely happy, and the Fella knew it, too.

“So tell me, Sam. What’s keeping you from being content with your life?”

Occupied with contentious thoughts of regret and consideration, Sam lowered his eyes. With his hands shoved into his pockets, he confessed, “Well, I’ve been down lately because I haven’t seen my son in a long time. And because of it, I’ve ended up being a complete asshole to my lovely wife.” He sighed, ashamed and knowing full well what he had to do.

Smiling broadly, the Fella stands to his feet. He points to the forest. Looking towards the forest, Sam spots an old mutt emerging from the trees. Soft, mild brown hair and distinct blue eyes, he recognized the dog immediately. When Sam was a child, his mother bought him a dog. Her name was Lucy, and she was an affectionate little ball of fur. His father, though, was an abusive alcoholic. Every night after working his long hours, he would come home, drink to his hearts content, and become inherently violent with Sam’s mother and sister. One night, in a drunken rage, Sam’s father kicked little Lucy in the neck when she had urinated in the kitchen. She died from a crushed esophagus shortly thereafter. Sam never forgave his father for the way he was. When his father had passed away, Sam buried him under an unmarked grave in a cheap wooden coffin.

The day of Lucy’s death was the day that Sam truly lost his childhood carelessness and joy. He was ten years old.

Tears clouding his eyes, at first he didn’t believe it was her. With a yip full of pep, she ran to him, wagging her little tail as fast as it could go. Leaping on to his chest, she covers his chin with small, rapid licks. He had no doubt in his mind that it was her. It had to be.

Whispering her name to her softly, Sam stroked her coat of smooth fur. He sat contently playing with his dog for a good amount of time, crying all the while. While Sam holds the dog sleeping in his arms, he pets her. Fella approached the two, sitting next to them.

“You know what you need to do, Sam. Your wife loves you and you know she needs you to be strong. You also need to remember Lucy. She was always such a happy girl, and you know that she wants you to be happy, too. So be happy, Sam.” The Fella smiles. “Alright, Lucy. Time for bed.” Awakening from her peaceful slumber, the dog licks her old friend one last time before excitedly bouncing back to the forest.

Sam rises to his feet. “Thank you, Fella. I really needed this. I... I owe you one, bud. Thanks.” Turning to leave, he continued, “I’ve got to go make things right. I’m hoping we’ll be able to see each other more, friend. Maybe even have you meet the wife.”

Fella let out a hearty chuckle, “I’ll see you around, Sam. Remember what you’ve learned here.” Jogging away, Sam ended the meeting with an energetic wave goodbye.

Going out the door and running into the street, the weather was much colder than what it was when the mysterious stranger had led him to the alley. It was as if several days or a week had passed in that few hours. Bouncing on his feet, he enthusiastically made his way down the street towards home. He was about to hop up the stairs, but he hesitated upon sight of the mailboxes. Sitting on top of them were the newspapers that the paper boy had placed for its subscribers. Grabbing one, Sam is immediately alarmed that one month had passed since he’d last set foot in that bar. Where the time went, nobody will ever know.

By now he still withheld that feeling of newborn happiness, but he also felt a bit queasy with suspicion of something most queer occurring. Ignoring it, he started his way up the door, worrying about Eleanor. She’d heard nothing from him for a month, and must have been losing her mind.

Step by step, Sam propelled himself upwards towards the door. He reaches towards the doorknob and upon feeling the static electricity of the knob, stops. Lost in confusion, he didn’t know if he wanted to open the door. Maybe he shouldn’t have. He still did.

Twisting the doorknob, Sam quietly creaked his apartment door open to see the woman he’d married all those years ago loafing on the couch, emotionless. The only hint of a reaction that she had when he walked in the door was a wearing and seemingly painful blinking of the eyes. The silence was so incredibly tense and intimidating, Sam didn’t quite know know how to properly break it. Fortunately for him, he didn’t need to, for Eleanor did it for him as her face twisted sour and tears ran down her cheeks like copious rivers of misery.

Looking him in the eyes, her next words were simple. “Billy is dead.”

The obnoxious silence returns even stronger than before as Sam stops breathing momentarily in shock.

“I’ll see you around, Sam. Remember what you’ve learned here,” the voice echoed in his memory. Gasping, letting a cold hard sob escape his throat, the queasiness only further deepened in the pit of his belly. Rushing to the window and hoisting it open to breathe the comforting air into his crying, wheezing lungs, Sam saw across the street a large shady man in the shadows looking up at him. He couldn’t make out much, but there was a thick, well groomed handlebar mustache barely seen. The room seemed to capsize as Sam emptied the contents of his stomach onto the street below. Collapsing on the floor next to the windowsill, he laid with frustrated eyes wet with the rivers of his own aching, repeating what he heard in his mind.

“You looked to be in terrible shape, Sam. I brought you here so that you could learn to be happy.”

[Nameless]

Give me the week-end to read the whole and I'll give you my impressions then.

[Slim the BoxingManiac]

Give me the week-end to read the whole and I'll give you my impressions then.

Alright by me. Thanks.

[Slim the BoxingManiac]

Nobody read my short story.

[OumaFan]

I think it's a bit overly descriptive at times. She has a "cold, hard stagnant sigh," a "slow, tired and weary glance."

"He was then on the other side of the street, facing a city building built of sad maroon bricks.

Its maybe a bit much, but its up to you.

Still, its quite cinematic. Just thinking out loud, but maybe you could make a youtube video of you narrating and then acting out the dialogue?

[Gandalf]

It is A level material and that is what age you are. You couldn't get published, but you could get a B at A level with that. It is student level writing, you asked for opinions and there you have one.

[Slim the BoxingManiac]

I think it's a bit overly descriptive at times. She has a "cold, hard stagnant sigh," a "slow, tired and weary glance."

"He was then on the other side of the street, facing a city building built of sad maroon bricks.

Its maybe a bit much, but its up to you.

Still, its quite cinematic. Just thinking out loud, but maybe you could make a youtube video of you narrating and then acting out the dialogue?

You're right. It'd probably be smart for me to simplify some of the descriptions and make it more pleasing to the eye.

I'll keep the cinematic idea in mind.

It is A level material and that is what age you are. You couldn't get published, but you could get a B at A level with that. It is student level writing, you asked for opinions and there you have one.

Alright, any tips on improvement?

Thanks, both of you, for commenting. I appreciate your time and honesty.

[Gandalf]

I would simply urge you to read more Hemmingway. Minimalism is the key to expression.

[Master]

Miles you are a strict teacher.

[El Kabong]

Very quality.....VERY quality. Is it perfect? No, nothing is perfect, but you are descriptive, you get emotions involved, you have a way with words. You'll need to hone your craft, pick and choose when you really go in depth in your descriptions. I would suggest with this piece to maybe read some Dashiel Hammet or Raymond Chandler and maybe do a solid detective story. I'm reading 'Nightmaretown Stories' by Hammet, you could learn when to "pull your punches" from studying him.

I loved the story man, keep up the good work!

[Gandalf]

Miles you are a strict teacher.

Not so much, but there is always room to improve and he is very young. The flow isn't quite there and too many adjectives seem to be in place just to make it more 'writerly' rather than to have it ebb and flow at a natural pace.

As an early example of writing it is fine, but if I were to proof check I would underline passages and urge reconsideration. I guess Hemmingway is on my brain as I read a lot of his work a few months ago. It's a style I am drawn to.

[CFH]

I would simply urge you to read more Hemmingway. Minimalism is the key to expression.

Word.

It's very easy to overwrite, but it is often frustrating, annoying, or melodramatic to read. Try to say more with less would be my advice.

[Beanz]

Slim, you also seem to have a habit of mixing your past and present tense. Like anything in life the key is to practice, and learn from the best. Broaden your reading habits and maybe join a creative writing group.

Being creative and willing to share that creativity will bring you great satisfaction in life. Mastering any creative discipline takes time though and age and lack of experience is very apparent in literary fiction. If you want to write there are openings on the main board, and probably in your local press, for enthusiastic young journalists willing and able to document local events. That way you can hone your textual chops as your character and style develops naturally.

[Slim the BoxingManiac]

Alright. I suppose I'll get some literature from Hemmingway and Hammet.

Rather than working on the story itself, it'd be better if I just read more and studied the great writers.

I get what you're saying about simplicity, as well. Have you guys had the chance to read much of Kurt Vonnegut Jr?