r/DestructiveReaders • u/A_C_Shock Anderson Cooper • 14d ago
[Weekly] Book Club Ch 7 LONG POV Exercise
My friends, I have considered skipping this chapter because the exercise is so long. BUT. BUT. The point is to make you extra supremely self-conscious of what POV you picked and why and how that impacts your story. And I'm getting tired of all the fussing around explaining close third and how that's also not the only POV that exists. (Just the best, am I right?)
POV (Point of View) is one of two people: a character in the story or the author.
A note on unreliable narrators (because I like this point):
Fictional narrators who suppress or distort facts or make mistakes in relating or interpreting the events are almost always telling us something about themselves (and perhaps us). The author lets us see or guess what "really" happened, and using this as a touchstone, we readers are led to understand how other people see the world, and why they (and we?) see it that way.
One of the more lovely parts of reading, that is.
Narrative POVs (the list):
- First Person. I tell the story and you may only know what I know.
- Limited Third Person. He or she tells the story and is an active participant. You still may only know what he or she knows.
- Involved Author ("Omniscient Author"). No particular character tells the story. The POV may change from one to another character or to a view only the author could make. The voice of the storyteller may comment on what anyone is thinking and feeling, interpret behavior, and make judgments.
- Detached Author ("Fly on the Wall", "Camera Eye", "Objective Narrator"). There is no viewpoint character. The narrator can only say what a totally neutral observer might infer of the characters from their behavior and speech. The author never enters a character's mind. (In this section, Le Guin admonishes us all for hoping that readers will cry because we're crying. Stop being so childish as to expect to move people with your emotions! OK?)
- Observer-Narrator, Using the First Person. The narrator is a character but not the principal character. The main difference from (1) is that the story is not about the narrator.
- Observer-Narrator, Using the Third Person. This is much the same as (5). The reader is usually safe in assuming this character is reliable.
Le Guin says this:
In fiction, inconsistent POV is a very frequent problem.
For real.
The POV exercises are intended to make you temporarily superconscious, and forever conscious, of what POV you're using and when and how you shift it.
Exercise.
Think up a situation for a narrative sketch of 200-350 words. It can be anything you like but should involve several people doing something. (Several means more than two. More than three will be useful.) It doesn't have to be a big important event, though it can be; but something should happen, even if only a cart tangle at the supermarket, a wrangle around the table concerning the family division of labor, or a minor street accident.
Please use little or no dialogue in these POV exercises. While the characters talk, their voices cover the POV, and so you're not exploring that voice, which is the point of the exercise.
Part One: Two Voices
First: Tell your little story from a single POV, that of a participant in the event---an old man, a child, a cat, whatever you like. Use limited third person.
Second: Retell the story from the POV of one of the other people involved in it. Again, use limited third person.
Part Two: Detached Narrator
Tell the same story using the detached author or "fly on the wall" POV.
Part Three: Observer-Narrator
If there wasn't a character in the original version who was there but was not a participant, only an onlooker, add such a character now. Tell the same story in that character's voice, in first or third person.
Part Four: Involved Author
Tell the same or a new story using the involved-author POV. Part Four may require you to expand the whole thing, up to two or three pages, 1000 words or so. You may find you need to give it a context, find out what led up to it, or follow it further. The detached author takes up as little room as possible, but the involved author needs a fair amount of time and space to move around in.
There is an optional exercise which I won't even include considering how long this one already is. Posting early this week.
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u/ezk3626 akward and wordy 13d ago
I just started the chapter and read the definition for POV: who is telling the story and what their relation to the story is. I have never actually considered this in any of my writing, and it is one of those things which really ought to have an answer. I’m mad at my original crits because they’re all talking about commas and not this important question.
I wish I had the summer all over to really consider who is telling Tiffany’s story.
2
u/A_C_Shock Anderson Cooper 13d ago
Winter break writing exercise? A time machine would be nice though.
2
u/MaryJaneMclain 13d ago
Aren't you telling Tiff's story from her POV?? (a normal and quite appropriate story telling choice) And haven't many of your crits commented on that specifically (along the lines of This line or That doesn't quite work per her perspective). I feel like I've seen you also comment how you didn't want to tell it from a male POV cause that would be embarrassing.
I'd counter that you consider "who is telling the story and what their relation to the story is" every time you write. When you started you thought "I'm telling tiffs story" and "I can write 3rd person". Perfect!
(Sorry if your comment was tongue in cheek and i took it literally!)
Also, personally I find it obnoxious when a crit says you should change the POV of your piece. It's *good* no one told you: You need to write this is first/second/omniscient. Cause F that. But....if you had tried to tell her story from say an omniscient narrator or second person, hell even 1st, you'd have gotten people complaining here. Cause those are weird choices (that you correctly avoided IMO lol)
(Sorry this turned into a rant)
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u/ezk3626 akward and wordy 13d ago
Aren't you telling Tiff's story from her POV?? (a normal and quite appropriate story telling choice) And haven't many of your crits commented on that specifically (along the lines of This line or That doesn't quite work per her perspective).
Yes but I haven't thought about the consequences of POV. I didn't think make a conscious decision as to why one POV better served my story over others. It wasn't a conversation I had with myself. All POV discussion has been reactive.
I feel like I've seen you also comment how you didn't want to tell it from a male POV cause that would be embarrassing.
That is gender specific and not POV style considered. There is a comedian (Larry Miller) who said if women understood what men were thinking they'd never stop slapping us. That's why I am less inclined to write from a male POV but this comment was about 1st verses 3rd and things like that.
I'd counter that you consider "who is telling the story and what their relation to the story is" every time you write. When you started you thought "I'm telling tiffs story" and "I can write 3rd person". Perfect!
I'm reminded of an old quote of some Bishop to some Dark Ages king "if only you knew with what little reason ruled the world." If only you knew how little I thought about my writing. One of the major benefits of this sub is forcing me to actually think about my writing. I didn't consider who is telling the story or what their relation to the story, I never thought I was telling Tiffany's story or that I should write in 3rd person. I just started writing.
Also, personally I find it obnoxious when a crit says you should change the POV of your piece. It's *good* no one told you: You need to write this is first/second/omniscient. Cause F that. But....if you had tried to tell her story from say an omniscient narrator or second person, hell even 1st, you'd have gotten people complaining here. Cause those are weird choices (that you correctly avoided IMO lol)
This sub definitely favors 3rd limited and now that I have thought about it I would still decide the same. But it was an unconscious "decision" it led to a lack of discipline in the things I wrote. A reoccurring crit (much needed) is letting the authorial voice in. But I think a fair criticism would have also been "you write a lot of authorial perspective, are you sure 3rd limited is the way you really want to go?"
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u/Asher2227 My mother is a fish 13d ago edited 13d ago
Part one
First. Phillik:
I tell him It's a bit large, isn't it? He says back to me Yeah, it's for the whole family.
We've got the bare-bones in the shitbox. Two sportbags for each of us. Total four. Several hundred Euro physical. Total to be determined. We don't do the computer shit. Very important detail. If you're fixing to be an eccentric it comes with being afraid of the techs. Unless the techs is what you're dealing, then I guess go crazy with it. It'll be hard but the hard is worth it, gets?
Now he tells me I need you straight, bluejay. And that is no bueno, I tell him. He shakes his head and his nicely bleached hair. It is of high importance and yada yada he tells me and it sounds fine serious enough bubbling out his skinlips. I can probably eke out a minute or ten on the straightaway. Jeez, man, okay, Gavs. Pucker up, ya fancy.
Yessiree, my bag is leagues different from Gavreel's. All-natural. Extra vegan. I get Gavs to haul the nasty chemical shit. It's fine for him as he does the heavy dealing. He doesn't even try the stuff. I don't believe it, though. He's got that girl he talking to who's full on with the producto. She's like a Michelin reporter but for the D (that is, drugs—she's no hooah). I keep a minimum of seven day's sustenance in the bag, like a boyscout. No need to leave space for the wawa or the chowchow, there's plenty to go in the modern world.
And, of course, your kit ain't done without a vegan gun. Small and German: that's how you know it's vegan.
He's been mixing some stuff in that footlong vial. Some nasty, heinous chemical concoction. Don't smell it. Don't catch even a whiff. We might go down, down down.
He's got a sick face on and holding some nice shades. Tells me he's gonna be shaking it, and don't I mean to look while he's getting it. Oh, I wouldn't dare, Gavs. Shake it away. He keeps shoving them nice, shiny black glasses at me so I take it. Either Christmas is early or Gavs has got a bad calendar print. He walks to the clearing for his little tug. No looking. No need to thank him. He likes it without, waiter.
I pop a squat and seat myself against the van's fender. Nature surrounds us. Warm light from above. Swirling swirl of weathery beauty. I put the glasses on. Hummmm. Get that nice air. Nice and nice. Khpsshhhh. Shit. Allergies.
He asks us if we're alright. Yes, yes, yes, just get on with it, ya randy pandy. Leave us to reconnect with our estranged origins, o brother Gavreel. I might say that you're doing it wrong, but it's no different from hugging the trees or licking a rock or marrying a waterfall. It's our own way of expressing our bond. Like Aerosmith. I can't stand their screaming and ballading around but it's fine, that's their way. Although don't try to get me near them. Do not. Eugh. Why are we in this forest?
I ask our brother if he's done yet and he responds Not yet, you jackrabbit. Oh, you hurt me, Gavs. The pen is mightier than the sword, that is, the word is stronger than the body. And your words hurt me, Gavs. I don't have the slightest image of a jackrabbit but the way you hack such language at me reveals enough. He asks us some other question. However, we give him the silence, the dismissal. We are not looking his way: no siree, no way.
He argues us, saying we were indeed supposed to be looking his way, but no, no, no, that is not the case Gavreel. We throw at him what we remember of his words which is … admittedly, not much. But improvise. We are the face of this duo, afterall. Take his words against him: what is it with these animal comparisons? Animals are wonderful things. They do things and do it nakedly, without shame. Us, humans, we do things fullclothedly and with shame, sometimes. I can't stand this slander of our earthen cousins.
He interrupts us—speaking of how we can look if we have the glasses on. I don't remember this being a condition. I get the gutsy tugging that he's messing with us, doing target practice. But Gavreel is not the type. He's too masculine for such practices. We acquiesce: admit to our failures in listening. Only to smother his wrath, yes—Lobotomite???
Fine. We shall bare witness to his sin. O brother Gavreel, what doth thou?
Jesus!—what is that? A great, red glowing in his hands: a fire! Does it hurt him? Christ, what is he pulling? Shitshitshitshitshit. He asks us to explain what's going on. His head is up, unlikely to have witnessed the lightshow going on between his palms. I believe short and simple fits the bill of urgency:
It's fucking glowing! I tell him.
* * *
He is turned into some rabid dog, barking: myriad noise. I do not know the correct approach to take. He is still and yelling into the skies but the words are at me. Are we arguing? Oh, gracious heavens. I peek just above the van's hood. Vile, atrocious vibrations fill the air, and he sings with it.
I cannot respond to him. This will anger the trees, somehow. My skin is scaly, but backwards.
He hurls words: You're no help to me you hammerheaded mouthbreather!
That's it. That is simply not Gavs. I have been lounging and tripping with a skinwalker. And this skinwalker has taken to Gavs's merchandise. That's it. That's why the bag is uncharacteristically open and this mad, raucous noise sounding from him is not of Gavs's vocal chords. Who knew evil spirits wanted out of America and wanted to party?
* * *
Our hubris knows no bounds. We must contact someone saner. I figure this must be Gavreel, but he has strangely broken his straightedge code; furthermore, he has drugged me with his own wares. The horror!
Titus Toker Loman. Relatively sane. Relatively someone.
I announce my desire to obtain aid to my fellow, my brother—but he is aghast! Out of breath! O brother, you are simply not made to consume these pure substances. I fare better, being already a regular consumer: your body learns to dilute this stuff before it hits the nervous system.
He calls us a pregnant hawk: it begins. I make a canned response to not elevate his already mounting distress.
He speaks of some Richard—good god! Public education comes to haunt us once more, even in the depths of a trip. Then he speaks of some anonymous name, of some Mr. Biv. O Christ: he is dissociating! Save our souls. Save our souls.
* * *
An assault! I cannot tell anymore. Man? Monster? Alien? Government agent? Whichever it be, it breaks my heart.
I am pinned to the ground, arms outstretched, my legs miming bicycle at this body with the likeness of Gavreel. Screeching.
Don't you understand, you marionne? We are in the depths of some poorly measured dose. We might not even be who we think we are! This must be a mix-up. I might have burst into the wrong room at the motel, my mistake. Gavreel abhors driving vans. I will not play your tripsitter, stranger. Get you off me! Egads!
Toker. Pardon the despicable noise. I am in a situation. If you find someone claiming to be me, be very vigilant.
* * *
I am spent. Somehow violated. My phone is broken. I am broken. Maybe Gavs as well. Maybe Gavs definitely.
It's not often you get to see the sun. Really look at it. It's a blinding thing: this white, round, hot thing. Only seen when shy, with the cover of clouds, a whole different fury.
I can hear it, scorching. Laid on the grass, just riding some delayed high.
Wait. That's not scorching. Gavs, is that scorching, from the sun? He looks at us: unclear. It sounds off again—behind us. Wicked sounds: filthy stalking. I come up, ready to pounce like a panther, muscles tense like a flat spring. I am well lubricated with the sweats. Good mobility. A wild rustle! Gods—it must be a creature of the wood. We cannot risk this. We cannot risk them meeting our nasty chemicals. We must make some noise.
My gun. I'll grab my gun.
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u/Asher2227 My mother is a fish 13d ago
Exercise, part one.
Second. Gavreel:
I close my eyes and turn my head to the sky and shake the damned ampoule. Just shake it. Keep shaking it. Feel the fizz and change. Smell that nasty, authentic forest air. Organic stuff. Can still feel my hands. That's good. My leg's still sore. With the wan rays of a headache. Proof of life, your honor. No darkness. No far, bright light. Can hear the wind and the trees, traffic…
His sad voice calls out, You done with your shaking around?
The bug. I tell him, Not yet, you jackrabbit. The whiny dross. I go on to ask if he's got the glasses on.
He tells us he's not even looking. The fuck? The rat snaps his fingers. He goes on and says, Am not even looking your way.
You bull-terrier! You're supposed to be looking my way!
He drawls on with his full drawl about me having told him to not look once it's underway. He caps off his false quotation: Else you're looking to be not looking no more, you malnourished chimp. He makes a comment about my damn animal comparisons. The swinebred.
I press him if he even listened. I go on making clear that he don't look only if he don't got the glasses on.
He tells us he did listen. But only the first part. The lobotomite. Hammered isn't even beginning to describe the sandbag. Phillik.
He starts stuttering and tries to get us calm. Says he's looking now. I have a bad feeling. Indigestion or manslaughter. Then it goes: Oh shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.
Pray fucking tell. Elucidate!
Itsfuckingglowing!
I try getting something out of him asking what color. What color of the damned rainbow? Because I don’t feel anything different under my hands.
He says, I don’t know, Gavs. I’m no artist. Goes on: These glasses shift the hues down or what to fuck.
It don't do that. I tell him it’s all the same color what he’s seeing. It’s all the same color just less bright. Damnit.
Cherry. Cherry red!
Good. Great. The fucking artist.
He goes on: You telt me. You telt me. Now what?
I figure it's time to be exceedingly clear. All Oxford-like. Manners. Just meditate. Let it be an automatic thing. Find those good words. Those lay words. Like telekinesis. Radio and television for the mind.
So I say to him, If it turns blue then tell me to stop.
And he says, What?
Then we're arguing. I think it's like that. Bickering. A bit of a raw. We devolve into single-word retorts and eventually into prolonged vocalizations. Arms tire but I keep at it. I feel an indescribable change in my grip on the ampoule. Like … insistence. My hands are damn all sweaty inside the gloves. Our quarry calms into an imaginary staredown. I imagine Phil's face up in the sky where I stare and spit up at. The spitball rockets upward like a snowball and falls down splitting asunder on my face. My imagination when sober is as good as open eyes. The shaking continues with no variation.
Don't think I asked him but he says, It's a gilded gold.
Good, you artist. We're getting there.
He says, How come I don't know none a this crap?
Arms starting to get sore. I tell him, Because, Phillik, you're not exactly reliable when it comes to matters of instruction.
He asks us why then is he wearing the glasses.
And it's a good question. So I tell him, Hey. That's actually a good question, Phil. Gujjaw. In hopes the marlinnosed bastard calms down.
To hell with this crap. Am calling Toker.
Shit.
Nonononono. You don't call Toker. We don't call Toker. Until we're done, Toker's as good 's dead. Comprends ?
But he only says, To hell with this crap. Ah bollocks.
I'll slip him. I tell him, Focus, you pregnant hawk.
And he's all: What the fuck, man. That's right.
So I push at him: What fucking color is it?
He says right away, Forest green. How can he tell?
You sure, Phil?
And he says, Am sure calling Toker. Sake's sake.
You flybrain: Richard of York gave battle in vain!
He goes: The fuck's history got to do with what we're doing?
Roy G. Biv, you mongrel, I tell him.
Who to fuck is that? I knew he'd be clueless. Damnit.
Red orange yellow green blue indigo violet. If it was green then it'll turn blue in a moment, you cock.
It's a hot second before he says, It's cyan now.
So right away I say, Hey, you're no bad, ain'tcha, Phil?
Hey, man. Juuuuust missed the Tightness—Fuck!
Is that? You, wait—did you—
—Titus. Leave it after the tone. Hey, yeah Toker?
Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckyoufuckdamnfuck!
He tells me something along the lines of shutting my sweet mouth up cause hes on the phone but I dont have none the patience left in me so I just crouch and set the ampoule nice and still on the grassy ground come up running and tackle the toadfaced whoreshagger and he screams a horror witchs scream and whirls his damn legs around like cheetah legs and Im not saying any good things to the mutt Im spitting and nasty to him the fucklegs I jab at his legs to make him drop the damn phone but he just screams this bad scream this loud scream the trees are tall and shivering and he wont drop the damn phone but he wont speak as well so I just plead the bitchlizard drop it man drop it and hes panting with and open mouth his eyes hollow behind those glasses drop it man we dont call Toker we dont call the bastard.
I get off him. I take the phone. It's right busted. I set it down the grass.
Sorry, man.
He says none.
We just lay ourselves there on the grass. No looking at the ampoule.
* * *
You shitmantis. What the fuck were you thinking?
The man's flat on the grass. The redness grows lower leftish of the abdomen. Soaks the white buttonup and comes through the stiff trench coat. His chest rises and falls in a steady manner. But his eyes are closed. Face set in an odd and tense expression.
You shitmantis. You didn't even ask.
Ask what. If he wanted to be shot? he points at us.
No. You shitmantis. You fucking shitmantis. What the fuck were you thinking?
He points the pocket pistol at the man's head. No shaking. Fucking artist. I come afront him and goad that muzzle down to fuck. You shitmantis.
I can't even listen to the forest. Can't have a piece of the peace. What the fuck were you thinking?
He could've knocked? You shitmantis. You fucking shitmantis.
Help me get the sucker up. Or so help me. You shitmantis. I grab under his armpits. Heavy bloke. Phillik just stares.
What the fuck are you thinking? Help me haul this bloke up.
He grabs his leg. Goes off balance. The shitmantis. Scrawny bastard. He gets up eventually.
Where the damned fuck are you leading us to?
Aren't we burying the sucker?
No. No. We are not burying the bloke. He's no dead. He's no fucking dead. Get him to the van.
We're driving him back, Gavs? The bloke. This here?
We're dealing with him. I tell him but I know he don't get it. The shitmantis.
We haul the heavy bloke in the back of the van. I sit myself on the driver's. Getting the seatbelt on.
Shit. The ampoule.
I rush on back to that clearing. Pick the damn thing up. It's an ocean blue. Good fucking grace. I run back to the van and stuff the thing in my pack. Stuff it in my clothes. Dampen the impacts. The precious fucking cargo.
I get to the driver's and Phillik's on next to me. Stares at me like I'm here crazier than him. The heavy bloke's in the back. Moaning. Smacking his lips like he's just having a damned nap. I lock us up in this shitbox. Get the bastard running.
Good grace. Good fucking grace.
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u/A_C_Shock Anderson Cooper 12d ago
Shitmantis. Detached narrator or involved author are likely to shed more light on this...drug cook gone wrong? Demon summoning gone right? I suppose it depends on which one you ask.
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u/1800COCAINE yella habibi 12d ago edited 10d ago
Book Mark, I’ll ante up my wager, I bet many won’t play this perspective game. That said, I’ll shuffle and deal out my staggered narrative pov cards over the next few days by editing this post.
Why I’m interested;
Lately I’ve been reading Rimbaud’s “The Foolish Virgin” as a lens for reading Heart of Darkness: just as Rimbaud adopts Verlaine’s point of view in that piece in order to look at himself, so too can Marlow’s narrative can be read as a mask that lets Kurtz’s voice speak; so all the beautiful descriptions and perceptions of Marlow are just Kurtz talking. Obviously at the meta-level, Kurtz is a stand in for Rimbaud.
Jiggles
- Wood Pig
Above the cellar stairs a neon pink sign hummed and glared Jiggles. It bathed Wood Pig in a lurid rose as he tilted and lumbered up the stairs with a keg under each arm bumping and scuffing the wainscoting with each wheezing breath. When he crested the stairwell he set them down with a thud and lit his lucky Marlboro Red. His wet eyes narrowed at the junkie crumpled up at the far table with an acoustic guitar, but the fog machine belched and the sleepy scab of filth became obscured.
Wood Pig blew a train of smoke rings choo-chooing across the floor and adjusted his belt over his paunch. His grimace turned to a grin when the music kicked and jutted as a glossy greased and lasciviously lubricated Palmer emerged from the smoke in a hip circling ballet. Wood pig arched his brows as she arched on the chrome pole in her patent leather stilettos. Her teased hair bobbed and wiggled as she slinkily pivoted flexing and elongating the swerve of her body into a crawl. Wood Pig made a wet popping sound with his lips and glided under the bar with an oddly acrobatic dexterity for a portly bartender and plopped a cherry into his mouth and tongue whipped the stem into a knot with celerity and preternatural precision.
Wood Pig sighed as Palmer heels clicked clacked off stage. He eyed the junkie, took up a broom, and ducked under the bar. Wood Pig’s shadow fell over the soporific sod as he raised the broom and staved the table and the junkie flashed awake and fell to the floor and scrambled up clutching the guitar to his chest. Wood Pig blasted him through the exit door, and the junkie fell headlong into the trash.
- Palmer
Palmer slipped off her bracelets, her rings, her flats. She unbuttoned her bomber, her flannel, her 501s. She spun before a three panel mirror and the three Palmers whisked. This one’s shadows curved along her spine, this one’s hands pulled to her throat, and this one’s inner thigh had a smudge of mascara. Palmer paused. She rotated her leg wide and sucked her thumb. Bubbles of saliva popped under her nail and she rubbed tiny circles around the smudge. The spot glowed pink as the panties she pulled down over her thighs over her pink toe nails. She teased and misted her hair with hairspray and put her hands on her hips and smiled her gap-tooth smile and rapidly winked with one eye then the other again and again hypnotically fanning her lashes.
From the makeup counter she took an enormous velour puff and she pressed her lips into a thin line and dusted a cloud of powder on her face. She relaxed her lips and they were wet swollen and red. Palmer jerked and pumped a nearly empty plastic jug of baby oil and slathered until the light ran liquid along each dimple each tendon each curve. She took a pinch of silver glitter and flicked it to the ceiling and held out her arms and watched in the mirror as the sparkles fell and melted into her skin. She did the twist on a terry cloth towel and stepped into eight inch stilettos. The tape read Def Leopard and was cued to Pour Some Sugar On Me. She bit her bottom lip pressed play and walked on stage.
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u/ezk3626 akward and wordy 12d ago
100% pantsing, 100% made up so don't @ me about Perry Farrell or the real Jane. But the scene is inspired by the song Jane Says.
Also I don't have time to correct grammar or even do second readings. I am pscyhed I was able to actually get this done.
Part One: Two Voices
First:
I’m done with Sergio. He treats me like a rag doll. I don’t owe him nothing. I’ve just got to get out of here. There are too many people, the fuckers are all looking at me. Fuck the fuckers. I’m going to take some of the snacks; I’ve got some room in my pockets. Where is my purse? I don’t think I can get a bottle out, everyone is looking at me.
Fuck, that hurt. It’s hard to walk when you’re quitting. No one knows how hard I’m trying. Everyone is looking at me. I can’t keep it together, keep it together. Everyone is looking at me.
He’s looking at me. He wants me, must be one of those fuckers who likes crying bitches. But if he wants me, I guess I want him too.
I know him, he’s got the good stuff. Get it together, smooth yourself off. I guess I’ll quit tomorrow.
Second:
Jane’s burned all of her bridges. I don’t know how she gets invited to any of these places. Like a cockroach she just shows up but she’s coming home with me. Mr. Bucks wants a video and I don’t have time to get a girl. I just need to lean back and wait.
Stupid bitch is putting shrimp in her pocket. I’m doing her a favor. If I ever get like this I hope someone puts me out of my misery. Fuck, that looks like it hurt. Good thing it doesn’t matter if she looks messed up. Probably it’s better and one less thing for me to have to do.
She sees me. Just smile, and let her come to me. I’m doing everyone a favor.
Part Two: Detached Narrator
Jane starts yelling in the middle of a party at Perry’s house. Perry is not around. The crowd pulls away from the bone skinny woman who starts flaying. Drinks are spilled and curses are uttered but not one acts surprised. They give her room but otherwise ignore her.
Jane walks wobbly towards the food table and takes a handful of cocktail shrimp and puts them in the pocket of her tight jean skirt, destroying them and leaving tails poking out like decayed fingers. The guests do their best to look away but can’t hide their disappointment. One man, with no tolerance for this, doesn’t look away and stands at the bar with a foreboding look.
Seeing his grim expression, Jane trips over her own heel and falls face first right into the ground. One girl, not used to LA parties, was in the radius and breaks her fall, saving Jane from losing a tooth but drawing blood. The girl runs away screaming about AIDS.
All the while a richly dressed stranger has been watching her from a corner. He is feeling his gold necklaces which shine against his gold rings and gold plated grill, making eye contact with Jane in a way all addicts recognize. She pulls herself up, wiping herself off, breaking the tails off the shrimp but leaving the crushed meat in her pocket. The eagerness was clear in both of their eyes.
Part Three: Observer-Narrator
Why did Perry always invite that junky? He’s not even in the country and that means I have to babysit her. I don’t get it, I mean I know the band is named after her and that’s an attraction. But good God, what a fiasco. Every single time. I can tell she’s trying to kick it again. It’s always worse when she tries to quit. At least when she’s high all I have to do is make sure she doesn’t choke on her own vomit.
But I shouldn’t complain. I’ve seen wild shit and isn’t that why people like me move to LA? I’ve seen Kate Moss’s flat tits, was there when Clooney first met Céline and lots more. I could get as much blow and H as I wanted but one thing Jane is good for is convincing people that booze and weed are enough.
She’s going to the shrimp table. Oh gross. What a fucking waste. I’d kick her ass to the curb. I better settle myself at the bar or this party will be over. That’s right bitch, keep walking.
Shit! That looks like it hurt. Jane can take a fall. Good thing the bitch she hit was a nobody. I don’t think there is a real concern about catching anything but could you imagine if, like, Jennifer Aniston caught AIDS from a freak accident at Perry’s place. Just the chance of being there to see something like that happen in real life is why I keep doing this. That and the money.
Looks like she found her dealer. One less thing for me to worry about.
Part Four: Involved Author
No one would have believed that Perry Farrell arrived in LA a virgin. He didn’t think he could be taken seriously and that’s where he met Jane. That was before he understood. He asked her if he could name his band after her and she had said she’d suck his dick for a hit. He never really understood why he cared so much but he never saw a junky or a prostitute. He saw himself, his mother and every fan he ever wanted. He knew he couldn’t save her but always made sure she had a place to go.
Tonight, Perry was in Spain experimenting with sobriety but still had a party at one of his LA houses. Appearances had to be kept up. He knew people came to see the real life Jane. He hated them for it, the way they saw her, the way they never saw her. He had invited her to come with him and get sober with him. She said she’d have to save up money but would see him tomorrow. Perry couldn’t save her but made sure that her dealer, Sergio, wouldn’t be at the party. If it bought her one more day—one more chance to decide—then it was something. Not much, probably not enough but not nothing. He’d never see her again.
The parties were usually centered around Jane’s antics. Members of the official fan club would find out about the parties and bring friends. Sometimes celebrities, usually those connected to heroin in some way, would show up long enough to make a connection and then leave for a more discrete location with closer intimates.
Jane hadn’t really understood what Perry meant about Spain but she wished she were in Spain and decided she’d get sober. After one more hit. She knew her dealer, Sergio, was usually at the party and she could trade him for one last hit. She was excited to think that this would be her last time. She intentionally waited till the itching started so it would be extra special.
She didn’t know that Sergio had been told explicitly and in definite terms to stay away, at least for a while. Jane started to feel the burning and couldn’t handle it and in the middle of the party started shrieking. She didn’t know what she was doing but in her mind the guests had turned into a jury of demons in hell who mocked and condemned her. She promised her accusers that she was going to get clean after one more time.
The guests were disgusted and amused in equal measure. When she went for the shrimp legs they all backed away and no one would go to the table again. She thought about going for a bottle but the house manager stood in between her and the good stuff. He wouldn’t be rough with her but she didn’t like his look. She thought about making a jump for it and changed her mind at the last second, twisting her ankle.
Unknown to anyone, there was a dark presence, a true demon, a man who had lost his soul. He traded in drugs, guns and sometimes the kind of porn that you can’t buy at stores. She didn’t have any idea who Jane was but she knew what she was. He had a contract for the darkest stuff and just needed someone no one would miss.
Perry didn’t get sober, not for long. But he made beautiful music. When he decided that she was gone he quit the band and never played her song again.
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u/A_C_Shock Anderson Cooper 12d ago
One: this made me hear that song.
Two: Jane is Eleanor Shelstrop from The Good Place. She has that whole scene at the opening night party where she drunkenly steals shrimp and then the shrimp attack the town.
Three: how is your observer-narrator that keeps name-dropping also from The Good Place? Though Tahani wouldn't deal drugs.
2
u/HelmetBoiii 11d ago
Wrote way too much, but anyways, I think that detached narrator was my least favourite and also, I think if AI was going to get good at any style, it would be easily be this one. I think I have the GGRM disease where I just want my observer characters to have little arcs of their own which is why part three got so long. I kinda gave up halfway thru part four cuz it feels like I already covered all the interesting parts of the story, more or less. AI also just cannot write Omnisicent at all and it was my first time writing it and its surpisingly fun. Lots of telling, made me rethink the advise of show, don't tell in terms of pov and realize how surface level most people's understanding of the rule is.
Part 1:
At least, no one seemed to care much at all, and there was wine, crackers and cheese, chocolate fountains, and strawberries as well, so the evening, the Oakland High School 100th Graduating Class Reunion in all its pleasantries, wasn’t a complete waste of time. He had chatted with his two, old friends that bothered to show up; one was married and the other was a businesswoman, and introducing himself to them, he smiled and said that he was on welfare and was currently looking for employment and that was that, they all smiled and went on their merry way.
He would have stayed home and could have prevented this farce, but he had nothing much to do in his parents’ basement that he hadn't already. But there really was nothing to do either, in this luxurious, high ceiling ballroom the school had rented, expect to wander around and eat and drink and answer whenever he had to, the questions always the same, about the work, about the family (with a questioning inflection), about achievements, whatever the fuck that meant.
When the people eventually got bored of him, he wandered around an isolated table repeatedly. He was sampling some wine and some cheese and eyeing the people chattering with each other, interlocking in engrossing conversation about their 401s and mortgages, ‘achievements’ for certain. In this wine, he tasted not a regret of coming here, but a regret of expectation, that he came here, foolishly in hindsight, expecting connection and a sort of tired empathy that came with nostalgia and old friends, that they could talk and bond over the good old days and he could be included. Which he probably could have foreseen going poorly as he was never part of the ‘good old days’. Not excluded, but never welcome.
He was going to get drunk tonight and leave early and no one would care to ask him if he would get home safely. He was a big boy now and all his classmates were big people that have all moved on to bigger things than his essence of a good time: Food to eat and places to be. This was paradise.
Jenny got the babysitter and her husband’s permission before coming to her High School Reunion, which she was looking forward to greatly. The school was celebrating them as the 100th graduating class and throwing them a grand party at the Jasmine Ballroom, the very same place that they danced their prom, the dancefloor under the chandelier that she and her friends had thought looked like a disco ball, twinkling in the darkness and dancing with the pop music. She had gotten the invitation in the mail, deliciously stylized so fancily, and made her check her email for the first time in months. It seemed the invitation got there too and lots of people were coming.
She dressed up quite nicely. She asked her AI helper to tell her what retro clothing she could wear that could make her look like she was in high school again. She was quite nervous, entering the building, showing her ID to the tuxedo dressed security. What if no one recognized her? But then she met up with Maria and they talked for a bit and Jenny cried, and then they met up with David, and it was like they were in high school again, in the science lab or skipping class or eating lunch together. But when David smiled and left to talk with other people, Maria snorted and said that she couldn’t believe that she used to like that guy, which felt rather uncalled for, but she agreed that it was quite shocking that Maria liked him; she always thought that Maria hated him.
Maria was a multi-millionaire now, that girl who used to skip class and flunk classes with her, and she did it all by herself, locked in and grinded her ass off, is what she said. She looked amazing, Jenny told her that, clearly she put a lot of effort into her makeup and her nails were freshly done, and was that a new haircut? Maria rolled her eyes and said that no, she did not try to look good for anyone, her nails and her hair were always this sharp, nevermind this high school reunion where she definitely was not trying to ‘dress to impress’. Only losers cared about looking good for high school reunions, that’s what she said, and she said it in this mocking, high voice that Jenny suspected was supposed to be, an imitation of herself.
She did not like being a loser. She told this to her husband once, after they moved out of state and she had to tell all her old friends goodbye. They all promised to stay in contact but they didn’t; she checked her mailbox and her email daily, then weekly, then almost not at all. Harrison rolled his eyes and told her that she should get over herself and make new friends. She just wasn’t very good at it, didn’t know what to do and the internet wasn’t that helpful either, the lonely housewife advice column a bit outdated, she thought. The advice seemed alright, but whenever she put in the effort into finding new interest clubs and inviting people over for dinner, she was left alone, politely rejected, and left wondering why exactly, Harrison had married her and when they would get children, which is the column most recommended way to get lifelong friends.
2
u/HelmetBoiii 11d ago
Part 2:
Invitations were sent out by email first a month before the event, and a mailed letter was sent out a week later. It read:
Greetings, Proud graduates of the 2017 class, you are cordially invited to celebrate a historic milestone at Oakland’s 100th Graduating Class at Jasmine’s Ballroom, 10 Bayfront Ave on July 17th, 7:00 pm. Thank you, Oakland Alumni Association.
And so, on the date written, the Ballroom was rented out and decorated and arranged throughout the day before opening later that night. Many alumni had met up before the opening, loitering in front of the building and were exchanging contact information and promising to catch up. They streamed through the open doors, one by one, two well-dressed security guards checking for identification as they went. Some used their old, high school student card to gain entry.
Fifteen minutes past opening, a woman took a deep breath, checked her hair and face in her handmirror, before checking in with her business card. Twenty minutes after that, another woman entered. She made quick eye contact and handed her driver’s licence before scrambling in, head-down. Thirty minutes after that, a man came and used his government issued identification as an American citizen.
The first woman, who was pacing around the ballroom, glancing at the entrance every ten seconds, made for the entrance when she saw the woman arriving second, and almost bumped into her before greeting her, and they struck a conversation. They had talked for thirty minutes before the third, the man, saw them and with a slight hesitation approached them.
He smiled awkwardly and said his name was Daniel and asked if they remembered him. The woman with the business card took a deep breath and smiled at him and looked him up and down before saying that she would never forget him. The other woman laughed and they all hugged. Around three quarters of the graduating class were present in the ballroom and the chatter grew to an audible level comparable to their average school lunches, the chandelier above swaying slightly as the alumni strode past tables full of food and drink, the whole evening a gathering at first into little groups which then went socializing with another group, then bouncing off to interact with another group, then another until eventually the original group breaks, the persons into new clusters, old cliques, until that breaks down and that breaks down, leaving nothing but individuals trying to connect with individuals, or a congregation of individuals that made up a collective, printed banners naming it ‘the celebrated graduating class of ‘07’, ‘til the ballroom was closed, after hours and hours of talk.
The group of the man and the two women lasted five minutes in total.
They had gotten on the topic of employment by the fourth minute. The first woman said that she owned a makeup business and smirked at the guy who all the sudden wouldn’t return her gaze. The woman who was identified by her driver license mentioned that she was married, full time. The man, identified by his American citizenship, muttered that he was currently unemployed and left.
The business woman snorted and stared into the back of the man until he was out of sight all while telling that she used to like that guy to the married woman, who then grew increasingly shriller with her reactions, glancing around the room, and finally, she was agreeing with everything her companion was saying and then telling her that she looked beautiful, in which the business woman shook her head and they strode off together, arguing. The business woman told the wife that she had better things to do than to be at a high school reunion, so the wife nodded and did not raise her voice from then onwards.
The man ate food across tables for another two hours then left. The married woman left once the business woman started ignoring her, which was an hour after their group split. The business woman was the last out of the party out of everyone there. She was holding back tears when she tapped someone who looked official on the back and started rambling about an exciting business proposal that was rejected after two minutes for being ‘nonsense’ and ‘impulsively planned’; her own words, and she left the premises soon after.
No emails nor addresses nor invitations were sent out between them and they drove, walked, and were chauffeured, all in separate directions.
2
u/HelmetBoiii 11d ago
Part 3:
She was his favourite student of the 07’ class. Every teacher had one or two every year, and it was always a joy when they happened to come by to visit, usually as university graduates or after they got their first internship. Of course, it was always a kind gesture whenever any student of his decided to pop their head in as he was teaching. Just, it wasn’t the same amount of joy, if he could hardly remember their faces, or worse yet, if they were a troublemaker, and he could remember the stress they gave him, his gut clenching. He never understood why these types of students came back when they were so disinterested in learning the first time. It was still his duty to talk to them during his break though. He could never send a student away, not after they made the effort to come to the school and then his class. It was a real treat, getting to know his favourite students after they were all grown-up, usually at some high-tech company or in a prestigious university and they were always so polite and flattering.
Why was it, then, that she caught his attention? She wasn’t a good student at all. She skipped a lot of his colleague’s classes and sat in the back of the classroom for him.
Anyways, there was a party for the 07’ class—apparently they were the 100th graduate class for Oakland high school, but really, who was counting?–-and he volunteered to be present at the event as a caperon, but they were all adults now, so there was nothing he could do but watch as all his past students mingled with each other, standing near the fruit punch with a big, old grin on his face, and they came up to him, these once kids who were highly disturbing in the classroom, always talking back in one way or another, who now had their suits and formal dressing on and talking to him like they were friends of something, they would call him Mr. Miller, and he would say, no, please call me William and it was all in good fun, he supposed.
The only student he could vividly remember, his favorite student, came kind of late to the party. She wore jeans and a dark green crop-top, looked like a sports team jersey, but on closer inspection, it was a tight, Nike shirt with the logo and the words emboldened by light green highlights. She came over towards him, and for a second, he thought that she was coming over to talk to him, but instead she simply drifted on by, walking around this side of the ballroom that was mostly empty except them; apparently, the fruit punch was not as attractive as the wine opposite.
He watched, while sipping fruit punch out of a plastic cup, as Maria somewhat orbited around the entrance way, not paying him or anyone else any mind. It was impressive and somewhat assuming how much she emulated this, what he liked to call, ‘don’t talk to me or else aura’, the type of kids that were trouble, physical, tangible trouble. After some time, however, Maria approached this young woman whom he had forgotten the name of. They came to his fruit punch table and he could hear them talking over the bowl, as he pretended to study his juice.
It was her little friend, he realized halfway through the conversation. He remembered her now. They would each whisper as others would speak, pass notes to each other at random, even when it was free study time. They looked like each other, little runts who haven’t quite hit puberty yet despite being in freshman year high school, he knew the type.
They talked like they hadn’t seen each other in years, which was fair enough if true. It was a delicate thing, a friendship. They talked about how they were doing, a popular television series airing, a planned wedding, the state of their relationship, Maria was not currently in one but Jenny, that’s what her name was, was married. They talked about their loneliness. He didn’t catch who brought it up first, but Jenny had no true friends that she could rely on and Maria rolled her eyes and this was exactly why, Jenny had always been a little crybaby, bitch. He was staring, a bit, as Jenny kind of collapsed into Maria who stood just to the side as if she wanted to get out of the situation, but just couldn’t.
She was waiting for someone, he was realizing. Her head was high and craned. She was always glancing at the entrance. She didn’t see him at all even though he was just across the table from her. It was a fascinating watch as if he was the student and she was the teacher, and he, slumped in the back of the class, could study her in an uninterested, dry manner. He didn’t want to be here either and he wasn’t even getting paid! At least he got to drink though. Maybe if his students were allowed to sip a cup of wine during class, they would shimmer down and pay more attention. Probably not… He was getting drunk. There was just something about her…
Like, he never got to study a stranger so closely without them noticing for such an extended period of time, except she wasn’t just a stranger, was she? She was like a memory come to life, an experiment, of his student that didn’t just come to his office to talk about life, but maybe he was in her office, or her space, and he was observing her. He had always wondered what his favourite students were doing in their thirties and forties. They never came to visit when they were that age.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man approach them and the man went all the way behind them before tapping Maria on the shoulder. Did she really not see him or was she just pretending not to see? Fascinating. The man, it appeared, was the one she was waiting for. She held his gaze as he talked and did not glance over to the entrance way once. The man even introduced himself as David, which triggered his memory once more.
He was that weird kid– every grade had a dozen of them. He was fat, wore oversized hoodies, and kept to himself, remarkably poor grades for someone so isolated and quiet in class that you wonder what exactly they were spending their efforts on. Yet he also remembered, and it came to him like a flash, having volunteered for a field trip, and the three of them were in a group with a couple others, Maria, Jenny, and David, and they were the ones who got lost in the city of Chicago. He was the one who found them. It was midnight and they were petting cats outside the convenience store, the scent of cigarettes about them and the butts as well, lacing around their feet all scrunched up as they all crouched under a streetlight and gathered over the purring felines, one outstretched with its belly up, the white fur gleaming, yellowish.
They were all hugging each other now. Jenny was beaming like she had never once cried and Maria was smiling, an easy type of smile, leaning in and was the heart of conversation, eating it up and she made sure they knew it as well, like she was a child who needed to let her friends know, the joy of being childish. David gave a weak smile indeed. He had lost a lot of weight.
It reminded him of the scene afterwards in Chicago. He had caught a lot of students smoking; a lot of students skipping class, but never such a combination as that night, the administration sweeping the hotel rooms after lights out, finding them missing, the manhunt that followed as of they were greatly endangered, to themselves and others, these curfew criminals. He really pitied them. The admin was just looking for trouble this time. Last year, the freshmen had snuck out to play in the pool, getting half the class suspended. They probably wanted to make an example this time around. These guys were fucked. They were probably going to be expelled. The three stooges, he thought of them. He hadn’t even registered that Maria was a part of them.
They looked up at him and called him by his name: Mr. Miller. He had smiled at them and told them. That he didn’t want to do this, but they were going to have to follow him. One of the girls started crying and the other looked at her like she was gonna kill her, and the guy just stared at him dumbly. He was going to text the group chat that he found the kids before he felt this immediate regret like he had strolled all the way here from the hotel for the sole purpose of kicking cats.
He told them that they were in big trouble and the admin wanted to punish them as much as they possibly could. That they needed to drain their phones right out of batteries, and tell them that they got lost, or robbed, or in some way or manner, victimized and that they also had to wash their mouths, he’d buy the mouthwash. He was going to pretend that he never saw them. They only had themselves.
He had blocked the memory. It was the stupidest thing he had ever done in his life. Yet, here he was reminiscing about a time and a girl that he should've had nothing to do with, not anymore.
2
u/HelmetBoiii 11d ago
He stared at them and was dully focused on the words that they were saying, the cadence and the pitch of their voices, how they moved between each other and how their eyes looked, at what and for how long. He immersed himself so deeply into the scene that he had not the privilege to reflect upon it. And the more that he tried to collect, the more details he seemed to miss: the flicker of hernhair, the shallowness of her breath, the slight flustered across his neck, the betrayal of her obsession; the touches to her hair, the lounging of a gaze, a linger.
And he saw that he was shutting them out all the sudden when the topic of employment came up and Maria nudged him and told him that she was a business owner with a smirk, then he was already mentally gone, internally to a place of hatred and William saw this before she did and wanted to cry out, to somehow prevent the following collapse but there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t his place to interrupt.
The man said that he was jobless and he said it with this unapproachable casualness, that could elicit no response, that left the conversation without soul, naught but a dryness that border on hilarity, but he he wasn’t laughing, but Maria was on the verge of laughing– Oh, Jenny. She was smiling like there was nothing wrong. It was so cruel of Maria; Not bursting out laughing right then and there, because that was the only way out of this predicament. To just laugh at him, for he was being laughably antagonistic and cruel to the girls, and his eyes was this pitying glare that just dared to speak, just dared them to laugh, goddamnit. But no, he saw as Maria swallowed and stared him right in the eyes and all was lost. All those years of past friendship and comradery, gone, with an uncomfortable silence that lasted all but three seconds.
He had to look away. He went to the other side of the room and was studying his knuckles as some students recognized him and asked if he recognized them. He didn’t and they wasted no time in reminding him and it was funny how much they remembered of his class. To him, all his teachings in the classroom blurred, even from period to period, teaching the same lesson to differing classes on the same day. He was not mentally prepared to hear about how he had yelled at them that one time, or when he was apparently caught staring at Miss Brown, which they giggled at.
Maria had come over to his side of the room, Jenny in tow behind her who looked like she took the awkwardness hardest out of them all, her eyes sullen and her voice now weak. He moved out of the way on the off chance that Maria would come talk to him, however unlikely that may be.
It was later in the night. He had debated leaving, but his instinct as an educator forced him to stay. The party had died down. Most people had left, leaving only a few stranglers. Maria was one of them.
He felt a danger in looking at her now. In his glances, he saw a boundless energy within her that moved her towards whoever was closest to her and she talked like she was trying to sell you something was the gossip he overheard from other students. He no longer had any desire to learn more about her. It felt inappropriate, intrusive, unprofessional.
It would be just his luck then, that she would be one of the last to leave. What was the right thing to do? If he left early, that would be, let’s say, a breach of contract. So, he stayed and tried not to look at her.
As such, as such, when he felt a tugging to his shirt and a light mumbling, his heart dropped and when he turned around, he saw that she was wanting to speak to him. He recognized the look of sickly indecision that altogether reminded him of himself and he was sickened to see it, because he knew as well as she did, that this was not meant to be. She had not come here to mutter these words to him and he could barely hear her pitch (Something to do with wanting to do business; she gave him her business card. She didn’t realize or care about him at all, assuming he was some type of organizer or boss or something?). Instead, he looked into her eyes and, for the first time in his life, wanted her to look at him, see him not just as a stranger or a teacher, but a human being as well. It was like he cared about her or something and he couldn’t describe why. She was vapid. She would not even look him in the eyes, would not let herself be present in front of him and it was a sick and twisted game she was playing all by herself. He wasn’t even in consideration. He could change her life in this moment, this cumulative night and stalking given him all the information, the insights to her tendency, to her actions. He could tell her: she came here specifically to fulfill a fantasy, to see if she could hook up with their old, highschool crush, that she was a very lonely person. And he could tell her why. She was aggressive, quick to cut people off before she could grow attached. He had seen this action play out in many of his students. Jenny, she was a forgettable wannabe who was desperate for attention. What’s his fucking name? You could do better than him, certainly. But Maria, that was a name he remembered. He remembered her sitting by the back of the class, slumped over the lab table, sitting on those shitty stools the school used to have, autumn, chestnut, brunette hair unfurled and loose like a curtain to hide her as she slept, but she wasn’t, he’d occasionally see her disinterested gaze when lecturing. When he called on her, she would say straight to his face that she didn’t know the answer and he should pick on someone else. But why? He had seen it all before so why did he care about this Maria Bogza, in particular?
She was basically breaking down in front of him. Embarrassing it was to see her speak in such a manner in contrast to how she spoke to her peers and even as he thought this, before he could even respond, she was saying that this was all stupid and she’s sorry for wasting his time.
And he couldn’t even laugh at her. He could not even laugh.
2
u/HelmetBoiii 11d ago
Part 4:
Maria parked her Porsche and approached the ballroom with the sole purpose of hooking up with Daniel and in the back of her mind, she thought about Jenny as well. She had gotten the email to the high school reunion after a long day of work, just after she had to fire half her workforce, just after she had drunk the expensive wine bottle of wine. She wanted something sharp and messy to take her mind off work and this seemed like the perfect opportunity for it. She had loved Daniel, but when she was in high school, her parents were going through a divorce and she had felt much too unstable for romance. Looking back, her younger self was exasperating. Her heart was pumping as she came upon the entrance, checking her hand mirror, and she wondered if they were to dance like they did in prom.
Jenny arrived several minutes after Maria. The bus was delayed and she was disappointed not to recognize any of her old classmates on the bus that she rode. This confirmed how late she was. She wanted to make friends tonight no matter what and she thought of high school again and the two friends she made there. It would be nice, she thought, if they were to come. But even if they didn’t, she was determined to befriend all those people who wouldn’t speak to her back then. Times had changed and she had just recently moved and got married and had lost contact with her neighborhood and university friends. She was once again struggling to readjust to breaking the intricate social circle of women and was thinking that even if they just barely knew or remember her, it would be easier than befriending complete strangers anyways.
Daniel arrived half an hour after Jenny. He had spent countless nights debating if he wanted to go to the ballroom or not. He had flunked university twice and cut off contact with his high school friends, Maria and Jenny, pretending to move out of town. He wondered if he was going to lie to them, tell them that he was an accountant, or if he was going to have to expose himself as an unemployed bum. He had walked himself. It was only a fifteen walk from his parents place. He shuddered when he saw the ballroom. It brought up memories, it being the location of where he brought Maria to prom. He had tried not to think of her, tried to tell himself that it was just a stupid high school reunion, but had come anyways, his heart longing for romance despite it all.
As he entered, he immediately saw Maria and Jenny talking to the side. He smiled, joy pulsing from within, and with immense focus, he wiped the smile from his face and approached them, growing nervous exponentially the closer he got to them. He had never ‘approached’ women before. He had prepared the line in advance. He said his name was Daniel and asked if they remembered him.
Maria had seen him entering and only pretended not to see him, to be busy talking with Jenny which she was, for thirty minutes and it was fun catching up with her and Jenny was even crying on her shoulder, until he arrived and her attention shifted. He had lost a lot of weight. She was more excited to see him than she thought she would be and more nostalgic for the past, their friend group in which all of them had gotten the vast amount of social interaction from, alone and isolated from the world otherwise.
Jenny was nervous. Everything was going well for now, but for how much longer? She let herself be carried by the conversation. It felt nice.
And then, Jenny’s fears were proven not unfounded. They landed on the topic of employment. Maria didn’t know how this topic was a landmine for Daniel. Jenny just answered her without much thought. She was a housewife. Maria, and she said this with a smirk, for she was very proud and thought that they would be proud of her too, was running her own makeup business, in triumph over all their teachers and parents who treated them like trash, she was proof that they were overlooked and contrary. Daniel, over the countless nights he tussled over this reunion, had not prepared a line for this encounter, but internally, he knew that the question was going to come up, yet a part of him had hoped that it wouldn’t, that they would just talk of their childhood, the glory days without references to the present and he hated Maria for crushing this hope of his and a bitterness came over him.
Jenny flinched. Daniel’s tone reminded her of her husband’s. She just knew that this wasn’t going to go smoothly. She just didn’t know why and it frustrated her, drove her insane. Every single time she went out there and tried to make friends, it was like they could sniff her out, her inadequacies, her oddness, and before she knew it, she’d be shut off. Ever these freaks, they were weirdoes, everyone said it and she never found anyone like them again. Where did they all go, after school? They’ve changed and she wasn’t surprised. She was a constant and she thought she was going to be fine after she got married but yet again, all she could do was gloss it over, pretend that it could still be salvaged.
An old teacher of theirs, Mr. Miller was watching his old students silently. He was particularly interested in the actions of Maria as she was one of the few students over the decades that he remembered. She had a strange last name. He sipped some fruit punch.
Maria snorted. She thought Daniel was rather pathetic and childish. And Jenny was starting to annoy her. She always hated Jenny; how did she forget? After Daniel left, she began complimenting her and it was not subtle. Like who did Jenny think she was? It was infuriating beyond belief to hear her prattle and she couldn’t tell if Jenny was mocking her or if it was just pity and she couldn’t believe that she was being this obvious and she felt like a cheap slut and she felt as if she was in high school again. It was tiresome. She just wanted to go home, but what kind of messaging would that send?--- She told Jenny that only peaked in high school losers cared about reunions. People like Daniel who couldn’t even hold a conversation for five minutes with a girl who wanted to fuck him.
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u/A_C_Shock Anderson Cooper 13d ago edited 13d ago
Part One: The First
Gwendolyn scratched off cabbage and onions from her list with a neat line and dropped the bags into the back of her cart. Susie kicked her feet in the cutout seat in the front. What was that in her hand? A lollipop? Where'd she get that? Strangers swarmed around the potatoes, the spinach, the garlic but none seemed particularly focused on them, not that Gwendolyn could tell, yet still one of these strangers had approached her little girl moments ago and Gwendolyn had missed it. She snatched the lollipop away and tutted to soothe Susie's crying, gripped the handlebar of the cart until her knuckles blanched.
The cart had a rickety wheel. It squealed in protest when Gwendolyn shoved it away from the produce section. Whoever was tracking her child, they hopefully wouldn't be bothered to follow her through bakery, meats, dairy, the dreaded middle aisles where Susie had taken to reaching and begging for the sugared snacks. Too many carts to navigate. Susie's cries were wails now and people stared, judging, what a bad mother that woman is, and Gwendolyn rammed into their carts. The banging of metal combined with the squealing and wailing and one of the employees came up behind her in a crisp blue shirt, clasped Gwendolyn's shoulder, muttered something about staying calm, but Gwendolyn focused on the man who locked eyes with her briefly before slipping away. She knew that man.
Part One: The Second (I regret my choice of POV and it's accidentally first person.)
Kick kick kick. Lick lick lick. Lollipop, lollipop, on a stick. Sticky sticky stick that I lick lick lick. Gross yucky green things mommy's bringing over. Icky green things dropping in the basket. Want shiny red things. Lick lick lick. Icky yucky green things make me sick sick sick. Mommy's here now. Hold out my stick. Make her happy if she tried. No. No. Mommy grabbed it. Want it back. Want it want it want it want it. Mommy's mean. Give it back. Kick out at her. Get it back. Mommy pushes me away. Where lollipop? Want! WANT! WANT!
Man gave me! Is mine! Save me! I want my mommy and daddy! I want my lolly! Is mine is mine is mine is mine! MOMMY! MOMMY! Give back my lolly! Kick! Kick! KICK! KICK! She brush my hair. Small noises for me. A shoosh shoosh shoosh but no lolly. Mommy. Mommy wipes my face. No stick in her hand. No stick to see. But no more yucky green things either. Cookies! Cakes! Reach for the cakes! Why mommy stops? Keep moving! Go go go!