Tuesday, March 30, 2010

my Short Story Challenge entry + judges' feedback

Owen fell to his knees, wailing. He had not felt anything until that very moment. Overwhelmed by the event of the past two weeks, he could only wail. The pain, the sorrow, the realization that she was gone…burst from his gut, freed in an animalistic wail. Delia. His beloved Delia had died.

Owen had switched to auto-pilot immediately. He handled all of the details – calling her family and friends, dealing with their questions and grief; calling her work; planning and making all of the arrangements for her funeral, dealing with the rote questions and their sympathy. Her family marveled at his strength in the wake of this tragedy. His family waited for him to break.

The evening of the funeral, after everyone had finally left him alone, he walked to their bedroom closet and started packing her things. He carefully pulled dresses and blouses off hangers, meticulously folded each one then stacked it in a box. Drawers were opened, surveyed and emptied of their contents. Without thought or consideration, Owen cleared it all away. Close to midnight, he labeled the last box and left it in the garage. The charity truck would be by the next afternoon to pick up the boxes and bags filled with Delia’s clothes, shoes, books, anything – everything – that was hers.

Except the piano. The piano stayed.

Delia had played the piano since she was six. It was what brought the two of them together. She had walked into the Common Grounds coffee shop near campus wearing a yellow sundress and motorcycle boots, wild chestnut-colored curls hastily tucked under a Seattle Mariners baseball cap. While the sight of her definitely appealed to him, when she sat at the piano and started to play, Owen was captivated. He watched her long slender fingers glide over the piano keys, softly eliciting beautiful tones. He watched the way she swayed; how she would bend and bow, lost in her music. He bought her a scone and tea and they talked for hours.

The piano once belonged to her grandmother. Her father would tell stories of family nights in the living room, his mama playing sweet tunes. He would continue the tradition with Delia and her brothers. The piano was a gift to Delia when she married Owen, in hopes she would carry on the same tradition with her family. Delia’s playing brought color and light; filled their home with music and love.

Owen slowly opened his eyes. He had cried himself to sleep curled under to Delia’s piano. In the darkness of the room, Owen pulled himself onto the bench. He caressed the piano, felt its sharp corners and angles; exposing its keys, he let his hand touch each one from end to end. Owen lightly hit each key, listening to the sound resonate. Those light, gingerly touches gave way to forceful punches. He mimicked her swaying, her bending and her bowing. And there was no music. There was discord and chaos. There was silence and empty.

Owen stared into the darkness, the silence filling him. He caught a light fading to his left. He pounded the keys out of frustration…and light flashed. Owen timidly touched piano keys…and light dimmed. Slowly, with purpose, he struck one key at a time…and light slowly broke the dark. Splayed fingers and hands haphazardly pushed keys. With clenched fists, Owen pummeled the keys…and light burst in front of him. Standing up, kicking the piano bench away, Owen continued to beat the piano keys – rhythmically, harshly. He watched the glimmering light dance into a yellow dress; her yellow dress. He stopped; the light faded.

Owen punched, pounded and pummeled the keys and watched Delia’s yellow dress slowly appear. From his disharmony came her beauty and light. He thrashed about, tears streaming down his face, calling her name. Wild chestnut-colored curls tumbled out from under a baseball cap. That yellow dress swayed without a breeze. And there was music.

Piano broken. Hands broken and bleeding. The light faded. Delia faded.

Owen fell to his knees, wailing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Below is the feedback I received from the judges of the Short Story Challenge 2010:

WHAT THE JUDGE(S) LIKED ABOUT YOUR SCRIPT - ...So much said with so few words. The visual language used in this, especially in the last half of the story while he's beating at the piano, is so lovely. Such a romantic take on a "ghost story".............Well-written. Some nice images/descriptions: "Her family marveled at his strength… His family waited for him to break."............................................................ WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - ...The only thing I can think to work on would maybe be giving the readers a few more short snapshots of their courtship and their life together to make his lose that much more devastating.............It seemed odd that Owen would arrange to have Delia's things picked up the day after her funeral. It was also odd that, being so in love with Delia, he would get rid of all her belongings (except, of course, the piano). I would have liked to have known the cause of Delia's death............................

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Short Story Challenge 2010

Last month, I entered the Short Story Challenge. The challenge was to write a short story with a specific genre and object within one week. In my group of 30, our challenge was to write in the genre of a ghost story with a piano as our object.

Last week, it was announced that my story took fourth place in our group. Not too bad for my first time out!

Please leave comments, feedback, criticism, etc. Thanks - rissa




Owen fell to his knees, wailing. He had not felt anything until that very moment. Overwhelmed by the event of the past two weeks, he could only wail. The pain, the sorrow, the realization that she was gone…burst from his gut, freed in an animalistic wail. Delia. His beloved Delia had died.

Owen had switched to auto-pilot immediately. He handled all of the details – calling her family and friends, dealing with their questions and grief; calling her work; planning and making all of the arrangements for her funeral, dealing with the rote questions and their sympathy. Her family marveled at his strength in the wake of this tragedy. His family waited for him to break.

The evening of the funeral, after everyone had finally left him alone, he walked to their bedroom closet and started packing her things. He carefully pulled dresses and blouses off hangers, meticulously folded each one then stacked it in a box. Drawers were opened, surveyed and emptied of their contents. Without thought or consideration, Owen cleared it all away. Close to midnight, he labeled the last box and left it in the garage. The charity truck would be by the next afternoon to pick up the boxes and bags filled with Delia’s clothes, shoes, books, anything – everything – that was hers.

Except the piano. The piano stayed.

Delia had played the piano since she was six. It was what brought the two of them together. She had walked into the Common Grounds coffee shop near campus wearing a yellow sundress and motorcycle boots, wild chestnut-colored curls hastily tucked under a Seattle Mariners baseball cap. While the sight of her definitely appealed to him, when she sat at the piano and started to play, Owen was captivated. He watched her long slender fingers glide over the piano keys, softly eliciting beautiful tones. He watched the way she swayed; how she would bend and bow, lost in her music. He bought her a scone and tea and they talked for hours.

The piano once belonged to her grandmother. Her father would tell stories of family nights in the living room, his mama playing sweet tunes. He would continue the tradition with Delia and her brothers. The piano was a gift to Delia when she married Owen, in hopes she would carry on the same tradition with her family. Delia’s playing brought color and light; filled their home with music and love.

Owen slowly opened his eyes. He had cried himself to sleep curled under to Delia’s piano. In the darkness of the room, Owen pulled himself onto the bench. He caressed the piano, felt its sharp corners and angles; exposing its keys, he let his hand touch each one from end to end. Owen lightly hit each key, listening to the sound resonate. Those light, gingerly touches gave way to forceful punches. He mimicked her swaying, her bending and her bowing. And there was no music. There was discord and chaos. There was silence and empty.

Owen stared into the darkness, the silence filling him. He caught a light fading to his left. He pounded the keys out of frustration…and light flashed. Owen timidly touched piano keys…and light dimmed. Slowly, with purpose, he struck one key at a time…and light slowly broke the dark. Splayed fingers and hands haphazardly pushed keys. With clenched fists, Owen pummeled the keys…and light burst in front of him. Standing up, kicking the piano bench away, Owen continued to beat the piano keys – rhythmically, harshly. He watched the glimmering light dance into a yellow dress; her yellow dress. He stopped; the light faded.

Owen punched, pounded and pummeled the keys and watched Delia’s yellow dress slowly appear. From his disharmony came her beauty and light. He thrashed about, tears streaming down his face, calling her name. Wild chestnut-colored curls tumbled out from under a baseball cap. That yellow dress swayed without a breeze. And there was music.

Piano broken. Hands broken and bleeding. The light faded. Delia faded.

Owen fell to his knees, wailing.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Creative Writing Homework 03.02.10

Incorporate the words below in a story which takes place in the waiting room of a doctor's office:
plumage
reverberation
galvanized
tingling
groan
wrestle
mechanical
reverie
anatomical
despair
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I must’ve been about 6 or 7 when I figured out my family is crazy. Not your typical, run-of-the-mill, “Oh, they leave their Christmas lights up all year long” kind of crazy. But, the bona fide, certified, nuthouse kind of crazy.

It was a typical Saturday night – Dada sittin’ in his easy chair, smoking Middleton’s Cherry tobacco in his favorite pipe, Pastor, my brother, in the corner reading his Bible with a Webster’s Dictionary, Mama in her purple get-up with the pretty peacock plumage and me, sittin’ by the radio. Mama loved to prance around the living room, trying to get Dada or Pastor to dance with her. They hardly ever did. Dada would groan; Pastor would wrestle away from her. So, Mama danced and pranced by herself. Mama didn’t dance as much as she jiggled or shimmied. The feathers bobbing made her look like a chicken, its neck moving back and forth. A funny sight to see indeed.

“Turn that up, Lulu. Turn that radio right up!” I obliged. “Oh, I love this song!” she squealed. “Your daddy and I used to dance and dance to this song. Remember, Daddy? Remember?”


Dada looked at Mama with sparkle in his eyes. “Yes, I remember. We cut quite a figure on that dance floor, Ma.” He put down his pipe, stood up and took Mama’s hand. They jumped and hopped, twirled and swirled across the floor. It gave me a tingling in my belly to watch them ~ Dada smiling and whistling; Mama humming and giggling. She looked like bird with all those feathers ~ a crazy happy bird dancing in our front room. Dada twirled Mama a bit too fast causing her to stumble and fall. Pastor and I scrambled into the car as Dada carried Mama who was bawling “Oh, Christmas my back is hurtin’ me so! Oh, Henry! Henry! Oh, Christmas my back is hurtin’ me so!”

I opened the waiting room door for Dada, who had Mama leaning on his back, her arms wrapped around his waist, feathers bobbing; and Pastor holding his Bible on Mama’s back, praying. Once Mama saw the people inside waiting, she wailed in pain, making sure someone was watching her. If no one was looking, she would bellow “Oh, Christmas my back is hurtin’ me so!” loud enough to shake the patient check-in window. “Oh, Christmas…ohhh, Christmas!” Oh, geez. I made myself as small as I could in a chair across the room.

I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you that Pastor isn’t my brother’s real name. It’s Jesse. And I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you my brother thinks he’s the Reverend Jesse Jackson.

Pastor stood in the middle of the waiting room, introducing himself. “Hello. I am the Reverie Jesse Jackson. The Lord says do not despair. Galvanize around now. All of you, galvanize ‘round me – let me lay my healing hands upon you.” I looked at him through spread fingers covering my face.

Of course, no one gathered ‘round.

“Let me lay my hands on you” he pleaded. “Let me heal you. Let the reverberation of my hands shake your ills away.” He shook his Bible in the air.

Four of the five people in the waiting room looked at the floor. It was look at Mama, look at Pastor or look at the floor.

One lady smiled at him. And all it took was one. Pastor was next to her in a flash.

“Oh, Sister – tell the Reverie what ails you.” I shook my head slowly, wishing she would not answer; willing her to turn away. She didn’t. I did.

“I have a torn meniscus” she said softly, looking at him like he was a lost boy. Pastor took her hand in his, laid it on the Bible.

“A torn mechanical? A torn mechanical! Lord, this sister has mechanical troubles!” He looked up at the ceiling, Bible and this lady’s hand clutched to his chest. “My small anatomical mind cannot compress why her car is torn, Lord. But, we come before you, Lord…we pray you fix her car so she is free to spread your word, Lord. Amen.”


“No…my car is…”

“No need to thank me, Sister.” Pastor turned and walked back to sit next to Mama.

She continued her “Oh, Christmas…” wailing until Dr. Willis came for her. Dada stood up, Mama was behind him arms around his waist, feathers bobbing; Pastor held his Bible to her back, praying…the 3 of them waddled through the exam room door and disappeared, looking like a duck leading ducklings.

I just sat there, waiting for my crazy family to return.