Lit.Org - a community for readers and writers Advanced Search
 




Average Rating
0.00

(0 votes)

You must login to vote

The Part Where I Tell You What I Know



Hello, my name is Jamie. Or Wanda, or Beth, or Grandma, or whatever else comes to my mind when I sleep without disturbance, and when I am doing my job.


It’s true what they say, sometimes. They say that somebody can be dropped on their own head as a child, and suffer for it at a later instance of life.


That’s what they explained to me; at the very least. I asked them this.


“What is wrong with me?” I said. And they answered.


“You were dropped on your head when you were young.”


I learned I may have been mistaken about what they said, since their voices were scratchy, and they may have been speaking Mexican, or perhaps Japanense.


I told what they said to my closet door, but it told me I wasn’t correct.


It said they spoke nothing. It said I was incorrect, yes. It also told me that if I wanted to find out how to speak nothing, I should forget what I knew, and return to my bedside to learn the nothing, so that I could reinterpret their explanation. I disregarded the closet door. We weren’t speaking…That is for later.


It told me that if I was to follow his instructions, I would be able to understand what it was they told me, without mistaking their dialect.


My lamp post told me that I had simply misheard. They hadn’t told me that I had been dropped my head at all. So my mind returned to them answering me, and they answered, correctly, courtesy of the lamp post directing their speech from nothing to something.


“You were a sloppy reader when you were young,” was what they had really said.

I smiled and nodded, and gave my lamp post a hug. It saved the day, as it usually did.


“Thank you,” I said. The lamp post made a lot more sense than the closet door did.


“You’re welcome,” was the reply. I was happy I had a good friend in my room, because it was never pretty to fall asleep and go to where I went to without it.


Without friends, I probably would have jumped into the furnace, like they told me to, when I had messed up. But that is for later.


I hated the next part of the day, after talking with the lamp post. It went like this:


I would venture outside, but only briefly. My outdoor activity list was restricted, and other people were enemies, as I had been told by them. Only at night could I wander freely, as they spoke to me and organised my thoughts, or disturbed them greatly when they spoke their Mexican, or Japanese, or nothing. I commended their variety of fluent languages.


If they disturbed my thoughts, I would ask the lamp post what it thought. Before we had our fight, I would inquire to the closet door my ideas, and it would always be wrong once the lamp post proved it to be of another answer.


I love the lamp post, dearly, but sometimes it takes its intelligence for granted…Sometimes I wish that I could simply tell it what the answer was. But it is always correct, so I dismissed the idea of telling the lamp post something it didn’t know. It knew everything.


I hugged the lamp post when it gave me right ideas. It would embrace my thanks, but I would always end up elsewhere afterwards. When I hugged it, it let go of me and sent me away, to see him.


It was always hot, where the lamp post sent me, and the creature I talked to always asked me if I wanted more bread. I usually said no, even though it was quite good.

He just laughed. I knew it was a ‘he’ because when speaking with them, they told me that the ‘he’s’ only talked in voices that made my ears jealous, because they sounded ‘deeper,’ as they described it. They told me that deeper meant this, and then I understood:


Deeper means to have a sound frequency of which is lower, and thus is less concentrated on one area.


When he laughed, I asked him what was funny. every day after the lamp post sent me to him. And he laughed because he was sad. He was sad because I had to see him every day, and I had done nothing wrong.


This was to say that visiting him was a punishment, but no unfit activities took place with him, and so I asked why he believed it was sad for me to see him. I had no problem paying my respects to the red man with the set of extra ears. He called them horns, but that was a stupid name. I thought it was stupid because it didn’t ‘flow off the tongue’ as they said all words should.


That’s why I transition between what they call the ‘past tense’ and present tense. I do this because they say it is better to speak this way. They say it is better to do this because that means I am using my ‘language’ as I should be using it. They say it is wrong to address my language in the wrong manner, because then they will get mad at me and I will fail my tasks that I’m told to do by them. I commend their use of the English language effectively.


When they told me things to do that were not part of my job, such as using English in ‘past tense’ and ‘present tense,’ I often felt a strange feeling inside of my organs. I had inquired them why I felt this. They told me that it was intimidation. Intimidation was described as this:


The thought of inferiority, or a negative emotion traced to the lack of knowledge compared to a superior.


They also told me not to question them. They told me not to do this because they gave me my job, which made me unique. I also should not question them because they do not do anything bad. They give me ideas to discuss with the lamp post…We have ‘conversations,’ but that is for later.


They also gave me my home, which I live in. I live in my house, so I have somewhere to ‘recuperate’ when I am not doing my job.


My job is to make other people visit the red man with the extra set ears. My job is to bring them there, so he can punish them, because he says that is what his job is.


I laugh, because he also has a job, like me. I laugh at this because that means that I can use the word ‘job’ as a plural, and thus say ‘jobs’ as though I have two of them that I am aware of. I told this to them, but they did not laugh. They simply changed the ‘topic.’ I inquired what a topic was, because I had heard this word. They told me it was this:


A topic is a summation of paragraphs and ideas that discuss a similar topic. A topic changes when something new is discussed. I am going to change to topic, to make sure this new word is real.


They say that in my life, me having two jobs is impossible. So I simply bring people to visit the red man with the extra set of ears, and let him do his own ‘job,’ or ‘jobs,’ because they say that only the red man with the extra set of ears is allowed to have two jobs. Even they say that their job is to appoint people to do my job…And that although there may be others like me, I am still the only one that does my job.


I inquired the lamp post, because I was told not to question them. I asked him this:


“If I am the only person allowed to have my job, how is it feasible that others like me have my job, also?”


The lamp post was truly stumped, as well. He said this:


“I believe it is safe to say that they know more than we do. And that because we believe something is impossible, does not mean that it is.”


I did not ask anything else about that. I am going to change the topic, for another test.


They didn’t tell me what the jobs of the red man with the extra set of ears are, so I made a guess. I make guesses when there is no evidence or clues leading to an answer…The lamp post only answers me if I have evidence or clues, as they say all things revolve around.


I guessed that his jobs are this:


He offers me bread, and he punishes people. I know that he punishes people, because he told me. However, it is still a guess because I am unaware as to how he does this.


He doesn’t punish me, though, and he says that he should. But then he cries, and says that it wouldn’t be fair, because it’s just my job.


That makes me believe that other people who go to visit him to be punished are punished because they aren’t like me. They don’t do what they are told by, or they simply don’t believe in them, as the lamp post has told me. I asked him how this was possible. I asked him this:


“How is it possible that I have spoken to them, but you say that some people do not believe in them?”


It answered me, it said this:


“They do not believe in them because that means they do not have control, this is why they are bad.”


I am going to talk about my visit with the man with the extra set of ears again, continuing from where I ‘left off.’


Eventually I have some beverages, and occasionally bread, when I dine with him, as I mentioned.


I guess about things, afterwards. I guess, because, every visit I make to the red man with the extra set of ears results in me being sent home after my bread and beverages. He calls each visit ‘a part of another day.’ So this sentence is what I guess about.


I asked him what that meant, because I cannot be sure about my guessing. He said that each time the sky, which he told me was the blue bubble above me, changed and made itself the color of his eyes, which he calls black, and then became the color ‘blue’ again, it meant that it was a new day.


There were new days a lot. He told me the number of them in a year, which was a significantly large accumulation of days, but I forgot it, because I’m supposed to forget things that don’t help me, such as the information about the sum of days in a year.


I’m supposed to forget everything except for this information, as I was instructed by them:


My visits with them, my visits with the red man with the extra set of ears, and the names of the people I bring to visit him.


One ‘day’ I forgot what the name of a young boy was. I told them that the boy had brought his brother to see the red man with the extra set of ears, but they said that the boy wasn’t supposed to do that to his brother. There were two reasons:


The boy wasn’t supposed to do that, because he hadn’t existed in enough days to have a job yet. They also said that the boy was not allowed to bring his brother to see the red man with the extra set of ears because this meant that the boy had done my job.


I knew why that was bad. It was bad because that was my job, and nobody except for the red man with the extra set of ears and I were supposed to do the job of bringing other people to him. Then I remembered that they had said there were others like me. I also remembered that I believed it was impossible, and I remembered the lamp post telling me that we were to leave that impossibility to them. I got mad at myself, because I wasn’t supposed to remember things that weren’t important, as I said. I am going to continue.


Other people, as they told me, were not supposed to want to see me, or the red man with the extra set of ears. I had many names, because I was supposed to make a new one when I visited people for my job. They said my job wasn’t liked amongst the people I saw, and so I should change my name to make sure they didn’t know I was there to take them away, to see the red man with the extra set of ears.


I ‘made my bed,’ each ‘day’ which was strange, because they told me to do what they said. I did this once every time the sky changed colors, and made a new day. The command was strange because the word‘s’ ‘made, make,’ and ‘making,’ all meant:


To create, distribute, or to follow the act of a submission of an idea or thing.


Making my bed, would make no sense, to follow this term. My bed had already been created, distributed through physical construction, and submitted at completion. Therefore, I had no need to make it again.


The lamp post rephrased this as meaning that I was to ‘spread’ the bed sheets, which made my sleeping more comfortable. As he told me this, the closet shook, and was angry.


I knew that the closet was jealous of my relation with the lamp post, because we had so much to talk about. I did not mind the closet door, but sometimes I felt I could do well with its removal. I was told by them that I could not do this. They said it would let the creatures out.


The lamp post told me the story of the creatures, when I asked it about ‘the creatures that other people talked about.’ The lamp post said some people thought that there were mean things inside the closet door. There were things like the red man with the extra set of ears. These ones would not be nice to me, like him. These creatures would not give me bread, or beverages.


I did not open the closet door. The closet door never said anything, but I believe that it wanted me to. I guessed that it wanted me to be hurt at the hands of the bad monsters in the closet, because I like the lamp post more.


I laughed when I thought about it, because the closet door had been very smart once, before I had met it and them. The closet door had told me not to be friends with other people. I found this to be a smart idea.


I believed this, because my job was to bring other people to see the red man with the extra set of ears. I believed that other people were punished by him because they did bad things, and I do not do bad things. I do not do them because they are bad, and I was told that bad meant this:


Bad was the product of an unruly, miscalculated deed, of which could result in negative impact, or self downfall.


This was a good thing to know, because the red man with the extra set of ears doesn’t punish me. He doesn’t punish me because I don’t do bad things. That is why bad things are not right to do. I am changing the topic.


When I have my quiet time, which I have once every time the sky changes, I like to sit down and listen to myself. Sometimes I am my own best listener and speaker, because sometimes the lamp post doesn’t have very many things to say. Because he only speaks when I provide it with evidence or clues as to my ideas or thoughts, or inquiries.


When I have none of these things, I listen to myself. I listen to the things that the closet door has told me. I also listen to the lamp post, the red man with the extra set of ears, and them.


They usually have the most to say when I am listening to myself. This is because when the sky becomes ‘black’ I speak to them for long periods of ‘time.’ They also speak to me. It is a fun and exciting game when I speak, and they do.


It is called a ‘conversation,’ and that is what the lamp post cannot play with me when I do not provide it with evidence, clues, ideas, thoughts, or inquiries. When I listen to myself, it is the time that I am not speaking to anybody else, except for when I listen to what they have said before.


It only happens once a ‘day’ because I have my job, my visits with him, them, and my lamp post. The closet is not on my ‘schedule’ anymore, because it doesn’t treat me like a friend. It tells me not to bring people to see the red man with the extra set of ears. I think this is a mean thing to say to me. It is mean to say because if I do not bring people to see him, I will not have my job anymore, because other people will steal it from me, like the boy did once. If I have no job, I cannot speak with them, and that is not a good thing.


They tell me that the only way to have my job is if I perform it willingly, and during each day. I like speaking to them, because they provide me with evidence, clues, ideas, thoughts, and inquiries so that I can have a ‘conversation’ with the lamp post.


Conversations with the lamp post are fun.

The Next Part, Which you cannot Tell to anybody!



They do not know. In fact, nobody but my thoughts and I know. I am telling this to the paper that addresses whoever may read this, because if I tell anybody else, I will get in trouble, and lose my job.


As I said, I am only supposed to remember the names of the people whom I bring to see the red man with the extra set of ears, my personal encounters with him, and my ‘conversations’ with them. I also remember my conversations with the closet door, and the lamp post. I am not supposed to, but they say it is okay as long as I do not tell the stories to other people.


Other people are bad, a lot of the time. I hope that the people that read this are not bad.


However, this is not the premises of ‘The Next Part, Which you Cannot Tell to Anybody,’


The idea, and thoughts, of this, are to tell whoever may read this, what I did.


I remembered a day. I was not supposed to, because such things are for them to do, but I did anyways. That is why you must not tell anybody, because then I will loose my job, and I will have to talk to the closet door again. I do not like to talk to mean things, and this is why you must not tell anybody, I repeat.

The Day I Remembered



The day I remembered is as this:



Every night, I am supposed to ‘sleep,’ which is what gives me the ‘energy’ to perform my job each day.


I ‘woke’ up, which occurs when my ‘sleep’ is completed. I still feel as though I am ‘ill’ (which is a strange feeling that I cannot understand, even when inquiring the lamp post) when I wake up, but that goes away. I inquired to the lamp post as to why I feel this way when I wake up.


It told me that this happens because I am adjusting to the next day. I cannot make sense of this theory, but I suppose there are things I do not know, since I am ‘learning each day.’


The lamp post told me that this means I am hearing new things.


I will write about them later, but now I continue with my day.


I ‘clothe’ myself, to prevent my body from being harmed, and to stop authority figures from coming to take me away, so they make it that I cannot speak to the lamp post, or the red man with the extra set of ears, or them.


They take people away who do not wear clothes. They do this because it is harmful to other people who are wearing them. I guess that it is because they grow unsure when they see somebody not wearing clothes. I guess that if they are wearing clothes, and another is not wearing them, they also have to guess whether they have chosen the right decision.


They tell me that there is only one right answer for all things. This means that if one person does not wear their clothes, and another does, then one person is wrong. This makes for confusion.


People, who are wrong, are taken away by me, and are punished because of their bad thing. This is why I do not do bad things.


This is why people all should wear clothes. The red man with the extra set of ears tells me that being punished is bad for the people but not for him. People must wear their clothes so that they are not the victim of bad things.


This is understandable, and I did not need to inquire the lamp post about this.


My day continues when I leave my home. My home is one room, and the room is a square unit, composed of wood and brick. It was owned by somebody. But I took them away, and now it is mine.


I often receive gifts from them. I got my clothes and my house from them. I also got my bed, and get my food from them. I only get food from them when I am hungry, and am not able to see the red man with the extra set of ears. Otherwise, I must eat his bread, and drink his beverages. I am reluctant to eat his bread, because often the taste does not agree with my mouth. When things fight inside me, I feel ‘ill.’


I leave my home, but only for a short amount of time, I repeat.


I leave, and they are not there. They are only there when the sky is ‘black.’


I go back into my home after I have seen what is not inside, and I go to the closet door. Every day, there is a new piece of paper on it after I come inside, and there is a new name and face on it, also. I am good with directions, and am told this is strange. The closet door told me this, begrudgingly.


He said it is strange for me to know where things are, because I do not go far from my home on most ‘days.’


I do not argue with the closet door about this. I do not argue because his opinions are unnecessary in my ‘days,’ and I am not supposed to remember what he tells me.


I take the piece of paper with the name and face on it, and I leave my home after sitting on my bed for some amount of ‘time’ of which does not complete a full day.


I wait until the sky is not blue, and not black. I wait until it is another color.


I inquired the lamp post about this. He told me that this color is called ‘grey.’ The name does not make a good sound, and it does not flow off of the tongue. I am told that if I do not like the word ‘grey,’ I can use the word ‘evening.’ It is not a lovely word like the word ‘lovely,’ but it is much better than ‘grey’ of which I will no longer say.


I go out when the sky is ‘evening,’ and I venture far by pushing my feet forward with my ‘muscles’, one before the other. This makes me move, and this is how I leave my house each day. This is also how I bring people to see the red man with the extra set of ears.


I find the person, and I ‘kill’ them, as I am told it is called, by pushing my finger with my ‘muscles’ against a small crescent made of silver. It is called the ‘trigger’ of a weapon that they told me was called a ‘gun.’


I wait until they do not move with their ‘muscles’ and do not speak. I hug the nearest lamp post, and then they are off to visit the red man with the extra set of ears.


I go home. Every day the closet door repeats itself. It is a mean thing to say, and it questions my skills.


It tells me that ‘you are lucky that the authorities did not drag you away today’ and tells me that people often frown upon my job. They say my job is bad.


I only go to bring people to the red man with the extra set of ears if there are no other people with them.


Rarely, if another person is accompanying them, or there are several other people, I have to bring them all to see him. I am not supposed to do this immediately. When people do not leave the person I am supposed to ‘kill,’ that day, I have to do ‘kill’ them all.


I ask them why they make me do this, and I ask if these ‘extra’ people do bad things too. They say that sometimes, any measure must be taken to progress. That is why I do this.


I don’t understand why my job is bad. The lamp post does not know either, and this makes me more confused when the closet door says this…


I’ve learned to ignore the closet door, but I still hear it, even when I try. I attempt to forget what he says, but it seems I cannot. I find that he makes me loose my forgetting abilities.


The lamp post tells me I do not have control over everything…I ask the lamp post if they do. He also says that even they do not. I think he is silly for this idea. But it is better than being confused about the closet door telling me my job is bad. The lamp post tells me that it is not bad, as long as I do not feel ‘sympathy’ when I ‘kill’ them. I do not inquire the lamp post about what sympathy is, because it is a word that is part of ‘emotion,’ and I am told to avoid inquiring about emotions by them.


Sometimes I do, though, and you must not tell them that I said this…


I hug the lamp post once I am home, and I feel the heat come back to me. I am in the company of the red man with the extra set of ears, and I sit at his table. He speaks to me, also.


“Hello,” he says. He does not say my name, because I have many. I have many because I must change them, and so he does not know what my new name is when I visit him. I reply, and we have a ‘conversation.’


“Hello,” I reply.


“Are you well?”


“I’m unsure.”


“The lamp post says you are well.”


“Then I am well.”


“Would you like some bread?”


“No.”


“Would you like a beverage?”


“Yes.”


I always said yes to the beverages, because they felt good.


“Would you like some bread?”


“Yes.”


Then he would cry. He would say this:


“It is sad that you must come here, as you do not deserve to be. I feel sorrow that you must visit here every day, and you have done nothing but obey the Grasshopper Alarm.”


The Grasshopper Alarm is the collaboration of the grasshoppers talking to me. The Grasshopper Alarm is them, but I do not call it this because they find it insulting to be referred to as Grasshoppers. They say it is insulting because that is the name given to the by other people who do bad things. People do bad things, and I am told that the bad things I ‘kill’ them for, is saying the word Grasshopper without commenting on their superior intelligence. It is also for killing them, or ignoring them. I am told that I am very smart because I obey them. I feel a warm ‘emotion’ in my stomach when they say this.


I find this a suiting reason for them to be punished.


I reply to the red man with the extra set of ears.


“It is a pleasure to be in your company,” I say. I say this to counteract his sadness but he sobs. He tells me this, next:


“I feel sorrow for the fact that you are smart and kind enough to obey them, but must do their duties in promoting their esteem, by coming here to see me. I feel sorrow for the idea that you must inquire the lamp post, and have not interacted with the people that do not do bad things.”


I laugh, and I tell him that all other people I have met do bad things, except for me. I am not to interact with others. That is my duty.


I leave him, and I go home, to chat with them, and inquire the lamp post when I have accumulated evidence, clues, ideas, thoughts, and inquiries for him. I go sleep next.


I do my job the next time there is a day. And sleep when there is a ‘night.’


That is how I am.


------
If you want to be a writer, pack up and go home. If you want to write, welcome aboard.



Comments

The following comments are for "Grasshopper Alarm"
by Carnifex

you're just jealous that the special voices speak only to me!
yes...we understand what we must do now.

thank you.

very good. very good. the special voice is now telling me that i may praise this presentation.

( Posted by: abdul030405 [Member] On: January 26, 2006 )

"victim of bad things"
I\'m not quite sure what to say about this. Um?

Definitely interesting. I don\'t know if I care for the lamp post. I would have chosen some other object, maybe a shoe or a microwave oven, but that\'s just me.

( Posted by: MountainBill [Member] On: January 26, 2006 )

Wierd
As strangely creative as this piece is, it was still pretty darn predictable. As soon as the speaker mentions bringing people to see the devil, we know that she is a serial killer. Because the ending is already given away, getting through the rest of the story seems to take FOREVER.

I would consider the overall structure of this story and evaluate how you might re-structure it to build suspense more effectively. It might be possible to give the story a little more bite by delaying the reveal a while longer.

About the day she remembers... The build up to this is about a single day she remembers, but instead she just tells what she generally does every day. I would re-do. Make it a specific day - the day she killed the boy and his brother would be a good one. Walk us through it, but don't give away her goal until you absolutely have to.

About the quotes... This is an interesting device at first, but in the end it's just irritating. Lighten up a little bit - don't put more than one or two quotes per paragraph. Or perhaps don't use them at all - it might delay the reader's perceiving that that the main character is insane.

About the grasshoppers... I think that insanity is more powerful when it is left unexplained. I would end this story with the murder of the two boys, perhaps at the point she gets back to the house and has a conversation with the lamp post.

Finally: Show don't tell. It might say a lot more in a lot less words if you actually had dialog in this story instead of talk about dialog.

Very creative, very wierd. I give it 2.5/5. It could be 3.5, maybe 4 if it was actually scary.

( Posted by: davidray [Member] On: January 28, 2006 )

Way to go.
As a person who writes, I'm obliged to recieve criticism wherever my writing is shown, however I'm also one for defending myself when somebody completely misses the point.

The main character is autistic, if you failed to catch that, and as she has never really spoken to other people (so she believes) she feels that everything is to be explained.

Why would an autistic character speak as though the reader already knew what was going on?

Suffice to say that everything she says is explained because it simply is something she would do, and this was not supposed to be scary in any way whatsoever...At all...

( Posted by: carnifex [Member] On: January 30, 2006 )

Autistic?
Totally missed that. Reading your comment, I don't know how anyone would have figured that out. Knowing that, and knowing a few autistic people, I like this story even less.

( Posted by: davidray [Member] On: January 31, 2006 )

Autistic? Cont
After I wrote my last comment I had a few more thoughts. Now I find this piece offensive and ignorant. Your main character isn't autistic - she's schizophrenic. There's nothing in this piece that indicates autism. I'm sorry, but now I think this piece is just plain garbage.

( Posted by: davidray [Member] On: January 31, 2006 )

Both of those things can play into each other...
I also know an Autistic person, and thank you very much for taking the time to butcher my piece completely...

In all honesty, if the story has to be spoon fed to you in order to make you understand what I was trying to get across, then I won't bother.

Try reading Vonnegut, or Mark Haddon.

( Posted by: carnifex [Member] On: February 1, 2006 )

Oh...
And excuse me, I didn't try to justify scizophrenia and autism as the same thing :S.

This was entirely experimental, and completely out of my normal writing style...Perhaps it failed in your eyes, seeing as it went from 2.5 to 0, but is it completely necessary to attack me?

( Posted by: carnifex [Member] On: February 1, 2006 )

Taking my toys and going home
This was a difficult piece to read, and also difficult to critique. I put a considerable amount of time into it, because I felt sorry for the piece. While the other comments that were made were genuinely supportive, I didn't find anything in them that could make the piece better. I now see why.

I have done you a favor, carnifex, by reading your work and giving it a careful evaluation per the intent of this web site. You don't acknowledge even one bit of that advice as being useful to you and go even further by insulting me as a reader. I find this immature and ungrateful. If a careful reader like me "completely misses the point" of a piece like this then the author has simply failed to make her point!

I won't do you any more favors. I won't read or critique anything else you post on this site. I am taking my toys and going home.

Finally, I don't believe I have attacked you personally. I'm sorry that you feel that way - I can see how you might find the word "ignorant" in the way I used it personally offensive, but I'm going to stand by that comment. The portrayal of an autistic person as delusional/hallucinatory is clinically inaccurate.

If you push me anymore about this I am going to give your piece to the mother of an autistic child and post her response. Then you will know what it is like to be personally attacked as a writer.

( Posted by: davidray [Member] On: February 1, 2006 )

G-hopper Conflict...
Good morning, been working late or early, but, Ben, in defense of David, I'd like to let you know he tried, dignantly to critique your story, and I read your Bio, so it's all cool, your story lacks the action-suspense keep you in your seat...Now, Ben...hear me out, I'm a 43yr old beginner, and had to learn humility, the hard way, that was cool, too. I read your story, and simply trying to assist, because at your young age, and desire, one day if you persue, you could be a great writer-bestseller, it's possible...to your write, I thought the subject
would and was schizophrenic with the paranoia, too...put it like this it works better for the story, than autisism...I know both illnesses, I was a RN for yrs, psychiatric nursing is a speciality, as well as I did pediatric nursing for many yrs,knew more than a few misunderstood autistic people...please realize, I'm encouraging you both...Ben your story has potential, was somewhat predictable, but hey, you can refine, right? I'll admit, I can't write creepy stuff, although it happens to be one of my fav's...Don't know if I did any good, just tried...Ben, critique is gruesome, not necessarily on this site, but, then again, yes it can be...just hope it's something that honestly is for you and your words...David, I, just Robin, think you did quite well, you sort of lost your cool at the end, your patience...
That happens to the best of us, even the extremely seasoned...take my word, been there,
(don't nobody go off on me being seasoned), we are all here to learn, then move on to bigger and better places, hopefully...just my 2cents,
hang in and let's write on!

Robinbird

( Posted by: Robinbird [Member] On: February 1, 2006 )

Bleh...
I never meant to consider the autistic side of things as the scizophrenic things.

The schizophrenia takes form in the clear insanity and multiple personality shown throughout.

The autism is subtle, and I only brought it up to 'defend' a point David had made before. Autism is a far more advanced and serious thing than I was able to get across...Which is why this piece is not perfect, or even good.

I meant to have it percieved that the character did not explain everything perfectly, assuming that the readers were like her, and assuming that they would understand because it was logic ---to her.

Sorry, David...I really do know how to take criticism, but when I saw the potential to defend myself, I went too far. And would appreciate it if you did not resort to blocking me out, as your comments were helpful.

( Posted by: Carnifex [Member] On: February 1, 2006 )

Sorry...
Ben,
It's hard to look at the work we do with a critical eye sometimes, and even harder to see it through other people's eyes. I'm sorry that I became rude in the end - Robin's right, I overdid it.

I'll tell you what, I'll read anything you post if you'll do me the favor of reading one of mine. I've yet to get any substantial feedback that will help me improve. I've got two stories out there, Peditickleitis and Alter Ego.

Thanks Robin, for the "intervention." All's well that ends well!

( Posted by: davidray [Member] On: February 1, 2006 )

I'll get on it.
No problem.

( Posted by: carnifex [Member] On: February 1, 2006 )

Mark Haddon-esque
as the sunject says i found it effectively Mark Haddon-esque. It really got under my skin, made me think, and a thoroughly enjoyed it.

( Posted by: Halfpint [Member] On: February 11, 2006 )





Add Your Comment

You Must be a member to post comments and ratings. If you are NOT already a member, signup now it only takes a few seconds!

All Fields are required

Commenting Guidelines:
  • All comments must be about the writing. Non-related comments will be deleted.
  • Flaming, derogatory or messages attacking other members well be deleted.
  • Adult/Sexual comments or messages will be deleted.
  • All subjects MUST be PG. No cursing in subjects.
  • All comments must follow the sites posting guidelines.
The purpose of commenting on Lit.Org is to help writers improve their writing. Please post constructive feedback to help the author improve their work.


Username:
Password:
Subject:
Comment:





Login:
Password: