short story, want to run it by a few more people..
Hey
Im new to the site.
Story inspired after talking to my brother.
Untitled
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The Beginning
My name is Matty. I was born in 1984, and I grew up in a small town in Ohio. Nothing spectacular arose out of the alumni of my school, I followed that tradition. My parents were the type of parents every child dreamed of. They went to every football game, helped me with my homework, drove me wherever i please. Their morals have been drawn onto my chalkboard of a brain. My father told me to "be something" my entire childhood, how cliche. But i never argued, or rebelled for the hell of it, I did as i was told and studied hard. My brothers name is Adam, he is six years younger than me. Goofy in his toddler years, rather anti-authority. In an innocent manner of course, yet still present. I recall once time where their were cookies on our kitchen table, mom had told us not to touch them. He pulled a cookie out of the jar and placed it in the sink. He thought this was hilarious. Silly boy. He's just a kid, right?
Being told to "be something" my entire childhood made an impression on me unlike anything else I encountered in my younger years. "Be something", how beautiful. As high school went on, my mother regularly told me how people changed. There would be those who stayed stagnant, and those who advanced forth in life to "be something". Those who partied, and those who molded their lives into careers and marriages. She told me that my true friend(s) would shine out from the darkness of aqautenances'. I started noticing this my sophmore year, I had one or two good friends, it was all i needed.
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The Middle
Times are changing, I was out of high school at this point. I had enrolled in college, a prestigious one at that. Ivy league. Walking in and out of my university induced a rush daily. The feeling that i was starting to "be something" as my father had told me to fed this strong emotion even more-so. I wasn't a college drop out flipping cheeseburgers for $7.25 an hour (as i was warned would be the outcome if i didn't attend college). My parents helped me move my belongings into my dorm the first day. "I'm proud of you". I enjoyed the compliment, it completed me. I wanted every action that came from me to help the world in some way, as my parents' actions helped me. I wanted to be an influence, instead of an annoyance. How could people live any other way?
By this time my brother was in his freshman year of high school. More into the arts than his studies, the term "be something" was loosely followed in his day-to-day studious life. Instead of my parents being angry, they encouraged him in his own way. "Pursue what you want, just be something". Being a kid he didn't have time for anyone except his friends. They gathered every weekend. I'm not sure what they did, he never spoke of it. They were just teenagers, probably playing cards and riding their skateboards. What else do teenagers do?
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The End
Graduation day was arriving. My life was forming, I'll never forget these past four years. I'm graduating at the top of my class along with my best friend. Unfortuneatly, my other best friend that I've known since high school had dropped out of college, i haven't talked to him since. I've tried getting ahold of him, but nothing works. He started partying with his room mate and it all went downhill from there. I don't need to be exposed to that anyhow, what was "he being"? There isn't a use for people like that. I guess he chose the other road in life
My brother had some rough times in school. He had to drop out, there were issues with him and other students. Two upperclassmen were bullying him, I was never told the reason. The two seniors had cornered him in the bathroom, just before a teacher broke it up. He tells me he's going to college, I believe him. He occasionally drank but he had it under control, after all it was only on the weekends.
He enrolled in nightschool. I knew he would come around, he would be in college just like he had told me. He was finally going to "be something".
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The Conclusion
It's been 4 years since i graduated, If you've been reading carefully you'd know i was twenty seven. I found my other half about three months ago, she is everything I ever wanted. Her name is Jessica. Her ideas are one with mine, she has a degree in law as do I. If our relationship continues in the direction it is currently, I would love to marry her. I love her, but any quick decisions such as marriage could end badly. I've decided to not think about it, to just live each day with her. The best part is she agrees with me.
My brother never made it through night school. He got caught distributing drugs during class, poor kid. I haven't heard from my brother in two years, neither have mom or dad. What kills me is he had the same opportunity I did but didn't take it. Our parents supported us immensely throughout our childhood. They treated us as equals. Every Christmas they would be sure to purchase the same amount of presents to assure there would be no jealousy. On Easter, we both painted eggs. Before school each morning mom made us both breakfast. Love was present.
I guess he chose the other road in life.
Edit; if you wanna tell me what you think i'll love you 
"I just don't want to die without a few scars, I say. It's nothing anymore to have a beautiful stock body. You see those cars that are completely stock cherry, right out of a dealer's showroom in 1955, I always think, what a waste"
And to be submitted to the Workshop.
Fan Submissions: We accept everything from pictures of your Fight Club tattoos, to your 110 page college thesis about Choke, to a picture of you wearing a Cult shirt on TV somewhere! Original writing submissions should be submitted to our Writers Workshop.
ah yeah i saw that it was about $40, i'll look into it.
"I just don't want to die without a few scars, I say. It's nothing anymore to have a beautiful stock body. You see those cars that are completely stock cherry, right out of a dealer's showroom in 1955, I always think, what a waste"
There's lots of free places to submit stuff online and get people's reactions. Writer's Digest has a forum for this. But... I spent about 6 months there a while ago and got mostly surface level, two or three line "hey, this is real neat" type responses.
The workshop here is totally worth it if you want serious eyes and good line by line critique.
| adj | facebook | an american atheist| warmed and bound |
I loved it.
Much better than Cats.
I'm going to read it again and again.
@ireLocus oh wow, yeah. This is the first site i've ever tried it with, saw fan submission and thought what the hell why not.
@nathaniel parker lol thank you whats cats?
"I just don't want to die without a few scars, I say. It's nothing anymore to have a beautiful stock body. You see those cars that are completely stock cherry, right out of a dealer's showroom in 1955, I always think, what a waste"
coming from someone who's done it, the workshop here is worth the cash. hell just chuck's essays on writing and craft are worth the cash. if you put in the time and the effort with the workshop group here you will get it back, i can promise you.
www.triplebeard.com
http://darkroomreview.blogspot.com
“...There are so many ways of being despicable it quite makes one's head spin. But the way to be really despicable is to be contemptuous of other people's pain. You ought to have some apprehension that the man you see before you was once even younger than you are now and arrived at his present wretchedness by imperceptible degrees.”
-James Baldwin
We had begun to drink heavily when we awoke that morning. And we continued into the afternoon so that by the time that we left for Austin we were quite trashed. This was, in fact, the reasoning behind our trip; we were trashed, and wanted to continue this endeavor. Of corse, we had to hustle up a little extra cash 'cause a road trip is a no fun trip if there isn't any booze. Besides, have you ever tried to stop a wet alcoholic in his tracks? The trip would, no doubt, have been rough (well, hells bells, that sure would've been better than the reality of the whole mess). By the grace of whichever divine being watches over good hearted, not so bad alcoholics like ourselves, as we pulled into Austin, he pulled out of his not so usually generous pocket, just enough left over dough to stop at the bar and for each of us to have just one more drink; you know, sit down and enjoy one like the best of them, before we got the real party started. Unfortunately, this is where all the fun went bye-bye, Birdie. I blame it all the bastard that decided to hit on me in front of my (let's not forget, highly intoxicated) man. I'm pretty sure he told me his name (first one, at least) and, fuck, if only I could remember what he looked like. I'm pretty sure he was very short and very Hispanic, and if that were enough to hunt someone down, I would make certain this dude's day ended very badly; while making certain, as well, that he never, ever tries to pick up a drunk chick in a bar if her drunk significant other is close enough to catch wind. I am here to show you, as I intend to show our Rico fucktard when I find him, that this could bring certain doom on even pretty much, for the most part, innocent parties. Oh, boy! Was he pissed! At me! I guess I maybe could've been a little bit more of a bitch to the confidant tejano, cause I know that makes him feel better. And okay, maybe I should've told sir bringer of woe that I was traveling with my boyfriend. Okay, fine! I maybe shouldn't have accepted the drink he so graciously offered, after I explained my money situation of course (please let me point out here that the fact that I got one more drink and he didn't, pissed him off with just as much force as all of that other shit I've just, in my humble opinion, very honorably admitted my minute fault in). So, we left. Which was probably for the best. He's not a fighter; or so I thought. Besides, we had no more money for drinks, anyway. And at that point, that wasall all that really mattered. Onward to our next drink, or better. Bummer, though. He miscalculated our funds. That extra cash we spent at the bar was, in fact, the whole lot of our trip money. But, I'll be damned if that old Divine being wasn't looking upon us again 'cause we made it right up into the gas station parking lot before we ran out of gas. And there's always someone around helpful enough to push your car when you're that close; at least when you look as helpless as we did. So we made it to the gas pump, no problem. At this point, divinity took a little vacation. Of course it was all my fault that we were stranded with no money, no gas, no booze or drugs. Psha! I wanted to scream! Okay, Mr. "Oh, looky, I found some extra cash"! And besides, I suspect that he knew all along that that was the last of our cash, but spent it at the bar anyway. Irresponsible, careless, bastard! But, I didn't make a peep. Oh, no. Not a sound. I followed my orders as given with my head down and my preverbal tail between my legs. I had admitted defeat; partly because I was sad and pissed but mostly because I was sobering up and was starting to feel like pure ass. It was my first go at begging for money, besides when I was preggers and my dad wouldn't hand over enough lunch money to fill my face every day, but that was different. And I was good! I was really good! I got us enough money to get us to wherever the fuck he had in mind with enough left over for booze in no time. All emotion seems to have strangely escaped me at this point; about what I'd done, and the predicament I'd gotten myself into. I probably don't remember much from this specific point because I was sobering up and apparently, in retrospect, I would inadvertently just shut off all feeling and emotion and even cognition and just sort go with the motions. I'd rather not waste too much time on those rare, and at that point in time, genuinely torturous occasions. Anyway, next thing I know, bam! I'm drunk as a skunk. And fuck me sideways if he wasn't bitching at me about that stupid fucking Tex Mex at the bar. Well, I'd had it. And, bless my poor sold for almost nothing soul, I let that mother fucker have it. I called him everything from a pussy to a loser to a plain old dumb ass. Bad idea. But, as I stated earlier, I didn't think he was a fighter. Fuck, I was actually very confident in a fight between us ending in his crouching in defense mode while my flying Kung Fu kicks and boxer style upper cuts moved smoothly into a sleeper hold. Once again, I was sorely mistaken. He had some sort of pre GPS sense and tore off the road. And I shit you not, pulled into a little place, that may as well have had sign that read "Park For Committing Violent Crimes". It didn't even look like a public place in all actuality. More like a place where one might dump a dead body. And absolutely no one could see us. Anyhoo, you get the picture; grim as it's starting to look for me. He slammed the car in park and grabbed my arm. He twisted it until I screamed while his nails dug into the back of my neck as he slammed my head into the dirty, disgusting floor board. I'm screaming at him to let me go. He's screaming at me that he was going to break my fucking arm. All the while I'm stone sober and more terrified than I've ever been in my life. (Note: We shared many grand experiences in the future that beat this particular one on the terrifying life events scale, which you will hopefully read about soon.) Eventually, he let me go and pulled back onto the main road. Then, an odd thing happened. When i noticed that my arm was seriously injured, maybe even broken, i got extremely angry. So, naturally, I did the worst thing possible in the situation presented to me. I punched him in the face, hard. I'll give you 3 guesses as to what transpired next. And I'll just assume that you got it right on the first try, second if your like my husband. Fools always thinking about sex. That's okay though, we all suffer from random kinks in our own idea of how a story should naturally flow from time to time; makes our stories unique and special. Unfortunately, in reality, you can't just randomly throw a tittie fuck in where a chick is about to get her ass beat by her boyfriend. So, as the story goes, he hit me, a lot, as hard as he could, in the damn head. Then another strange thing happened (what dumb ass said that reality is always predictable? Oh, yeah. Did I say dumb ass?) As quick as he pulls his fists down he starts begging me to forgive him. Keep in mind, now this is important, he's still hammered. And all of a sudden, he starts to loose his mind or something. And before I realize what the hell is happening, I'm comforting him! Holy fucking shit! All the mother fucking way to the government paid effeciency lived in by the dude whom was soon to become one of my very favorite junkies, and whom would end up one of my seemingly endless friends who loose their lives to this disease. Now, here I warn you. This is where things start to get really strange. But, first off, since I'm in the habit of making any of, what I feel are necessary, explanations after the fact, I'd like to do things a little differently. In this case, I think it's best if I give you all the factors that i feel are relevent and necessary while considering what I'm telling you. in the sort of, pre story note.
Here goes.
Note: 1(and this is # 1 for good reason. It trumps all other factors as far as I'm concerned). We were on our way to get the already withdrawing from and terribly longing for...Heroin. And He was my only means to this end.
2. He was super shit faced drunk.
3. My mental well being was dependent upon maybe about7 meds that I'd suddenly stopped taking several days prior this recorded events.
Shit, y'all. I guess that's it. So, moving on...
We arrive at the home of my soon to be friend via junk, with Chad finally under control of his mind again, and of course, some sort of make believe to explain my injuries because (consider note #1 now) this whole less than hour after the beating, all was forgiven. Then, holy fuck, we had a ball! We got our dope cause, first things first, right. But then, fast, new friend and I danced for hours. Chad gazed at me with that kind of love and warmth that only the big H seems to bring out in us all. And this love fest went on for sometime. Then, eventually, and inevitably, (always inevitable, yet it hits us every time like a ton of bricks that leaves us depressed and aching) the drugs ran out. Fuck. And So the story goes. I will go ahead and state my constant mindset for the remainder of this story, unless, through the writing process, I remember some shit I repressed that renders this statement totally untrue. And I touched on this earlier. I tried to feel and think as little as possible, because I had absolutely no control over either and they both have this ironic way of torturing me during these particular moments through depression, anxiety, obsessions, cravings, and other various method of acting against me. He decides he wants to "camp" for the night. Great. Camping sounds like a lot of work. And I just wanted god to strike me down so that I could just lie there on friend by the needle's rug, half dead, looking into the bright light. I would never actually go. Dying's not for me. So, I "camp". His mind is starting to slip again. Oh, and he's still smashed, mother fuckin piece of shit. We drive to the Walmart store and park at the edge of the parking lot. Then, off we hike, into the woods. With, literally, nothing. And this camp was crazy far into the woods, but he said he had lived there for quite a while so we eventually found it. Whew, what a relief. That hike to our campsite was most definitely near the top of my most terrifying moments scale. He was walking super fast. And I couldn't see a thing. It was so fucking dark that he flicked in and out of view as he pulled ahead of me. All the while, fucking sticks, ugly and useless, and thorns and vines and shit were poking me, and cutting me, and pulling at me, and trying to trip me up. But, like I said before, we made it. So, once we arrive at our campsite, I take a moment to assess my surrounding. Anxiety had completely taken over, and He had, by now, completely lost it (it being his mind). First of all, It was obvious that lots and lots of people, just as desperate as us, had "camped" here since His last move from this hobo's paradise he'd lead me to. It was absolutely disgusting. There were liquor bottles everywhere (empty, yeah, I checked). I mean everywhere. And there was this busted up lean to with a pirates flag. Then, there was the one thing that made this straight out of a horror movie, home fit for cenobites an actual "campsite". A real live tent. Standing up straight, no obvious holes and pretty big, too. So, we climb in. And, oh my god. There were tons of blankets and several pillows and they were all soggy and stinky and moldy and shit. Long story short, cause I'm tired of it now, I spent the entire night, until sun up, at least, taking care of the man that I should have been furious with. All the while, lucifer knows knows how close was to losing it myself. He gets the bright idea, as soon as he wakes from about 4 to 5 hours of restfull sleep; me, 0 hrs. of any rest what so ever. That we both check ourselves into the austins finest, state funded detox center, asap. They ended up having a stupid waiting list so after about 31/2minutes of careful consideration, I called my dad. Ahhhhhhh. Already. A few hours later, he takes me to the detox in Houston that I frequent, the one that always feeds me lies of being released, then makes it okay by keeping me high on pills for the duration of my stay. This was 24 hrs. It continues for 5-6 yrs. I'll end here for now.
No.
This is why we can't have nice things.
I've kind of missed the boat here, sorry for the late arrival.
I don't know if you were going for this but your main character here is pretty snobby. I've read very few characters sitting up on a higher horse. Overall a good development of the main character at least. The story line is a little inane but people who live those types of "successful" lives do have kind of simple lives. The family memories are a good touch for skimming over the relationship between the two brothers but I do realize you weren't trying to publish a novel in a forum thread.
In summation, the writing does have a good professional feel to it. But again I have to say, the main characater... Boring and a bit of a prick.
Can't say I am the greatest writer in the world or can even hold a candle to Chuck but keep up the good work and work on thinking outside the box for material.
The only difference between a religion and a cult is a popularity contest.
Needs a title.
And to be submitted to the Workshop.
This is why we can't have nice things.