A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words (Round Two)

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Deadline: October 11th, 2013
9PM HST

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Lasalle never knew that feelings could be like this: all floaty, and light, and without a cloud in the sky. It was a new experience and a welcome one. To feel like this was, she could barely explain it in her head, like a breath of fresh air after being confined in the mines for too long or trapped and hiding from the thugs. It was new and new was delicious – far better than any food to be scavenged. There weren’t words that could pin the feeling down. She’d tried over the last few days but it was impossible.

It happened just last week. She’d be travelling south based on a rumour: something about a container full of food. Apparently the survivors had been building a base there, with walls and running water. It sounded like a haven. The sort of rumour that provided a little light, some hope, when despair was all that could be had. It was somewhere to go. It was a destination to strike out for after spending so long roughing the wilds. Lasalle didn’t care it if turned out to be a lie or a trap for a gang. She’d already decided to go and check it out.

The rumours were true, mostly. There was a base there but it was nothing but a shambles. Scraps of metal had been pulled together and a measly band of nine defended it. There was no food either except rats which quickly became meals. Lasalle did what she could to get by, which some times meant going hungry, despite the gnawing pain. The people sheltering there looked in a far worse condition except one. His name was Movte.

Movte was different from the rest. He was darker skinned and didn’t show any of the gut-rotting ruin that everybody else seemed to hold on to. His eyes still seemed to glow and be alive when everybody else’s was just small black pools drowning in a face of misery. He helped them build the shelters, fixed the wounds, cleaned, joked, and smiled. His reaction to the world, to everything, was so utterly and completely alien and it had captured Lasalle’s attention from the first moment.

They spent a lot of time talking. She learnt how to dress a wound from him. He learnt how Lasalle had survived for so long alone using just a sharpened piece of metal. They were inseparable. Even when the attacks came at night, they’d be together manning the spikes along the make-shift ramparts and calling out orders. Never did it feel weird. Lasalle and Movte.

It wasn’t until another of the crew, Shallia aged only four, pointed this out did it feel weird. She had asked, “When will you marry?” one night while they were talking around a fire.

Marry wasn’t a term used any more. Not since the war had started and the governments disbanded. Lasalle figured she must have picked it up from a book somewhere or a fairy tale told by some of the older members of the group. She’d asked it in the innocent way that little girls do, with her hands clasped behind her back as she rocked to and fro, her face covered in grime and dress in tatters. It was hard not to laugh. “People don’t marry anymore,” Lasalle replied but with those words she felt her stomach tighten but in a pleasant way and a blush rise from nowhere in the dark night.

“I think you two should.” Shallia grinned. It was a partial toothless grin but charming nonetheless.

Movte replied this time, while stretching back on a folded mattress, “But what would the bride wear?” He played along while the blush only seemed to deepen on Lasalle’s cheeks and neck. She questioned him with a quirk of an eyebrow but he steadily ignored it.

“We could,” Shallia paused, “make her a dress. And save up some rations for a feast!”

Movte smiled again. “We could. We’d hold it right here. You could be the bridesmaid, if you want.”

Butterflies now bust out around Lasalle’s waist. He wasn’t serious, was he? She couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth and the thoughts pouring into her head. He was nice. He was very nice. But marriage was an old world thing and in this desolation there cannot be such happiness … Lasalle stopped the thought in its tracks. She had been happy recently - very.

“Go to bed, Shallia.” Lasalle ended the fun, mostly because she felt like she would pop if she continued to blush further. The child didn’t question the instruction as she turned on a heel and headed towards the bunks.

Silence settled. Movte had closed his eyes since Shallia left. His rugged brown hair seemed messier today. He had a smile on his face. Lasalle found herself staring at it. The lips were cracked and dry but it was still handsome. It was he who broke the silence without opening his eyes. “So?”

Lasalle looked sharply away, hoping he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he had just been playing along with Shallia’s imagination. Perhaps she had been imagining it and started to feel silly. “So,” she retorted, unsure of what to say in such a long time. It had never been like this before. Maybe she just hadn’t thought about it. The worry pierced her face with a little frown.

“You feel it too?” It almost went as an unasked question, barely audible enough to be heard. It was like Movte didn’t want to say it.

“Yes.” The reply was just as bad.

Acutely aware of the awkwardness Lasalle was on her feet and dashing away before they could go any further. Before they could say something they’d both regret. The butterflies made her want to dance, to run, to shout for joy and not have a care in the world. And she did run, only stopping once she reached the old railway-line. There she danced, arms raised to the sky in the pitch black.

[Allya]

The Track

There’s something to be said for hitting bottom. Most people, those who don’t know, think that hitting bottom is about loss. It’s easy to see why. You lose your friends, you lose your identity, you lose your house, your dog, your family, everything and everyone you treasure. Your life is a country music song and the chorus keeps playing over and over. But here’s the thing. That’s not bottom. You know you’re on the bottom when the shit has been piled on, it’s surrounding you from all sides and you haven’t seen daylight in ages. You look left, right, and up, and all you see is the same darkness that creeps from below.

Now, climbing up from the bottom? That means letting go. You find the rail, the track that you can follow. It doesn’t really matter where it goes. Destination “NOT HERE” is good enough. You find it underneath the shit and you push everything on top to one side. You inch forward and you do it again. You were beaten? Push it off, move a step. You got the shakes? Push it off, move a step. You’ve used up every last chance? Push it off, move a step.

It’s dark down there at the bottom. You’re going to think you’re not making progress and soon you’ll realize it’s easier to follow that track backwards. It’s familiar there, you’ll think. You know the rules and you were used to the weight. Moving forward is work. Push it off, move a step.

Soon you’ll start to see a pinprick. The shit gets easier to move and that track, you can’t believe it, but it feels like it’s moving up! That’s when you’ll start to feel afraid. My eyes aren’t adjusted to light, you’ll think. And up there... everyone can see me! And you’re right. They can. Push it off, move a step.

It will happen gradually. Slowly the light will fill around you and you’ll see it. At the bottom, the shit walled you in. You knew it was there; you felt it; you smelled it; but you didn’t have to see it. That’s the great thing about darkness, you can pretend. You can tell yourself that you’re fine. It’s only in the daylight that you see what the bottom has done to you. Your clothes are worn, your hair is matted, and the shit clings to every part. It’s here that you’ll feel ashamed. You’ll look behind you and think that at least when you were surrounded no one could blame you for being dirty. Push it off, move a step.

Day will turn to night and night to day. The sameness will niggle at your resolve. The shit will dry out and start to fall away. But that track stretches to the horizon. You’ll have calluses on your feet and your muscles will grow strong from the journey. Still you’ll wonder how much farther you must go. Surely leaving all that shit behind was the final step!

It isn’t.

Keep moving.

Sometimes it will rain and your heart will rain with it. You will feel the water seep through the remnants of your clothes and stream down the curves of your body. It will soak you until they feel so heavy that you have no choice but to shed them and leave them in a pile behind you. You will shiver and you will curse the track that has led you there. But you’ll realize your body is used to moving and though you’re wet and exposed, you’ll feel lighter than you ever have. Your steps will become strides and you’ll no longer need to look at the track to know it’s there.

The sun will warm your skin and dry your hair. You will greet it with a smile and open arms. This is it, you’ll think, I’ve made it. But others have walked this track before you. They know that sunlight can be deceiving, especially when it’s licked the water from your skin. You will not feel the burn at first but it is there. This is when you will know that you cannot face the world uncovered. Others will have left armor for you. Find something you can move in, something that still lets you feel the light. Put it on and keep moving.

You will grow comfortable with your walk. You will spread your arms wide and feel the air rush around and through you. It will dance through your hair and whisper warm praises. You will close your eyes and drink them in. Enjoy it, you’ve worked hard.

But keep moving.

When you open your eyes again you will see civilization on the horizon. Fringes of modernity will start to line your track, beckoning you forward. You will be afraid of what lies ahead. Can you face it? What is hiding behind those walls? What if the shit you left behind is waiting for you there?

***

Harlow leans in and pushes back the sweaty strands of hair from Missy’s ears. “I’ll tell you a secret. Listen now, because it’s important.” Missy nods and coughs violently. “Your shit will be behind you, but not far. It will follow you down that track, just waiting for you to step off.” Harlow points out the window. “And those people out there.” She breathes heavy. “They all have their own shit following them around too. But it can’t get you if you stay on the track.”

Missy pushes away and runs to the toilet. Her body heaves as she wretches and feels the last bit of acid spill up her throat. Spent, she hugs the toilet and lays her head on the seat. Harlow steps behind her and gingerly pulls back her hair. Missy whispers something softly and begins to cry. Unable to make it out, Harlow leans in closer. “What was that, you said?”

Missy reaches up and weakly squeezes Harlow’s hand. “Please… tell me again.”

Harlow smiles. “There’s something to be said for hitting bottom…”

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Ref:

I don't have a whole lot to say about this piece. It felt like you were trying to create a sense of "bigness" in a very small space (1,000 words) and it ended up feeling very. . . airy is the word that's coming to me. Like I got the idea of this great big world you were describing in my head but nothing was really explained with any depth so all of the various elements you mentioned (the Thugs, the base, the war, etc.) all felt like bubbles in what should have been a dense world.

I understand that you left these spaces open as a means of conserving space to tell the story you wanted to tell, but I think in the future I would advise maybe just not mentioning things that you don't have time to fully integrate.

That said, the scope of the story itself was really appropriate for this manner of competition. Basically describing a sensation and then providing the background that got us their. I liked the idea of an emotion being "without a cloud in the sky." That was an insightful descriptor to me in the sense that it doesn't come out and say, "Lasalle was super happy, giddy even." but I knew exactly what you meant to convey and that was cool. A mention on word choice, one of the things you've struggled with as long as I've known you is your work feeling like it was written for a younger audience. This one seemed to suffer from that and I think a lot of that comes from your word choice. Helpful hint: Anytime you find yourself about to write the word "silly," stop, grab a thesaurus and see if there isn't something a little more grown-up that fits the situation. It's amazing how much weight that one word carries and it drags the whole piece down to lower age-groups with it.

A couple issues on characterization: your post-apocalyptic four-year-old seemed a little more adult than I think you may have wanted. Not only was she wise beyond her years, but the insinuation that she may have -read- something somewhere seemed unlikely; not just for a modern four-year-old,but especially a post-apocalyptic little girl who'd be lucky if she'd ever seen a book, let alone being able to read one. I would have liked to have gotten to know Movte a little better as well; great name though, where'd you pick that up? The "vt" is a really fun phonetic combo. Is that weird?

Anyhow, I can see you were attempting to juxtapose the happiness in Lasalle's heart against the bleakness of her world, but I just didn't quite get it. Mostly I think because that bleakness didn't hit as hard as it could have and that was influence heavily by the image provided. That's just not a dark and uncaring world in that picture, and trying to make that image gel with your words didn't work for me.

Sentence Structure: 23/25
Word Choice: 18/25
Use of Image: 22/25
Grammar/Spelling: 9/10
Word Penalty: 0
Likes: 1

Total: 64



Allya:

Like Ref, you created a dark, murky piece inspired by a bright and airy image. Your use of the picture as inspiration was interesting, but I don't think you really captured the essence of it. You painted this other picture of a track which might, one day, lead a person to the image provided so I can see the link, but to be honest, I think I was hoping for something a little more idealized and/or uplifting from this image. Was I shooting for a love story? Not necessarily, but the image conveys a certain freedom, clarity, purity, elation, and just an all around positive feeling; and, by using the second-person format throughout, it feels like you used all those attributes to taunt the reader by placing them in the role of someone experiencing the exact opposite of all those things.

Structurally, though, I really liked it. There was a repetition to it that created a sort of rhythm all the way through and kept me chugging along. I think that's the poet in you peeking through. Normally, the redundancy of the phrase, "the shit" would have really bugged me, but it seemed to work here and I think that had a lot to do with that rhythm I mentioned and the structural redundancy built in.

Unfortunately, the ending felt a little tacked on and took me completely out of the story. I would have liked to, as the reader, claw my way out of "the shit" and maybe experience a little of the joy exhibited in the photo, but instead you told me, "Oh, wasn't you after all, this was all about some other lady."

Remember that taunting thing I mentioned?

Ultimately, it was really well written, but I wasn't especially impressed with the content as it related to the prompt.

Sentence Structure: 24/25
Word Choice: 22/25
Use of Image: 10/25
Grammar/Spelling: 9/10
Word Penalty: 0
Likes: 3

Total: 68

Conclusions:

You guys both went dark from a really light prompt. That seems odd and I'm not sure what to take from that. Ref slapped the image right at the beginning of the story and then pulled away from us, only to eventually circle back to it and tell us that the beginning was actually the end all along. And Allya dangled it out in front of us like a carrot on a stick, this unattainable platonic ideal that we can strive for but never reach.

Is it harder to tell a happy story? Or is it just that, with the cliched idea of happily ever after, do we just assume that positive imagery can only come from conflict resolution, and when the conflict is resolved, the story is over? Judging by how you guys handled it, I'm leaning toward that latter.