Hamsun Critique

I find it hard to categorize this piece as experimental. While I would not call it mainstream by any means, I do not see it exploring any new styles or techniques. It in fact seems reminiscent of Earnest Hemingway’s plain style, just simple facts and observations. There is no description of what the men are doing while they are talking; it simply relates the events as they occurred. It was the somber tone which pulled me to this piece in particular. I liked how it felt like a story someone older would tell you. Not as a bedtime story, but as equals, the kind of story they would hide from you as a child. The setting also helps with this image of something distant from my understanding that fascinates me, knowledge yet untapped.  Not much details or descriptions, just what happened. Ironically, this is probably the most common type of storytelling available, though perhaps not so much in writing. I enjoyed the piece. It felt complete in an incomplete way. Less like a chapter ripped out of a book but more like a story that ended too soon due to a tragedy, such as the one depicted. That’s what I really like about it.  I hope to imitate that someday, but I do not feel ready to attempt it just yet, as I find endings the most difficult part of a piece.  I find it successful as a piece, but not as a piece of experimental fiction. 

S.O.S. Critique

To start, I enjoyed the title. This piece is very detailed, sometimes oddly so. In some places it works and makes the piece a little more real but other times it distracts from the piece, as it is unnecessary and adds nothing. For example, the mention of the leaves on the tree never falling seems slightly eerie, but doesn’t create any suspense about the stranger (not to mention, he’s only been on the island for 3 months and the season wasn’t mentioned). However, small hints in the writing of the disorientation of the men on the island are very immersive in their mindsets. There was some trouble with the past and present in certain sentences, which I marked.

The format of the piece was a little confusing. I understand why the names were placed at the end but once I forgot who was speaking and wondered why they mentioned the footprints twice. I wonder what form the reader is supposed to assume- are these letters? Are they written to someone? Would first person better accomplish the ending.

I loved the twist and did not see it coming at all. At the same time, I’m curious about the personality split- could this have been prompted by some head trauma? Could one mention a bloodied rock where he awoke after hitting his head when he appeared on the island? It seems odd that Peter recognized the clothes while “James” doesn’t but I would grant a willing suspension of disbelief. Could there be more behind “James’” compulsive sorting? Overall, I enjoyed this piece very much and would love to read more.

One Night: 750 Words and Then Some Critique

My first attempt at an experimental review. I'm actually quite proud of it.
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I don’t have much written on my paper so I’m just going to go with it, as I’m sure the writer would want. This piece makes me feel like I’m floating…no, flying…quickly into nothingness. I imagine  a matrix-type computer code tube around me for no other reason than because it’s cool. There are words floating…no, zooming, by and I’m desperately trying to grab any one at all, but failing (and flailing) miserably.  Occasionally one smacks me in the face and leaves me stunned. Quite often, actually. “Wait…what…but…uh…weed!?” I sputter, cradling my nose. It occurs to me yet again that I am far too sheltered. And finally, there are a series of fragments, short but comforting, to grab. Everything from literary magazines past flows back in a release of cool air, although with a tangy smell tinged with urban decay. I’m used to such fragments about country life, after all. But, alas, my fragments depart, leaving me again tumbling through the void. Cliché as it is, they left as quickly as they came. But they came back, my saving grace! I smack face-first hard into a wall of text but can only mumble, my mouth full of blood and tainted childhood, “Thank you.” I rush to the final emotional hit which hits me hard and leaves me breathless. I’m finally given what I craved. The final crash is so...abrupt. Emotional. Satisfying, in a strange way. Some sort of victory music plays.

Weekly Fiction 1: In Medias Res

Experiment with story-within-a-story, based on Julio Cortazar’s The Continuity of Parks

I admittedly let the ending slap me in the face like a moth on a windshield. Not my favorite thing I've written by any means. I think it is cheesy, but it's a parody so that's kind of what it's going for. I wish this wasn't my first post on here, but alas.

~900 words

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In Medias Res

            Randolf had just won his first duel when the subway came to a screeching halt . Sharona wanted to screech when she realized she had to put her book down yet again. She was truly falling for this spirited youth. The image of the sparkling rapiers clashing together made her heart thump. It seemed so real to her. She supposed it was the screeching of the tracks and shrugged off this lingering image as best she could.

            She tried to focus on her schoolwork as best as she could, but when she glanced at her book bag, the ornate gold-leafed cover seduced her, winking at her even under the dull fluorescent lighting of the classroom. She hastily scribbled her answers, all concern for correctness forgotten, and nearly lunged at the tempting tome. She cracked the book open and was immediately sucked into the Elizabethan world of Randolph’s, with the swarthy Spaniard pirates, the elegantly dressed ladies, and, of course, the object of her affections, the charming Randolph himself. She delved deeper into his life, examining facets of his personality like a precious diamond. He did indeed have many facets.

            Though he was the son of a Duke, Randolph Worthington was not afraid to get his hands dirty, often aiding his father’s serfs in what little ways he could. He protected the women from the vicious Spaniard threats and was an avid patron of the theater, even Shakespeare himself. Sharona admired his culture, kindness, and strength. She was a bit distressed when the conflict came about: despite being engaged to a wealthy Baroness, he had fallen in love with one of her handmaids. Her heart keened to the strum of his lute when he played a tune for his lover, a tune she could almost hear wafting around her, enveloping her in sensual folds.

            She couldn’t bear to look when Randolph stood before his parents, about to proudly declare his love for Margaret and, unable to stop reading, she forced herself to shut her eyes tight, even pulling her hands to her face. He couldn’t marry her! She could practically see him in the main court of his castle, holding the hands of the cowering Margaret, her plain gown in contrast to the Duchess’, which was gilded to the ruff. She twitched and something moved near her face. She flinched.

            A fan fluttered in her hand. The movement brought all the eyes in the room toward her. Randolph’s mouth dropped open, his teeth white as the pearls on the wall tapestry.  “Who might you be, bold maiden?”  the duchess cried, hands on her hip, indignant at being interrupted. “I am…be…S…s…Cybil.” Sharona said, thinking quickly, “Daughter of…the Lord and Lady of….Canterbury.” She struggled to keep a straight face. “Fair Maiden…” Randolph cried, dropping to one knee before her, “Upon thine visage I see a coral blush so fine, as a rose before the bloom, seated daintly above thine chin and below such a divinely sculpted nose as e'en to turn an angel green about the face and neck.”

            Sharona’s head spun…green…sick? No…envy! An angel! Envious of her! She grew haughty. “Thou speaketh boldly, for an acquaintance so…recent,” she spoke falteringly. Her mind raced to think of Elizabethan words. She threw in a sidelong glances and fan wave during pauses to counter her halting thoughts. Randolph  Worthington was enchanted.

            Then the bell rang. Sharona stood for a moment, in shock, as the rest of the class filed out. She looked down to her book, which had been moved forward 10 pages. She didn’t remember a thing outside of her fantasy. She shrugged and followed her classmates.

            Though she was conflicted, itching to read yet hesitant to watch her love marry another, Sharona didn’t open the book again until safely inside her room. As she laid eyes on the page, an expansive lawn unfolded before her, with Randolph lying in the warm sun while she sat on the side of her legs. She was only slightly uncomfortable in her starched dress. He strummed his lute again, this time for her. “Thou art my muse, inspiration for mine every breath and bringer of laughter and song unto mine heart, an angel fair gracing me with the divine light of the heavens.” He spoke earnestly, looking into her eyes. She was unable to tear her gaze away and never looked back.

            It was hours before her parents noticed, thinking she was up in her room doing homework. It wasn’t until dinnertime that her mother went to get her. “I yelled, I shook her…nothing happened! She just kept staring!” She sniffled into her handkerchief. “Probably shook her too hard! ‘Caused this…what is it, doc?” Her father said gruffly. “Catatonic state.” The doctor replied, not looking up from his clipboard. “Where did you get this anyway? You don’t need to waste water laundering hankies. Use a damn Kleenex. Doc says she’ll be fine, anyway.” The father continued, tossing the linen into the trash can as the doctor turned to Sharona’s limp form in the hospital bed. He combed his hand through his hair, walking out the room. Sharona’s mother looked from side to side and gently picked up the handkerchief. She folded the initials R.W. inward and slipped it daintily in her pocket before walking out, “Rodger, have you seen my book? The one that Sharona borrowed?”