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But Maybe Not [Fiction, 1432 words]
Nappuccino
Registered User regular
Registered User regular
Hey everyone, finally writing a bit (I got talked into doing a live reading and needed new things to read so . . . here we are lol). I didn't get much feed back from that, but I'm interested in hearing what you all think. Thanks for reading!
______________________________________________________________
We watched the road for hours. Hundreds of cars. Thousands of thundering vehicles. Sometimes we wonder what they think about. Most of the time they're just cars. When fenders bend, it is like watching a nature-doc. Predator stalks and waits for the other to be unaware. Pouncing when it least expects. Metal fights back, shrieking horribly, but both get irrevocably scarred. Or sometimes one doesn't--if it's covered in bush gear or made 20 years ago. Nothing much more ever happens.
Sometimes, we think about taking video. But Jane always points out “we have no money for a camera”. Well, I think someone would be interested in this. I know we are. Real life animalified machines.
Today, cars are calm. Orderly. Cautiously drinking at the oasis we call an intersection. I check my watch.
“Well, this isn't what I signed up for.”
“Shut up Tim. You'll scare them away.”
“I don't think they can hear me.”
“Well, I didn't think fish could either.”
“That's like, fishing one-oh-two.”
“What's one-oh-one?”
“Bring beer.”
“We shoulda brought beer.” Her eyes widen and her nose crinkles as the words whistle through her lips.
“Think that'd be a good idea up here?” We're lying on her parent's roof. There's a slight downward slope and then a drop off. Our heads anchored six inches from the edge. Don’t want to get too close. Don’t want to fall off to the metal beasts below.
“Why not. Safer up here than there.” She gestures grandly. Awkwardly. Hard to make any spectacular movement lying with your legs above the brain and gripping the edge with the strong hand.
“I'd rather drink water.”
“Pussy.”
“I'd rather drink that too.”
“Ew, gross. Why you gotta go there.”
“You brought it up.” Laughing. “And if I'm gonna drink piss, I'll go for the source.” She shoves me and the shingles scrape.
“Fuck off.” But she's laughing too. And that was the goal. Words fade from memory and our focus goes back to the traffic.
We can see cars politely edging their way across the street like dogs in the door way of those just done adopting. “Is it ok? Is it ok? It's ok? ok” and then they get a bone. Positive reinforcement.
I'm not sure what the car's bone is. Definitely not a pothole, I guess.
I'm not sure what Jane's bone is. Definitely a plot hole, I guess.
Her's isn't signified by a tail wag. Or purring. One of life's great mysteries.
“Oh! Oh wait.” Her voice is hushed.
One car is drifting lanes. It's yellow and cursed with a lazy eye. A simple replacement would help, but obviously the eye isn't the only thing that's lazy. Outside, inside, suicide lanes and more go by. It takes it's time as if deliberately making its way and it couldn't be fucked if someone wants it to hurry it's goddamn rusty ass up. Electricity builds in my abdomen. My mouth hangs open. Two seconds envelops fifty minutes and claims it as it's own. Vaguely aware of some vowels sliding from my mouth.
In the opposite lane, a family van. It seems empty. Failing to meet its designed goal, its purpose. One of the loneliest things I've seen.
It dawns on me we've never seen this before. Nothing more than impolite rubbings, the kind that might get you slapped in a subway. Minor accidents, a lack of thought. The kind you report on principle, not because you want to. Trading a bit of paint that'd otherwise identify you, but harmless (wait, maybe the metaphor breaks down here).
Impossibly late, tires screech. The family van leaves a smear of rubber, rotates, and collides. Rocked off it's gravity. Metal cowering as it begins a delicate leap into the air. I want to look at Jane but I cannot tear my eyes away.
In milliseconds, it's over. Both cars find equilibrium and halt, one with fangs buried deep inside. The rest of the animals halt and look over the wreckage, paying respects or just confused. Silent.
“Jane,” I wait for her to look at me, “I might need that beer.”
We wasted no time getting off that roof. I couldn't stomach the idea we'd seen what we'd seen. Or maybe we hadn't.
But maybe we had.
And if we had . . . what does that mean for my eyes? Some things are indelible. Does certainty matter or would they be scarred either way. I rubbed them profusely. Cleansed with water from a sink. Hid in the bathroom. Wished it was a chemical bath. Not sure it would make a difference.
Jane just carried on. “You want some lemonade? I think we still have some from earlier.” Her voice osmosed through the wall. Seemed unreal and disaffected.
I quietly left.
“Hey, where are you going?”
I waved and set out the front door.
I wonder what she thinks of that.
I could have followed the road home. Got a close look. Seen the result. But I take a side road, then a park, then an alley, then through the back door and out the side of a local apartment complex.
Everything seems strangely empty. There are people there, but they don't know. Glide on past.
###
Some days pass. The paper never talked about the accident. It's easy to assume the worst. I try not to. I try to assume nothing. He’s ok. He’s dead. I don’t know, so for all I know it’s both. For now, it’s both.
Jellied-toast crumbles blandness for breakfast.
Missed a shower. Three days straight. Occasionally I'll look to a mirror or catch a reflection in the window. There's a grease to my hair. Natural sheen.
“What's wrong.” Mom’s hair slides over her shoulder as she turns.
“I don’t know.” But I do.
“I think you do.” Sometimes she can see the imperceptible.
“It’s just . . .”
“Jane, isn’t it?”
“What? No.”
“Sure?” She has this way of saying simple things soaked with overtones.
“Why you think that?”
“You haven’t said a thing about her in days.”
“Well, I don’t have to, do I?”
“No, but you just . . . do.” She looks me over gently. Rubs my cheek. “What should we do with you?”
And for that, I don’t have an answer.
“Did something happen between you two?”
“ I . . . no, mom. I just don’t get her.”
“What’s there to not get? She seems like a sweet girl, and you’ve known her for years.”
“I thought I did. I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should return her call.”
“She called?”
“Yeah, but mom-tuition said it wasn’t the time.”
“And it is now?” She softly looks me in the eye.
“More so.”
###
So, now I’m walking the road. Vehicles prowling. I ignore them. I only see the van crumpled. It slowly drags down the street as if tethered to me. I almost hear the scraping. The sun’s casting shadows over the cars. Its the only way I can remember the van’s not there: no shadow.
Her house looks the same. I walk up past the bushes and can see Jane up on the roof, her legs hang over the edge. I guess she hears me. She looks down to me. One of her legs starts to swing. Pleasantly. So I knock on the door.
Jane’s mom answers. She seems tired, but smiles. “Tim, good to see you.”
“Is Jane around?” Stupid question.
“Yeah, you know where to find her.” I make my way through the house. Out through her bedroom window.
The roof is just as slanted as before.
She’s silhouetted by the city. Hair blown gently over her shoulders.
“Hey.” I say.
“Hey.” She replies.
“Been up to much?”
“Just watching.”
“Still?”
“Well, waiting.”
“For what.”
“I don’t know. A sign.”
I give her a look that, I hope, says “a sign?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Why didn’t you care about that accident?” Couldn’t hold the question in.
She turns and looks back out at the city. “I did. But you were so worked up. I could tell you thought he died. Didn’t want to make it worse.”
“But he did or I think he did. Maybe he didn’t. It’s up in the air, I guess.”
“There’s an easy way to find out.”
“There is?”
“Yeah, ask me.”
“I’d rather not know.”
“Me too.” A pause cuts in.
“So what are you watching for?”
She hesitates for a moment, contemplating her answer.
“That van to drive by again.”
I keep my eyes on her for a few minutes. Then swing my legs over the ledge and start to keep watch too.
______________________________________________________________
We watched the road for hours. Hundreds of cars. Thousands of thundering vehicles. Sometimes we wonder what they think about. Most of the time they're just cars. When fenders bend, it is like watching a nature-doc. Predator stalks and waits for the other to be unaware. Pouncing when it least expects. Metal fights back, shrieking horribly, but both get irrevocably scarred. Or sometimes one doesn't--if it's covered in bush gear or made 20 years ago. Nothing much more ever happens.
Sometimes, we think about taking video. But Jane always points out “we have no money for a camera”. Well, I think someone would be interested in this. I know we are. Real life animalified machines.
Today, cars are calm. Orderly. Cautiously drinking at the oasis we call an intersection. I check my watch.
“Well, this isn't what I signed up for.”
“Shut up Tim. You'll scare them away.”
“I don't think they can hear me.”
“Well, I didn't think fish could either.”
“That's like, fishing one-oh-two.”
“What's one-oh-one?”
“Bring beer.”
“We shoulda brought beer.” Her eyes widen and her nose crinkles as the words whistle through her lips.
“Think that'd be a good idea up here?” We're lying on her parent's roof. There's a slight downward slope and then a drop off. Our heads anchored six inches from the edge. Don’t want to get too close. Don’t want to fall off to the metal beasts below.
“Why not. Safer up here than there.” She gestures grandly. Awkwardly. Hard to make any spectacular movement lying with your legs above the brain and gripping the edge with the strong hand.
“I'd rather drink water.”
“Pussy.”
“I'd rather drink that too.”
“Ew, gross. Why you gotta go there.”
“You brought it up.” Laughing. “And if I'm gonna drink piss, I'll go for the source.” She shoves me and the shingles scrape.
“Fuck off.” But she's laughing too. And that was the goal. Words fade from memory and our focus goes back to the traffic.
We can see cars politely edging their way across the street like dogs in the door way of those just done adopting. “Is it ok? Is it ok? It's ok? ok” and then they get a bone. Positive reinforcement.
I'm not sure what the car's bone is. Definitely not a pothole, I guess.
I'm not sure what Jane's bone is. Definitely a plot hole, I guess.
Her's isn't signified by a tail wag. Or purring. One of life's great mysteries.
“Oh! Oh wait.” Her voice is hushed.
One car is drifting lanes. It's yellow and cursed with a lazy eye. A simple replacement would help, but obviously the eye isn't the only thing that's lazy. Outside, inside, suicide lanes and more go by. It takes it's time as if deliberately making its way and it couldn't be fucked if someone wants it to hurry it's goddamn rusty ass up. Electricity builds in my abdomen. My mouth hangs open. Two seconds envelops fifty minutes and claims it as it's own. Vaguely aware of some vowels sliding from my mouth.
In the opposite lane, a family van. It seems empty. Failing to meet its designed goal, its purpose. One of the loneliest things I've seen.
It dawns on me we've never seen this before. Nothing more than impolite rubbings, the kind that might get you slapped in a subway. Minor accidents, a lack of thought. The kind you report on principle, not because you want to. Trading a bit of paint that'd otherwise identify you, but harmless (wait, maybe the metaphor breaks down here).
Impossibly late, tires screech. The family van leaves a smear of rubber, rotates, and collides. Rocked off it's gravity. Metal cowering as it begins a delicate leap into the air. I want to look at Jane but I cannot tear my eyes away.
In milliseconds, it's over. Both cars find equilibrium and halt, one with fangs buried deep inside. The rest of the animals halt and look over the wreckage, paying respects or just confused. Silent.
“Jane,” I wait for her to look at me, “I might need that beer.”
We wasted no time getting off that roof. I couldn't stomach the idea we'd seen what we'd seen. Or maybe we hadn't.
But maybe we had.
And if we had . . . what does that mean for my eyes? Some things are indelible. Does certainty matter or would they be scarred either way. I rubbed them profusely. Cleansed with water from a sink. Hid in the bathroom. Wished it was a chemical bath. Not sure it would make a difference.
Jane just carried on. “You want some lemonade? I think we still have some from earlier.” Her voice osmosed through the wall. Seemed unreal and disaffected.
I quietly left.
“Hey, where are you going?”
I waved and set out the front door.
I wonder what she thinks of that.
I could have followed the road home. Got a close look. Seen the result. But I take a side road, then a park, then an alley, then through the back door and out the side of a local apartment complex.
Everything seems strangely empty. There are people there, but they don't know. Glide on past.
###
Some days pass. The paper never talked about the accident. It's easy to assume the worst. I try not to. I try to assume nothing. He’s ok. He’s dead. I don’t know, so for all I know it’s both. For now, it’s both.
Jellied-toast crumbles blandness for breakfast.
Missed a shower. Three days straight. Occasionally I'll look to a mirror or catch a reflection in the window. There's a grease to my hair. Natural sheen.
“What's wrong.” Mom’s hair slides over her shoulder as she turns.
“I don’t know.” But I do.
“I think you do.” Sometimes she can see the imperceptible.
“It’s just . . .”
“Jane, isn’t it?”
“What? No.”
“Sure?” She has this way of saying simple things soaked with overtones.
“Why you think that?”
“You haven’t said a thing about her in days.”
“Well, I don’t have to, do I?”
“No, but you just . . . do.” She looks me over gently. Rubs my cheek. “What should we do with you?”
And for that, I don’t have an answer.
“Did something happen between you two?”
“ I . . . no, mom. I just don’t get her.”
“What’s there to not get? She seems like a sweet girl, and you’ve known her for years.”
“I thought I did. I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should return her call.”
“She called?”
“Yeah, but mom-tuition said it wasn’t the time.”
“And it is now?” She softly looks me in the eye.
“More so.”
###
So, now I’m walking the road. Vehicles prowling. I ignore them. I only see the van crumpled. It slowly drags down the street as if tethered to me. I almost hear the scraping. The sun’s casting shadows over the cars. Its the only way I can remember the van’s not there: no shadow.
Her house looks the same. I walk up past the bushes and can see Jane up on the roof, her legs hang over the edge. I guess she hears me. She looks down to me. One of her legs starts to swing. Pleasantly. So I knock on the door.
Jane’s mom answers. She seems tired, but smiles. “Tim, good to see you.”
“Is Jane around?” Stupid question.
“Yeah, you know where to find her.” I make my way through the house. Out through her bedroom window.
The roof is just as slanted as before.
She’s silhouetted by the city. Hair blown gently over her shoulders.
“Hey.” I say.
“Hey.” She replies.
“Been up to much?”
“Just watching.”
“Still?”
“Well, waiting.”
“For what.”
“I don’t know. A sign.”
I give her a look that, I hope, says “a sign?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Why didn’t you care about that accident?” Couldn’t hold the question in.
She turns and looks back out at the city. “I did. But you were so worked up. I could tell you thought he died. Didn’t want to make it worse.”
“But he did or I think he did. Maybe he didn’t. It’s up in the air, I guess.”
“There’s an easy way to find out.”
“There is?”
“Yeah, ask me.”
“I’d rather not know.”
“Me too.” A pause cuts in.
“So what are you watching for?”
She hesitates for a moment, contemplating her answer.
“That van to drive by again.”
I keep my eyes on her for a few minutes. Then swing my legs over the ledge and start to keep watch too.
0
Posts
The problem with stream-of-consciousness is that it can get pretty meta, and in a couple of cases this story does go a little meta with the stream-of-consciousness. I don't think you went too far with it, just an interesting note that it happened.
_____
The dialogue at the end doesn't really strike me the way I think it's supposed to. Perhaps a little more physical action spaced into the bits between dialogue will give it that emphasis it really needs. Shrugging, averting of eyes, that kind of thing.
I also believe you could tweak the end dialogue just a bit:
Those are my suggestions. It works pretty well the way you have it already, just offering a slightly different route that, to me, gets you there a little more powerfully.
_____
You jump into past tense suddenly in the middle, right after the wreck, and don't really get back to present tense until the conversation with mom.
_____
Its vs. it's
Don't know if it's just a rough cut and you haven't fixed them yet, or if you get confused about them like a lot of people do. The simplest, most direct route to know which one is correct in any given situation is to replace "its" with "it is". If the sentence reads correctly, then it should be "it's" instead of "its". There are possessive rules and whatnot, but it still boils down to 'can you replace it with "it is"?
There's also an instance of "her's" which I don't think is ever correct.
Language is like a martial art; if you have a strong foundation, feel free to improvise.
I wrestled a bit with adding more action during the final dialog. On the one hand, it helps with pacing and, potentially, the impact of the dialog. On the other, I couldn't get it in a way that didn't feel like I was forcing it. This might be me being overly critical of my own work . . . I'll try my hand at revising that section as soon as I can.
The tense change is intentional. Does it work/not work? I tried to make it feel like he's sorting his thoughts out after the accident. I was hoping the break would make that tense change go a little easier.
This is a rough cut, but I tried to catch most of the major errors. I'm just not terribly good at editing my own work on a computer screen. I pretty much need to print it out and . . . I have no printer. I'll try to go through and fix them again before posting a more revised version.
Here you jump from present before the quote into past tense. Then by the third paragraph down you switch back to present tense based on his thoughts. Then his actions go back into past tense. I don't think much is gained by breaking tense in this case, and all it does is make me tense-check every sentence to see where I'm supposed to be, past or present, and that slows the narrative but not in a good way. If you think it's necessary to emphasize him sorting his thoughts, perhaps committing to it more rather than less would be a way to go.
Actions are past tense, thoughts are present tense.
What I think you end up doing here is taking away some of the stream-of-consciousness that was working well for you early on in order to change up tense.
What I'd suggest doing is to try and equalize that stream-of-consciousness throughout, removing the past tense stuff and committing to the present tense all the way through. If you think something's missing, go back through and explore the past tense more fully.
Language is like a martial art; if you have a strong foundation, feel free to improvise.