In a minute, I will post my second story for November.

It didn't take long to write, but it is rather solemn and depressing. If you are not in a mood to grapple with dark themes, you may want to skip this for tonight. After all, it is Saturday, and most of you do not have to work as we, the guardians of the USD, do.

To my colleagues: No. This is not autobiographical. Nothing of this sort ever happened to me. I know some of you will email me or ask me that in person.

There are no luminaries of note signed into the forum tonight, so I suppose I will have to bump this story tomorrow.

On the subject of dealing with taboo themes: Why do writers do it? Why can't we just focus on the positive and the uplifting. I do not know. The compulsion to create takes many forms, some of them are quite gloomy.

Forgive the mistakes in the story which follows. As you know, English is not my first language.

This is the first story I have ever written which has actually made me cry. Those who know me know that I am tough and masculine, but I have a soft side too. My eyes watered when I re-read my own story tonight.

So...THE SUPREME COUNCIL OF THE COALITION OF PLANETS......who knows where this will lead? Perhaps nowhere.

Love to all,

Devon

So where is the story?

No story? Have they already blocked it? I knew that would happen.

I'm having some reservations about this. Got to muster up some courage. Story should appear shortly.

Love,

Devon

Before I post this story, I have to ask the rhetorical question: Where do you go when there is no where to hide?

I mean really.

Love,

Devon

To all:

This will just have to wait --- maybe until tomorrow. It is just too depressing and real.

You will have a story, but not just this minute.

Fiscal changes are pouring in by way of posted prognostics every minute. I am distracted by my work.

Story coming, but later.

I just can't deal with the sad stuff right now.

Love,

Devon

Hey Dev,

Please, print out your story





















and then roll it up, turn it sideways, and stick it right up your candy ass.

Hey Dev, eat shit and die.

guest

Story is still coming. I will leave the thread open. Right now, it depresses me too much. But it must be told eventually.

Love,

Devon

Devon--stop being a wuss and just post your story. Some of us are waiting patiently.

You know who...

I love you, Devon

YOU ARE DEVON!!

Retard.

I love you too!!
What a nice thing for you to break in and say.

My story is still on the way. It just pains me a little bit too much now to post.

Want to give chat a try?

Things are slow, then fast, then slow.

We could try chat for a few minutes...

Love,

Devon

OK...chat it is!

Let's go!!

Dev

well, doesn't have to die....

Okay bombs away....here comes the story.

Tomorrow, the next day, say whatever you please. I am very, very thick skinned. I think you all know that.

Love,

Devon

It sucks, don't post it.

THE SUPREME COUNCIL OF THE COALITION OF PLANETS by Devon Pitlor, MA Econ



Prologue: The Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets is a sad and somewhat dreary story that deals with a problem which is far too common in the lives of boys and girls throughout the world. I daresay it may even border on depressing, but I hope there is a lesson in it. I'm not good at lessons because, in life, I have learned very few myself. Since the subject matter of the story hinges on the disastrous effects of depravity, I counsel my readers to distance themselves from the main characters only to protect their own sanity as readers and objective observers. The world is replete with tragedies, and this story will end in a tragedy. I want to give that much away before anyone gets too involved. Also, I want to start with a nice part. It is good to begin with nice things first. So here goes.

I. Early autumn 1999: Boy meets girl.

Colleen was educationally "challenged." That was the "in" word back then. When you had difficulties learning things or any other sort of physical or mental weaknesses, you were politely referred to as challenged. And Colleen had lots of trouble concentrating and remembering to do simple tasks like brushing her long, silky flaxen hair or washing her hands after using the bathroom. She drooled out of one side of her mouth too when she got excited. She had never been able to master phonics and was thereby more or less illiterate. Sometimes she had bowel accidents too, but these were growing fewer as she approached her sixteenth birthday. Of course, Colleen received special training and reported each day to a different room than most of her peers. In that room, reminders abounded in pictorial form about how she was to conduct her day, from washing her face after smearing breakfast on it to putting away her crayons and pencils and not cutting herself accidentally with scissors. Part of the pity felt by many observers was that, although slightly clubfooted and awkward, Colleen was rather pretty. She needed some adult to make her pretty each day, but when they did, she was nice looking. Period.

School had just started. First half of the eleventh grade. But for Colleen, there were no actual grades as such. Special education just ran on a continuum from one year spilling into another with the same tasks to be learned and re-learned each day. Colleen was making slow progress, but it was certain that after age 18 she would never be able to fully take care of her own needs. And arrangements had been made for that too.

When we throw open the gray curtains of time into that lost era, we see Colleen sitting on the grass in Avondale Park, just down the street from Eastlawn High School, alongside a very handsome boy named Brent Hargreave, and though Colleen will play a small role in this story, it will really be the story of Brent Hargreave, a nice boy, a well-bred and polite lad from a good family. Brent thought of sex occasionally, but he had no unseemly designs on the retarded girl. They had just recently made friends, and now they were talking about why they had made friends. They had a subject in common: The Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets. It was a beautiful, sunlit day, and, as Brent edged closer to the challenged girl, she started to feel less challenged and more normal than she had ever felt with the groping, probing boys who always took advantage of the mental limitations which prevented her from saying no or stop. Brent was getting excited about their subject of discussion, and for one magical moment, he grasped Colleen's hand to make a point. His hand felt warm and comforting. It went no farther than her wrist, and Colleen relaxed and let the autumn sun bathe her in the closest thing to happiness that she had ever felt before. Brent himself may have fallen a bit for Colleen, but it was not evident. What was evident is that he wanted her for an audience and felt very comfortable talking to her about The Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets. From a distance and then even up close, the two looked very happy. And for a few fleeting minutes, they were.

II. Why Colleen broke a rule and went to the park with Brent.

She wasn't supposed to do it, but she slipped away and did, and it was nice. It had begun that day in school.

Colleen, along with several of her special education classmates, were occasionally integrated into regular classes by the eleventh grade, and she was now sitting spread legged in the back of Mr. Crouper's first period English class, inadvertently exposing her unfortunately soiled undershorts. Some front row boys were shooting chewed wads of paper at her exposed crotch, and another was trying to unsnap her bra from behind with a pencil down the back of her shirt. For Colleen, such behavior was normal. She was odd and different, and this was the kind of attention she felt she deserved. And she relentlessly received it.

It stopped when Mr. Crouper came into the room.

Crouper had given his class a speech assignment, the sort of task that the most unoriginal and laziest of teachers, and Crouper was both, issued near the start of each school year. Each student was to stand up for three minutes and talk about either something that had happened to him or her over the summer break or something they had learned. The first speaker who stood up was Ash-Ash (short for Ashton Ashcroft). Ash-Ash looked around at his buddies and grinned. They knew his story was going to be the "big" one. "I made it with a girl under the 18th Avenue overpass," he began chuckling. Mr. Crouper cut him off and thumbed him back into his seat, details of his encounter unfinished.

Then came Melissa, Rhea, and Janelle, one after another. Melissa had learned to bake something. Rhea had gone, predictably, to Disney World, and Janelle had taken care of her grandmother in the latter's last hours. Weeping openly at the end of her speech, Janelle blubbered on about having seen death firsthand. "They shrivel right before your eyes," she gushed.

Then came Urial, Frankie and Tomas. Urial had done this, Frankie that, and Tomas had gone with his parents to Mexico and had learned about "how bad things were there." "For the Mexicans, I mean," he added making sure that no one thought of him as anything but a Mexican-American. Mr. Crouper, visibly bored, coughed and agreed that Mexico was indeed a bad place. That was not exactly what Tomas had meant, but it would do.

When Brent Hargreave's turn came, some of the girls giggled and some of them sighed. Brent was acknowledged widely as the hottest boy in the eleventh grade, a star athlete in both wrestling and football. Brent was so well-liked by classmates and faculty that he could have even gotten away with a story akin to Ash-Ash's without a word of criticism from Mr. Crouper, who, like others, held high expectations for Brent. By popular acclaim, Brent was an all-around neat guy.

His speech made him less neat almost at once.

With a determined look of awe and wonder gleaming in his eyes, he announced that he had been elected....finally...to serve on the Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets, a cosmic organization of super beings who elected very few representatives from Earth, but now he, Brent, was one. Brent was dead serious. The extraterrestrial masters had chosen him. He would sit on the Council and speak for Earth. Perhaps he could keep them from destroying the planet. Perhaps he could convince them that mankind was not all that bad. The other students snickered and rolled their eyes. Brent was too cool a guy to laugh openly at. But his speech was surely some sort of joke.

Mr. Crouper, however, knew that Brent was not joking. Something had happened to the handsome boy over the summer break. He needed to be reported to someone. His fantasy was sudden and possibly dangerous. Mr. Crouper knew the one thing that the other students did not because he had read Brent's file. There was, inexplicably, a longstanding suicide watch on the boy. Teachers were always on guard for possible suicide threats, and Crouper immediately sent a note to the counseling office as was the official protocol. Brent, still glowing with pride, concluded his speech by saying that he had been awarded the greatest honor any "Earthling" (he used that word) could ever receive: a seat on the Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets. Unbeknownst to Brent as he resumed his seat, a note on his behalf was floating down the corridor toward the administrative offices.

Only Colleen believed Brent, and from that moment on she wanted to talk to him more about his experience. She whispered it in his ear as they filed out of the classroom to the next period. Brent agreed. In the park. Later today. The date was kept, and it was very nice as we have previously seen.

III. "Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go." ----Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, scene I

Miss Amy Greenleaf, her first year as a high school counselor, had read the file on Brent. There was nothing terribly weird about him noted until around the age of twelve when his seventh grade teacher had first heard him mention wanting to die. It had been noted with a question mark next to it. No further comment. Then two eighth grade teachers the following year had noted that the athletic and popular boy often fell into gloomy moods for no reason at all and began talking about cutting his wrists, "laterally," he said, "not horizontally." That too had been noted. Then a string of counselors had worked Brent over and found nothing. A social worker had visited his home and found it to be inhabited by "a charming and erudite family." Then suddenly Brent had blurted out after a junior varsity football game that he was going to shoot himself with his father's gun "if he could find it." The police had become involved with this incident, and their discovery was that Brent's father, a quiet accountant, did not have a gun. Case closed. As far as the cops were concerned, it was just an adolescent attempt to gain attention. But everyone noted that it did seem strange coming from a boy so physically and mentally endowed as Brent. Miss Greenleaf had read it all once again. "You're on suicide watch," she said. "We do that here."

"I was just kidding about that," said Brent with a smile. "Besides, now that I've been elected to the Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets, I can't even consider killing myself. They need me. Earth itself needs me. You just don't understand."

"Understand what?" inquired Miss Amy.

"That my seat on the Council represents all of Earth. I'm needed there."

Brent went on to describe the Council and its members in terms that were borrowed from a succession of Star Wars movies all jumbled together. "Some have compound eyes like flies," he said gasping in unfeigned wonder. "Some have tentacles for arms and a lot of them. Some of them are only shadow beings. Some of them are huge, and some of them are only inches tall but powerful."

Brent would have gone on, but Miss Amy stopped him. She tapped a pencil on his file and told him to stop spewing nonsense or he would be sent to a special school. Counselors were trained to bring up "The Special School" whenever odd behavior manifested itself. In fact, there was no special school for kids with vivid impressions of being interstellar contactees.

Upon leaving, Brent, with great assuredness, told Miss Amy that he wasn't going to discuss it anymore anyway, "except with a chosen few." "The Council doesn't want the whole world to know," he said. "I need to act normal."

"Indeed you do," said Miss Amy, still making notes in Brent's now bulging file. She wrote and wrote and was still writing when Brent excused himself and shut the door. One of her last entries stands out: "He seems so very happy!! (?)" she wrote and followed it with the same question mark that others before her had always used when noting his behavior. "So very happy.(?)"

IV. Brent's happiness.

Everyone noticed it. Brent ceased to talk about the Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets to anyone except the "retard Colleen," as everyone called her. He improved his grades in each of his classes and became a candidate for captain of the varsity wrestling team. But one day he quit that suddenly, telling his coach that he would soon be taking long but quick trips to far off places and would no longer have time to come to practice. The time once devoted to practice was now either accorded to long, impassioned discussions with Colleen or to disappearing altogether into his room.

His parents were pleased with the grade improvement and all-around happy and helpful attitude, but dropping sports had sent up a red flag for them. So did the very obvious fact that he was constantly hanging around a visibly retarded girl, a girl whom he had even brought to dinner once, and, yes, Colleen, aged 16, had had not one but two bowel and bladder accidents on that visit and had gone home wearing some of Brent's mother's clothes with her own soiled ones in a brown paper bag at her side. Brent's parents did not like Colleen, nor did they like the fact that she went up to his bedroom and had hush-hush discussions with their son. They suspected nothing else. Brent had never told them about the Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets.

V. Colleen's decision

One day in January, Colleen decided that she too was going to be called to serve on the Supreme Council. She told Brent that she felt she had been called. Brent eyed her strangely. They were sitting on the porch swing, and the house was empty. Colleen had been dreaming about Brent for a long time, and now she wanted to be wherever Brent was. Her own parents had permitted the visits because some other counselor said that it might do her good. But there were time limits, and Colleen's visit time was nearly expired.

Brent did not feel that Colleen was telling the truth. Surely, the Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets had not called her too. He had a certain warmth for the challenged girl, but it went no farther than that. She was, in effect, his audience and at best his friend. She ardently believed the Supreme Council story---and it is time now to say, if the reader has not already guessed, that Brent did too. HIS council would not have a girl like Colleen sitting at his side. No way. He was about to tell her this, when she suddenly began taking off her clothes.

"Don't do that!!" Brent exclaimed horrified. "The Council doesn't want you, and neither do I."

"I've done it with boys before," protested Colleen. "Why can't I do it with the boy I love?"

"I do not love you," shouted Brent, "and you are not getting elected to the Council. No way."

Brent jumped up and walked off the porch, leaving the nearly naked retarded girl to re-dress herself and leave. She was also crying and drooling, and obviously she had suffered another accident. Her jeans were dripping urine, and there was a puddle left under the swing. Colleen slunk slowly away down the street toward her house. Brent learned the next day that she had cut herself that night, lost a lot of blood and had been removed to an institution somewhere. Good, he thought. She can't get on the Council now.

VI. A Council meeting

This was going to be the big one. Brent would deliver a speech for all of Earth. The other superior beings from their distant stars would attach their variously-shaped translators to their variously-shaped organs and listen to him. He wrote his speech out in longhand. It said basically that humans have flaws but have merits too. Brent pointed to the railroad in his speech and to the Eiffel Tower. These were the only merits he could think of just then. He would add more as time went on. The meeting wasn't until later that night. Brent had time to shower and put on his nicest cargo pants and his brightly colored striped shirt. He would also wear his red sneakers. The sneakers represented Earth as well. They were one of the good things he would discuss...maybe. He combed his hair in several directions until he finally hit upon the right style for the meeting. Looking at himself in the mirror he felt large and strong and handsome. He was very pleased. Tonight's meeting would crown his greatest success. The representatives of the mightiest Coalition in the Universe would be at his house, and his parents would be away. Brent beamed with pride. It was real pride.

VII. Author's intervention

Well, does the reader think that Brent was crazy or what? Probably so, but to Brent these things were as real as the Grand Canyon. And we must attempt to view him standing on the porch waiting for the representatives from all across the universe to arrive. We must view him as he saw himself: the chosen earthly representative of Mankind. To understand the depth of the boy's obsession, we must share a part of it with him and feel the honor and distinction that coursed through his veins as he awaited the arrival of the Council members. Share with Brent these feelings of worth and pride, and you will understand the conclusion of the story better. Stand beside him as he stared out into the street waiting. Do not reject that fantasies can be concrete, compelling and vital if they are YOUR fantasies. Brent was a nice, smart and polite boy. And now he had an important mission to fill. Put yourself into his mindset. He did indeed have an important role, and he felt sure he could rise to its challenge, which was nothing short of speaking on behalf of every human being living on Earth.

VIII. Conclusion: The Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets arrives.

Benevolent and all-knowing, sage beyond human terms, the Star Wars characters came. Some from the Solar System, some from star systems far beyond the boundaries of even the Milky Way. Some terrifying to behold. Others cute and even cuddly. Many with organs that Brent could not explain. And some were, alas, humanoid. Ambulating in whatever way their bizarre bodies permitted, they filed with great dignity into Brent's house and navigated upstairs and into his room. He greeted them all as they walked through the door. Many had titles, and Brent used them. Some of them were even too large to fit through the door, so they just drifted through the walls. Others were tiny like mice. Some slithered; some flew; some swam in the air; some crawled. Others moved by means unknown. But they all came dressed in their spectral and ceremonial raiments. But each one possessed a crucial importance and hailed from a different part of the sentient universe.

The signal was almost there that each celestial dignitary had arrived and that it was time for Brent to make his triumphant appearance and stand confidently before them, the living symbol of his blue planet home.

Then the signal came.

A black BMW pulled into Brent's driveway. Brent's family was away for the weekend and the driver knew it. The driver had a housekey too, and a gun, a police issued gun because the driver was a city policeman. Off duty now, he still made sure Brent saw his gun. The driver was Brent's uncle Montrose, his mother's brother. About the time Brent turned twelve, Montrose had taken a sudden and rather dark interest in Brent, and he swore he would use the gun if Brent ever told anyone about his visits and what they did and what he expected Brent to do. He greeted Brent with a sullen coarse lustfulness and ordered him to disrobe. Brent knew the routine. They would do it on the sofa. As he began taking off his nice Council clothes, another Brent, still fully dressed, ascended the stairs to his bedroom where gathered were the beauteous ranks of the Supreme Council of the Coalition of Planets. They were all awaiting his arrival with great approval on their variegated visages. It would be Brent's moment of triumph. As he began his address to the awesome creatures of the universe, a now-small, scared sixteen year old boy was prostrate and naked below in the rough clutches of a fully grown man wearing only a gun.

The speech went marvelously, the assembly cheered, and Brent, Earth's sole representative, paid no attention to the perverse commotion on the sofa below.

_____________________________________

Devon Pitlor November, 2008

That sucked ass.
You fail as a writer.

I really liked this story, Devon.

There is a line in "Young Goodman Brown," (which you know I often reference as I think it is one of the best short stories ever written) in which Hawthorne interjects as the narrator and ask the question of whether Brown's experience was a dream. He then answers and says, "Be it so if you will, but it was a dream of evil for Goodman Brown" (I think that's right - I'm too lazy to look it up, but it's something along those lines). I like that interjection because it's simple and it asks the most important question, and more importantly, answers the question.

My only suggestion is that your author interference is unnecessary. When we read the end of the story, it is obvious that this is the place he goes in his head to escape the uncle. The place is more and more real because the uncle's visits are more and more frequent (?) and this explains all of the notes from the counselors. In my very humble opinion, your story is too short. I wanted more time to invest in this character - I wanted to care about him more and believe him more. That is, however, a compliment to your skill rather than a criticism.

What I think you do best of all is incorporate that narrative tone that is so consistently your style. (Not the intrusive narrator, but the narrator who picks up on all of the quirks of the characters.)

As hard as the ending was, I found this one of your most respectful stories. You treated the characters with a gentleness that was most charming.

Thanks, Grace!!! Your analysis is really good. And the fact that you wanted it longer is indeed a compliment. This is the sort of constructive criticism that I like. I write for readers like you. Readers who can understand. The author intervention may truly be unnecessary, as you say. I can't thank you enough for the other insights. You can see the same weakness and strengths that I too identify in my writing. IMO, it is time that your department gives you the CW course again to teach!!

Good, thought provoking response.

Love,

Devon

You mentioned Hawthorne again, and very appropriately too. I too was very influenced by Hawthorne and Poe. I read them only in French translation as a schoolkid, and I have always wanted to re-read them in English now that I know the language.

Hawthorne wrote another story that slapped me across the face when I was a kid, but I forget its name. A great doctor tries to remove a facial imperfection from his beautiful wife and kills her in the process. I wish I knew what the English or French title of that was. Do you remember?

Devon

Outstanding!




creative evolution

Great story, Devon!!! I can see why it made you cry. I know of kids who have had experiences like this. I liked what Grace said too. The author intervention is interesting but maybe not needed because of the outcome. I also think that Colleen is underdeveloped. Retarded and pees on herself and likes Brent. Not enough character development, but good just the same!!!

Said this before: There is just no end to your idea cabinet!!!

Appreciate your efforts always.

I think I told you once that you and I have the same weakness - we move too quickly to get to the end. I have an unnatural fear of rambling when I write, probably because I do it when I talk and I know how bad incessant chatter can be. LOL

One thing that has helped me see my weakness (not that I've been able to fix it) was reading the Southern writers like Eudora Welty and Faulkner. Anne Tyler is my favorite author to read and re-read, and she is a very Southern writer. What is indicative of their style is that they do ramble, but in all of their rambling lie the details. The quirks, the things that make characters endearing.

I really detest reading Hemingway because I hate his style. I love his themes and conflicts, but good grief, man! Buy a conjunction.

That story you were talking about is called "The Birthmark." If I recall, the woman's name was Beatrice? I also loved "The Minister's Black Veil."

One regret I have is that I was in Salem 25 years ago and didn't realize that Hawthorne's house of seven gables was there. it was before I went to college. I want to go back there so badly now that I know more about history. I find the witch trials absolutely engaging, too.

I have read too little of Welty and Faulkner. I like Flannery O'Connor a lot!!! A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND is one of my all time favorite short stories. See if you can remember that one I mentioned above by Hawthorne. It was dynamite.

As for rambling, Steven King gets a lot of mileage out of it, but I try to compose short stories for the internet because of obvious time limitations. When you wrote your last story, I was captivated by the minute details about the woman's life and environment, and I did not consider it rambling at all.

Devon

That's it!!!! "La Tache", in French. I'm going to re-read that like TOMORROW in English. It meant a lot to me as a kid. I can't thank you enough!!! You have made my day.

I'm close enough to visit Salem myself. It would make a great day trip!!! Thanks for that idea too.

Devon

Thank you, Guest. Yes, when I wrote the end, it did make me cry. Brent gets all dressed up and then some ugly perverted uncle comes and makes him undress. There was something about that which made my eyes water as I wrote it.

I agree that Colleen could use some more character description.

Thanks again.

Devon

Merci, Monsieur Bergson!!! I always liked your works too, even though you died long before I was born.

Devon

GOOD WORK AS USUAL, DEVON. YES, IT WAS DEPRESSING. BUT HEY, THAT'S LIFE. KEEP WRITING. I LOVE IT!!!

I LOVE "A Good Man Is Hard to Find"! I kind of thing we would all be better people if we had a gun pointed to our heads. LOL

"A Worn Path" is probably Welty's most famous story, but I like "Why I Live at the PO" better. I also loved the hell out of "Barnburning" by Faulkner. The symbolism in that story is incredible.

Yes, you should go to Salem and drink in the history. Hawthorne was so affected by the history of Salem that almost all of his works were set there during the witch trials.

"She woulda been a good woman ifn there had been someone there to shoot her every day of her life" (my paraphrase)

Yes, I think I will go to Salem. Seriously. You can take the train from here to there or closeby and then rent a car.

I am so embarrassed to tell you that I am not familiar enough with Faulkner. He is loved in France too. He was translated into much simpler French than his English, so he became more accessible to more people. I remember reading "Absalom, Absalom" and thinking for a time it was the second best novel ever written. My first will always be Flaubert's "Madame Bovary," which is feel is the greatest piece of writing ever accomplished in the West.

You have given me 3 good ideas tonight!!

Love,

Devon

Thanks. The depressing angle is just something we have to deal with.

Devon

For some reason this paragraph sticks in my mind as a classic.

Good work, Devvy.

I like this one, too - especially the "coughed and agreed that Mexico was, indeed, a bad place." That's the narrative tone I was talking about.

More thanks!! When I write, I try to put myself into a scene and visualize the characters and imagine their words. That was what I did here.

Devon

The end seemed belabored and the writers intervention out of step but overall it was a fine piece of work, I thought. Swept me up and I wanted to see it through.

You have pointed to a specific example of my narrative tone, and I will remember this. I know I can do it. I just don't know where exactly it comes from. Appreciate your specific example.

Devon

Thank you, Robin. I'm glad you were swept up and saw it through. It was easy to write but hard for me to post. Thanks for reading.

Devon

For what it is worth---------it made me cry too, Devon. Nice but sad, sad, sad story.

I won't sleep very well tonight.

Your fault, but thanks anyway.

Thanks. We can all stop crying now. It is just fiction.....or is it? Stuff like this is going on every day.

Devon

I don't know what you were worried about. The subject matter was handled tastefully, with no impression that the story was designed to titillate. Very short, I think if you want to get serious and write professionally you're going to need to develop your characters more.

Your strong point is the story board, the basic outline. More dialog and maybe presenting a first person perspective of the uncles point of view would have helped. Then we could have emphasized with the central characters plight more, after the disdain for the uncle was established in our minds.

Colleen wanted to be on the Council too-maybe if he hadn't of run her off she would have been there with him and the Uncle would have lost his moment.

Good story though, makes me think of the characters-that's what a good story does.

Well, Devon?

You want some honest criticism?

Subject matter, good.
Tone, good.
Style, sub par, you may as well have been making one of your posts on the internet.

You have set up, very well I might add, some very powerful visualisations, but you have not followed them through.
You continue to drop into your whatever, off hand, etc style of forum posting, and trivialise what could be a very dramatic story.

Find yourself a good editor, or maybe a ghost writer.

we were thinking alike -guest, if colleen had been admitted,then she would would have been there and the uncle may have thought 2x about his actions
good story -devon - it is one of your most powerful!!

Erm, it's Sunday, but that's no excuse for my bored curiosity.

I read exactly x words, and whilst not caring if I rain on your parade or not, it's important that you understand a few things:

You are so full of it, it's hard to know where to start, so I'll be brief - you have the talent of a Mills and Boon pap writer, but choose to rely on the vapid responses to your Marseilles gigolo act as a measure of worth.

For someone who claims to work hard at their job, you may as well be unemployed. I know what it's like to spend your time writing at work, and you don't get much work done. That's a simple matter of arithmatics, so that makes you both shamelessly selfish, and completely dishonest.

Stop pretending to yourself, there's nothing difficult about manipulation of a certain type of person, it's another manifestation of your dishonesty and desperate need for the kind of attention most teenagers will grow out of.

There's nothing wrong with mediocre, average, even second-rate is nothing to be ashamed of, but dishonesty is.

I measure a persons worth with a few handy gauges, there are enough of those here to confirm my first impressions of you and your performances here since.

I don't like the idea of using people as you do, but you have to not like it to do anything about it.

If you don't know what I mean, then you're a pathetic excuse for a person, if you do, then for their sake cut it out and stop sucking the life out of others to feed your own lack of fulfilment.

 

a good short story is hard to write. i would suggest writing a full novel or three first then work your way up to short story. this ought to keep you busy for a year. you won't have time to be posting much. too bad.

Devon:

I love your writing. This is a story that I suppose touches boys more than girls, but I had similar experiences with an uncle when I was a girl, so it touches me pretty close to the heart too. Your opening scene in the park also makes me remember a slightly challenged girl I used to attend class with in the tenth grade. The moments of happiness between Colleen and Brent at the start are simply beautiful.

I think you have the nature of Colleen pretty much in detail. She falls for the first guy who doesn't poke at her. It is hard to read, but I think the bowel accidents are also right. The girl I knew was always having them and needed to bring at least two sets of clothes to school each day. I read alot into the Colleen character, maybe because I am a woman. Don't know. When Brent rejects her and she cuts herself that sent a shiver up my spine. People especially mentally weak people are so very fragile!

You concentrate a lot on detail which is something I like and appreciate and have come to expect in your writing. Little things that stick in the mind and make your personas more believable, settings like the class room speeches, little touches and your fantastic description of the creatures Brent believes in. I do not read any sci-fi but I like the image of these <<star wars>> imaginary beings.

The end came as a total shock to me. I thought you were taking the story to where Brent's fantasies were actually reality and there was a real supreme council of ETs. So the end was a total surprise and very sad.

After I read your story this morning, I felt like crying a little too. But then I thought of a happy note:: At least Brent had his fantasy to fall back on. Many abused children would not even have that.

All told, a well crafted story. You have become a master storyteller here. I wish I could recommend another board for you to post on but they would probably ban me. I know many there who would gain from your stories. Your descriptions are beyond belief, and you really are wasting your time writing on any forum at all. You have enough stories in the archeives to publish a collection. Why don't you think about that?

I always sign "A Fan" because I really am one. You <<hooked>> me long ago. I am registered here but someone is stalking me so I don't want to sign on, but I plan to send you an p.m. myself sometime today. My real name is Cindy so when you see something signed Cindy you will know it is me.

I don't live very far from you if you are in NYC. I'm just up the river. I come down all the time. Maybe we could get together and talk fiction. I will also send you a picture of me if I can post one in the p.m.'s. Don't know if I can. I have never tried it.

I would like to meet you in person. Hope you'd be game for that. If not, no biggy. Just love your writing.

Cindy