Naseau II

Guile, plasticity, and the search for meaning for a corporate drone. A parody of existentialism.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Naseau II

by

Malenkov

 

 

 

 

"Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water."

�"  Vonnegut.

 

 

 

                                     

“BRINNNGGGGGGG!!” The alarm clocked screamed its tinny clang. Derek’s cortex trickled into life. Protesting neurons dragged themselves along the billion cell highway of the Oculomotor nerve and then consciousness sparked alight like the dim flicker of an energy saving bulb. Jaundiced eyes furled to pinholes.

Then, a thought formed, a faucet drop that crystallised: Why bother?

His adams apple pulsed.

Why get up?

An arm, hairless and pale, snaked out. Following a muffled clang, the noise stopped. A large mound in the bed rolled, grunted and turned over with a “hmmph”. Strewn around the bed, next to the meditation cushion and yoga mat, lay opened copies of books: No Exit; How to Win Friends & Influence People and the The Now Habit.

The bedroom stood little larger than a broom cupboard: six paces in each direction hung thread bare grey wallpaper peeling off in plant leaf strips. Walls and picture frames rattled as a freight train thundered by.

On the side table, by the bed, lay an empty glass.
                                      * * *
In his thirty year career in the cubicles of Bigcorp, Derek Wann Abe had climbed the corporate ladder tenaciously. If he never floated t**d like to the top, then he ingratiated himself firmly onto the lower echelons. He had body shopped as apprentice assistant to his supervisor for thirteen years, which taught Derek a few tricks in the slippery art of corporate survival. For starters, one never carried bad news when one could palm it off onto someone else. And in the presence of a superior one nodded sagely to every utterance; which in practice, for Derek, meant virtually the whole company.

But still, Derek stood by his opinion where it truly counted: comments about the weather were fair game and he blew wind to corporate convention with a racy grey flannel suit that flattered his slight belly, complemented his other virtues, too. Derek counted his sycophantic plasticity of mind among them, and the fact that he could worm out of a bad spot faster than Houdini could escape a fish tank.

Derek had skulked out of line of sight of the last realignment which Harry Haveitoff--his jut chinned supervisor--presented at the last annual conference as “one which will massage Bigcorp into a leaner, fitter organization for us all.”

Only last July, twenty four of the two hundred surviving personnel at the Admin and Stationary Department where Derek worked, received “re-alignment offers” that “enabled them to pursue green field opportunities elsewhere.” The offers winged their way in little pink slips into the letterboxes of the lucky twenty four.

Sipping Rooibos tea at his cubicle desk, Derek mentally patted himself on the back. The announcements circulated that the July round of purges were mercifully over. As the Email communiqué from Managing Director Julia Caesem lucidly expressed it:

 

Dear Employee,

 

We thank you for the efforts involved in meeting our shareholder after tax return of thirty five percent. You shall be delighted to be informed that we have successfully achieved our goal through streamlined rebuilding, which we shall continue to implement to facilitate further cost containment measures to further strengthen our out-sourcing capability.

Yours,

            Julia Caesem

         A survivor of four rounds of corporate Darwinism, Derek reflected that Bigcorp made the Gulags look like a vacation in Disney World.

He endured, evaded, avoided with more slipperiness than Tsun Tzu, more conniving than Sheer-Kahn. By hook and by crook he siphoned every ounce of credit from his co-workers that he could get his grimy hands on. And when the whims of corporate hierarchy blew foul he could spin on a six pence, turn tail faster than a Marsupial.

Life had never been better.

Office life taught Derek valuable lessons in social etiquette. “Team work, is what it’s all about, dear boy,” said Harry, slapping Derek on the shoulder as he trailed by to his ten foot square open plan office over looking the harbour, at three in the afternoon. Harry sported a bronzed tan from the off-shore-vendor sponsored management off-site in Honolulu. Harry swung his golf clubs in one hand and his assistant Brenda Lovelegs, strode behind him, tan the same bronze as Harry’s face.

“Well Brenda,” Harry said, “I’ll expect you in my office to take down my particulars again at four thirty.”

She glanced down at his groin.

“The pad, Brenda.”

“Oh.”

Derek scrapped enough from his forty-k salary to put a down payment on a one and a half bedroom appartment in Mile End, London. He met Sally Truetears at the Mile End Bird Watchers Society Christmas party and it had been compatibility at first sight. Both adored blue tits, finches and ospreys. Their on-line date score which the man from the dating agency had arranged “on the house” predicted they were “well above the average match for first time couples” and forecast a “statistically significant fit at the ninety nine percent level”. Derek and Sally concurred, nodding heads. After all the vital signs were there--they both shared a subtle taste for neutral grey retro modern wall paper.

They planned too, of course: “Let’s live meaningfully and with an end in sight! Not like all the others!” declared Derek in a fit of rhetoric one night in the Bombay Palace, over a steaming dish of Chicken Masala. Calculator, wish list and pencils clutched in their hands they sat in the droopy kitchen light listing the components of marital bliss. After the apartment was sufficiently amortized, they wanted a stripy cheshire cat, a golden retriever. Then there was the crème de la crème: bunches of crisp five pound notes nestled in the marmalade jar by the Ikea kitchen cupboard, accumulating towards the six volume Encyclopaedia Britannica edition they’d marvelled at in Waterstones.

Birds bonded them. Each Saturday after You-Can-Win-A-Million they perched on the edge of their sofas, shoulders rubbing together, and munching home made butter popcorn as Birds-On-TV flashed on their Sanyo forty-two inch quadra-phonic plasma screen on which Sally admired the--“gorgeous cheeks”--of Jim Redjaw, the Birds-On-TV correspondent.

Their sexual mores were refreshingly modern. And Sally thought that “bolstered their relationship”. Actually, it had been Sally’s idea to subscribe that April to Rustler, Playboy and He and together they rummaged the stories and editorials. When a particularly tasteful set caught their imagination, they posted a letter to the editor complementing the photographer.

But then the sky fell upon Derek. Sally’s crush upon Jim Redjaw developed into full blown intoxication. She wrote Redjaw fan mail daily, feverishly scribbling into the small hours of night. Redjaw responded to her mail that August, his letter arrived by UPS express in an overlarge golden envelop marked ‘special delivery’. He’d be delighted, Redjaw wrote in florid Napoleon script, to give her a personal autograph in person and thanks for the photo, and added he’d never seen someone pierced there before and would she join him at the next Birds-On-TV Fan conference? It was exclusive in Rio de Janeiro and by invite only.

Sally found the lure of meeting the star--“bird man”--irresistible and yapped about it unrelentingly over croissants, ginseng tea and rough cut marmalade at breakfast. But Derek was a hardened man of the world, secure and adult enough to cope with a teeny, weenie bit of jealously, he reassured himself the day before Sally packed for her Rio trip. After all, he pondered one evening in his kitchen crunching a stick of celery, why be silly about such things? It’s true that Sally never bought that kind of lingerie while we were together but one should be philosophical. ‘Live and Let Live’, ‘Stercus accidit’, as they say. It was just, after all, a silly infatuation.

Sally sent Derek a postcard from Rio in December as he unpacked his presents alone by the dilapidated Christmas tree. I do hope you understand it is for the best but the birds are so gorgeous here. Having a whale of a time in Rio and wish you were here. Love and kisses. Ta, Ta. It was the last card he received from her. Sally joined Redjaw, starry eyed and breathless, for three episodes of Birds-On-TV in Rio as a bikini clad assistant.

“Wasn’t that Sally on birds last Tuesday?” his mother pointedly asked each time he trekked to her house to dump his monthly washing.

Mysteriously, Derek noted a new girl, fresher faced, and starrier eyed, bouncing on the set for Birds in Zimbabwe.

Derek’s misfortune avalanched.

The day Derek shredded Sally’s postcard he tramped aimlessly around the shopping mall. People’s faces swam like lobsters. In a surreal and nauseating way. Derek brushed it off. “I’ve read far too much Sartre, depressing existentialist stuff, and seen too many Taxi Driver reruns,” he thought aloud, slumped in his tatty arm chair. “These things happen to perfectly sane men.” Yet, try as he might to hold onto life’s pleasures, Derek’s interests floated away like dead autumn leaves in a sewer. Even Birds-On-TV. Redjaw’s swanning grin taunted Derek as Redjaw swapped pleasantries with a new-girl-a show. Enraged, Derek cancelled his subscription.

Even Timmy Scragfoot, the office underling that Derek beat up occasionally, had it better. Derek still rued the sore-throat that had necessitated a three day absence that coincided with the Super Bowl finals. As luck would have it--for Scragfoot--the Regional Marketing Director Brian Screwem stopped by the office during Derek’s ‘sickie’ to “grace them with his presence.”

Scragfoot struck audaciously, presenting for once his own idea as part of the New Logo Re-branding Initiative’s request for proposal meeting that was held on that day. What was the world coming to, people taking credit for their own ideas? Derek thought when the news reached him. They’d want democracy next.

Brian adored the New Logo proposal and asked Scragfoot to lead the Re-branding initiative--“Great men were scarce”--Brian beamed, hand imperiously clasped on Scragfoot’s shoulder, “and Bigcorp rewards those truly loyal.”

Even by the standards of Bigcorp’s motto �" “a passion to perform”--Scragfoot rise was meteoric. Three months after his proposal Scragfoot unveiled his bold The New Logo concept. Envious malcontents spread malicious rumours: that The New Logo was “just two font sizes larger.” But Brian stamped out all such nonsense, declaring it, “a stroke of genius.” Scragfoot’s face bedecked the corporate announcements as Bigcorp Communications & Marketing whipped their Top Performing Leader campaign into a frenzy of purple blurb:

 

Scragfoot: Living Our Passion to Perform, and Daring Next Steps: project leader Scragfoot explains his six point plan for project Gravytrain.

 

“Blow it all”, Derek said aloud as he read about Scragfoot’s latest exploits in the corporate newsletter, The Truth. “Surely Scragfoot will give me something for old times sake, friends, Esprit de Corps and all that.”

Derek rang Scragfoot’s assistant, Lucille, to enquire about vacancies. “We were the best of ex-acquaintances,” Derek said.

Lucille promised to get back to him. She did--after Derek rang her three weeks later. She forwarded Derek an email from Scragfoot:

 

The Director thanks you for your interest in this exciting new opportunity, but regrets that it has been a considerable challenge to select from among the high quality of applicants.

 

We wish to inform you that currently no positions match your skill set but we encourage you try again in future.

 

A passion to perform.

 

Best,

           

Scragfoot

 

Incensed that a lesser vassal triumphed where men of principle, probity and propriety clawed finger by finger up the precipice, Derek declared a vendetta: “I’ll bring the system down.”

As he crunched his celery in the early hours of the morning, he took his first step as a revolutionary. Knowledge is power, Derek mused and trawled the internet for keys to prosecute his mission. Four in the morning, after a week of dredging the morass of internet soup, his answer materialised before his eyes--in the search results as a hyper link:

non-violent resistance, empowering the weak.

Derek pumped his fist. “Eureka!” he mused aloud. He read further about the idea in Ghandi’s Autobiography �" ‘Truth will out,’ and ‘Power is maintained only by consent of the ruled.’ And so on. As he read, a plan coalesced in his mind. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought, sucking his liquorice Sherbet mixture as he leafed the pages of a book, I’ll rebel covertly.

For the next week, Derek applied his formidable intellect concocting heinous misdemeanours against Bigcorp. Derek’s lips curled, struck by the sheer brutal cunning of it all. “I’ll passively actively fight--resist the system right under their very noses,” he laughed, as he typed his ‘Ten Point Plan to Power’ into a bulleted list of subversive activities. The plan was an end of chapter exercise that came with the Amazon book:

 

Fighting the System for Dummies: The non-violent way to attain your dreams....

 

For the first time in months, Derek slept soundly.

Without delay Derek waged revolution. The next day, during peak office hours, Derek surfed the internet flagrantly. Had his boss read the latest story he’d written on the WritersCafe? Derek asked Harry. His boss merely tutted and showed Derek his own rankings.

Berserk with rage, Derek wheeled ‘plan B’ into motion. Derek secreted himself onto critical path tasks on which Derek surmised Harry’s performance hinged--and Harry’s annual two week Christmas jaunt to Bangkok.

“Leave it to me,” Derek reassured Harry during the next Task Assignment Meeting. Only after the task was screamingly overrun, and Derek had slipped all the slack possible, did Derek report in his quarterly status meeting to Harry, “File Maintenance Task is regrettably critically delayed as a consequence of unforeseen dependencies including over-budgeted man hours and higher than expected change requests. Reschedule to next quarter advised.”

As Derek smoothly delivered his report at the mid week team meeting, Harry merely smiled stone-faced. “Not to worry, Derek, Sheila’s already on this one. Oh, did I forget to say she’s your new colleague. She’ll be working with you and I’m sure, Derek,” Harry’s crocodile smile widened, “you’ll be happy to transfer to her all your valuable know how.”

Derek fumed.

In a moment of realisation that plummeted manna-like from heaven, Derek reflected, I never really worked much in the first place, anyway. Derek glanced at his colleague John Greylocks. Together they shared a table sized cubicle. Droop shouldered and pensionable, Derek affectionately referred Greylocks to colleagues as “a part of the office furniture”. Every now and then footsteps thudding along a corridor reanimated Greylocks into life: shoulders twitching, eyes startling from reverie, Greylocks would switch his browser from CNN to the Bigcorp News announcements web page.

If the head bobbing behind the cubicle rampart appeared to be a supervisor, invariably Greylocks swept a pen around his desk or restacked paper piles feverishly. Or in dire emergency, Greylocks would spring on the phone, tinny voice rising in an effort to sound important: "Yes, Sir, rest assured, Sir, we at Bigcorp receive the best customer service training ...what’s that? Yes, yes, of course Sir... I entirely agree--the customer always comes first. At Bigcorp we relish our motto--‘A passion to perform’--… yes, it is nice isn’t it? … What’s more, believe me when I say that we take your concerns with the utmost seriousness. Yes, I personally guarantee it will be dealt with the highest priority…."

It’s all a sham, Derek raged over his Rooibos tea. Nobody gives a damn.

It got worse.

Disgusted, Derek closed his account on WritersCafé. It had nothing to do with that dodgy Russian fella who ran amok around the web site ranting invective and sending abusive emails and hacking into valuable junk mail systems the world over. None of that fazed Derek.

Inflamed Derek threw out his Tonka cars, his Scalextric and, incredibly, the fluffy pink handcuffs, and feather quill he got as a birthday present from Amy Bellafonte.

Then November blew in, swirling maple leaves around the yards. A wintry gloom, if it wasn’t already blaringly obvious, hung about Mile End.

Alone, with not even a bird for company, Derek stayed later in bed. Waking at nine in the morning, nine twenty and once, even nine forty, on a particularly bad day, Derek paced around his bedroom like that strange man in the Notes from the Underground. Seized with apathy and ennui, Derek reopened his Writers Café account and wrote six-page rant pieces during midnight sojourns.

None of it helped; Derek slid ever further into despondency.

Derek stopped drinking Rooibos tea. Tea is bourgeois and decadent he reasoned, one particularly dark night, morosely leafing through his library copy of Existentialism is a Humanism, habitually peering at the peeling grey wallpaper in the corner of the bedroom to rest his bruised insomniac pouches for watery eyes, as the walls shook for the fiftieth time that night.

A tower of styrofoam coffee cups piled up on a corner of Derek’s rickety writing desk. Derek phoned Brenda frequently to call in his absence. He “had flu and needed a week off”. Then it was “polio”, then “hepatitis”. On a visit to the doctor’s surgery, the GP steepled his bony white fingers, hummed and reflected behind horn rimmed glasses and whipped out a white note. He scrawled on the sick note that earned Derek four months paid leave: afflicted by ‘Angst’ and ‘Alienation’.

Harry called Derek a week later at home, “Derek would you please clock your hours in the time sheet �" for insurance purposes? You know we’ve got to be covered.”

But at least Derek could count on family. Alarmed, Derek’s mother plagued Derek with phone calls. She was “worried”. “Would you be a love and stop by?”, “By the way, love, did you forgot to send the money--you know for the highlights I had done last Wednesday?” and “The washing machine’s sprung a leak, dearie. Be a love and stop on Saturday and take a look, would you?” And so on.

Derek enlightened himself on the cause of his predicament as he beavered his way through Frankl’s hearty edition of Man's Search for Meaning. “One can have a jolly time even in Auschwitz if one puts one’s mind to it,” Derek concluded. But, bother it, he thought. I do seem to have lost the Will to Meaning thingy, Derek scribbled this conclusion in careful red strokes in his notepad after cross referencing it in his compendium of Chamberlain’s A Kierkegaard Reader. Derek mentally noted to himself to go first thing in the morning to the doctor’s surgery--and explain to his GP his very human predicament. Perhaps I’ll get a year off for that one, he pondered. Besides it was all insured, he supposed, as the pangs of bourgeois guilt attempted to riposte the fragile roots of Derek’s newly formed existential consciousnesses. Derek let the book slide by the side of his bed, sighed then rolled over in his sleeping bag. I’m as flaccid as those big brown saggy clouds hovering outside this ramshackle hut I live in. Brown you may well ask? He was after all, seeing Lobsters.
                                      * * *
For Derek it had been a particularly heavy night of self reflection. He squinted once more at the quote underlined in yellow marker in his copy of Heidegger: In Plain English:

 

To think Being itself explicitly requires disregarding Being to the extent that it is only grounded and interpreted in terms of beings and for beings as their ground, as in all metaphysics.

 

No wonder I stay in bed, he thought. “It’s completely meaningless,” Derek moaned.

One can’t be bothered to get up. After all, what is life for? Derek thought.

A voice, authorial and intrusive, echoed on the edge of Derek’s senses: surely you want a glass of water? That’s the very least a person could want?

“Nope,” Derek said. Firmly now, “Not even water.”

The voice frothed sea water like in Derek’s ear drums. Even a man who stays in bed must get a little itsy bitty thirsty, now and again. After all what’s the effort in a glass of water?

Derek humphed and rolled over facing the wall his sleeping bag lay next to.

Come now, the voice opined, it’s the last part of the story. Now the voice cooed. You must want something? A glass of water is very good for your health.

There was a strained pause. A pencil scribbled. Besides, the voice swelled harsher, it is getting rather hot. Outside, the weather flicked from Artic Autumn to Saharan Summer. The room blazed forty degrees centigrade, baked as a baking tray. A tongue, parched as the Kalahari Desert, rasped dryly in the background. The saccharine voice came again: a nice glass of refreshing carbonated water would be just the thing. Wouldn’t it?

Then a fizzing sound and images: mineral streams gurgled through verdant French valleys, a slinky siren in a tight, two-piece, leopard skin leotard poured water into a glass. A gulp, gulp, gulp as water slid down a parched throat. Then a dull clink of glass on wood and a long contented sigh, Ahhhhhh. That was nice. Nothing like a drop of eau de mineral to quench a thirst now is there �" especially on a raging hot winter day like this?

Derek’s eyes winked shut like two clams. Lips tight as a mollusk.

The voice intoned, irately now. It’s no good. Bloody anti-heroes. Why do they make it so tough? Paper rustled. A tongue clicked. The leafing rustle of a book, a voice murmured. Desires, character, character is desire ... hmmm, I wonder now... Then a thud as a hardcover slapped shut.

Ok, forget the water. How about a nice pair of juicy tits to ogle at?

Derek sprang up in bed.

Two blue and black winged birds, yellow plumage blazed across their breasts, swooped as one onto the open bedroom window sill. “Tits! Tits!” Derek shot off the edge of the bed, hairy legs floundering as he yanked the camera off the door peg.

 

--END--

Reviews

[Brent (B. Billy) Curtis]

Dude, this is some funny-a*s-furious s**t. You had me chuckling throughout. As I read, I was noting funny sections, though I eventually gave up because there were so many. I think the plotting works and I stay involved throughout. I am, of course, a fan of Vonnegut and Pynchon and you pay homage to their brand of satire while maintaining a unique voice.

With the exception of some nits and pics below I had only one problem and that was Derek�s home being Connecticut. While I could identify his dilemma as something a young Connecticut professional might have, the voice of the piece hollers Brit to me.

This could be as simple a fix as changing his location to the UK or perhaps all it needs is a few changes of words and phrase here and there (I pointed a few out along with my best guess at a Connecticut translation.) Or it may run deeper than that and have to do with pacing and rhythm and cadence. Or I could be all wet and you intended to have a British voice and an American protagonist.

Any way you slice it, this is some great stuff. Nits, picks and kudos below:

Infinitesimally slow, Derek�s cortex trickled into life. � cut Infinitesimally slow, the word trickled is strong enough without it.

nerve ways � I�d like a stronger phrase here.

dim flicker of an energy saving bulb.- great and funny

Jaundiced eyes furled to pinholes. � nice phrasing.

The adams apple pulsed. � I would prefer �His adams apple pulsed� as a way to start bringing the reader closer to the character. Sort of like zooming in. I like the distance created above this, but am now ready to see �his adams apple� and �his arm�

There was a muffled clang and the noise stopped. = Following a muffled clang, the noise stopped.

No Exit; How to Win Friends & Influence People and the The Now Habit. � again great funny detail

semi broom cupboard bedroom, - a little clunky

Bigcorp Derek Wann Abe � funny

For instance: never carry bad news when you can palm it off onto someone else and nod sagely when a superior, which meant virtually the whole company, expressed an opinion. � kinda clunky

grey � gray if you are going for the Connecticut spelling


If he never floated t**d like to the top of the ladder,- funny, but I was distracted by the mixed metaphor even if it was purposeful


Derek skulked out of line of sight during the last realignment, which massaged Bigcorp into, as his jut chinned supervisor Harry Haveitoff presented it at the last annual conference, �a leaner, fitter organization for us all.� - kinda clunky

letter boxes � letterboxes

of the lucky twenty four.

rooibos tea � Rooibos (I think)

The announcements circulated that the � somewhat non-Connecticut like in the phrasing here.

lucidly expressed it: - cut it

Gulags look like a vacation in Disney World. � up til now, the level of angst has not been quite so hyperbolic, so this line hits Derek�s sympathy meter hard.

He endured, evaded, avoided with more slipperiness than Tsun Tzu, - great

Lovelegs, strode behind him, legs the same bronze as Harry�s face. � perhaps �tan the same bronze as Harry�s face.� In order to avoid the double leg�s

forty K � forty-k

christmas = Christmas

compatibility at first sight. Funny as s**t

wall paper = wallpaper

two point one kids � kinda clich�d more than the previous brilliant tidbits

he reassured the day before Sally packed for her Rio trip. � kinda clunky

Yep � not fond of this

rumours - rumors being the yank spelling

that The New Logo was �just two font sizes larger.� But Brian stamped out all such nonsense, declaring it, �a stroke of genius.� Hilarious

�Blow it all�, - not a very popular phrase in CT

quested the internet � searched the internet (in CT)

materialised � materialized (CT)

liquorice � licorice

misdemeanours � misdemeanors

Fighting the System for Dummies: The non-violent way to attain your dreams... Hilarious

For the first time that night, in months, - cut that night

screamingly � not very CT

report in his quarterly status report � report, report clunkiness

stone faced. = stone-faced

realisation = realization

Inflamed Derek throw out � threw

Then November blew in, swirling maple leaves around the place. A wintry gloom, if it wasn�t already blaringly obvious, hung about the place. � around the place, about the place clunkiness

bed room � bedroom

Sized with apathy and ennui = Seized with apathy and ennui

grey � gray

styro foam � styrofoam

�polumino�- ??

sickie � not CT

rung � called (CT)

lay facing the wall next to which his sleeping bag lay. � lay, lay clunk


Characters � the people in the story
� Are the characters interesting? Sympathetic? Yes
� Are the characters dimensional, or one-note? Dimensional
� Are the characters well drawn? Are you able to "see" them? Yes
� Is there enough character: action, dialogue, appearance, thought? Yes
� Are the characters distinctive, different from each other? Yes
� Does the protagonist have a strong desire? If you count thirst as a strong desire ;-)
� Does the protagonist grow or change? Yes
Plot � the sequence of events
� Is the plot interesting? Dramatic? Is a good story being told? Yes
� Is there enough conflict? Yes, it is inherent in his dilemna
� Does enough "happen"? Yes
� Is there a logical flow to the plot? Yes
� Does the story move forward? Does the tension increase? Yes
� Is there a strong enough climax? Yes
� Are any parts of the plot unnecessary? Are any necessary parts missing? No
� Is exposition provided effectively? Yes
Point of View � the viewpoint from which the story is told
� Is the right POV used (first person, third person, etc.)? yes
� Is the POV too "close" or "distant"? All good
� Is the POV consistent throughout the story? Yes
Description� the way things are described
� Are the descriptions effective? Yes
� Is there too much or too little description? All good
� Do the descriptions utilize the senses? Are they specific? Yes
� Are adjectives and adverbs overused? Are the nouns and verbs strong All good
� How is the use of figurative language (metaphor, simile, etc.)? Good
� Are cliches being used? A few times I noted above
Dialogue� what the characters say
� Is there too much dialogue or not enough? Good
� Is there enough use of "scene"? Good
� Does the dialogue sound natural? yes
� Is the dialogue rambling? No
� How is the use of "stage directions" � the staging of the dialogue scenes? Good
� Does the dialogue reflect the characters? Good
� Is the dialogue too "on the nose" � where characters always say what they mean? Good
� Are the tags (he said, she scolded, etc.) unobtrusive? Yes
Setting � the place and time
� Is the story grounded enough in place? In time? Not completely in place due to the Britishisms and this guy being in Connecticut
� Is there too much or too little setting description? Good
� Does the setting enhance the emotion or mood of the story? Yes
Pacing � the manipulation of time
� Are there sections that should be cut, or moved through more quickly? No
� Are there sections that should be slowed down? No
� Are there too many flashbacks? No
Voice � the "sound" of the narrator
� Do you find the narrator's voice appealing or off-putting? Good
� Does the voice sound natural or affected? Good
� Is the voice consistent throughout the story? Good
Style � the stylistic choices
� Are the words consistent with the narrator's voice? Yes
� Are the sentences and paragraphs too long or too short? Good
� Is the writing too wordy, or too spare? Good
� Are there any style choices that distract you from the story? No
Theme � the underlying meaning
� Does there seem to be a point to the story? Yes
� Is the theme too heavy-handed? No
� Is the theme dramatized by the plot? Yes

[W.k.kortas]

The narrative is strong and executed nicely throughout the whole piece, and the use of detail is excellent. I do think the names are a bit obvious and overdone, and the Writer's Cafe references are, to me, self-indulgent and add nothing to the story; I think your piece is much better served by pulling those out. Still, it's a fine character study with more than enough plot and structure to carry it along. A very solid piece of writing.

[Magnolia Belle]

Malenkov - I wanted you to know I read this. Your description is excellent (as always). Your character is a wreck! Just like you wanted him.

I'll come back and give a proper review later. (I haven't slept in a looonnnggg time.)


Belle