I promised this in my very first podcast, but I kept forgetting to put this online. This is one of the stories I submitted to get into this conference I keep talking about. I’ll post the other one later (I need something to hold over everyone’s head.) During the conference, and part of the 750 bucks you put up, a professional writer critiques you. I actually loved the woman who critiqued my story. She was very nice about saying, “I love that you write …” which really meant “Hey you’re a good writer, but I really can’t figure out anything for you to do with it … good job though …” Below the story I’ll let you know her comments on the story, but I’m sure after reading it you could probably guess what they are.
YELLOW SNAKE by Kael
Remy needed time … yeah time. He needed more time. It was murder finding a parking spot today. Tuesdays was the day they cleaned the odd numbered streets, so they were deserted except for the unfortunate assholes who didn’t move their cars last night. Those had tickets on them. He didn’t want a ticket. It took forever for him to find a spot. His board hadn’t been waxed and his wet suit full of sand, but they were both conveniently tucked away in the oversized trunk of his car. His drunk was wearing down as his hangover was setting in, and his blonde locks were matted against his head. He slept in his car on PCH. He should have left his car there and walked down to the beach. The sea air always calmed him down. All these things were familiar; the waves, the morning sun, the sea weed on the wet sand that swept in sometime when everyone was asleep, while he was asleep in his car on PCH. He dropped his board onto the sand. It wasn’t waxed. He was going to slip and wipe out. He sat down, held his head and took countless short breaths, in and out, quickly in and out. “Fuck … fuck … fuck …” getting louder, as he took short breaths and banged his head back and forth against an imaginary wall. He got up, almost instinctively, wrapped a towel around his waist and started to strip down. There was sand in his wet suit, and it irritated the cuts and abrasions on his chest and arms. After he was covered from the waist down, he took the towel from around his waist, and laid it onto the blood stained shirt and jeans that he had removed.
The water was cold. The water is always cold. Sara was cold. Sara was a bitch. Even when he was dating her he never quite knew what he saw in her. She was only slightly attractive, in the way you grew fond of one of those big yellow snakes. A yellow snake that does nothing but move around, swallow rats, and hiss, except for she didn’t swallow. He got on his board, and paddled out, careful to cut through the waves so he didn’t get caught up into them. Keeping the nose up was hard being that he lost concentration as he turned back to the shore … watching, looking. He wasn’t sure if his car was parked in the right spot. They were out ticketing cars on odd numbered streets. Enough salt water splashed in his face to camouflage his tears. The cold water wore down his hangover. The waves were breaking at two to four feet. It wasn’t worth it. Small waves weren’t worth wiping out for. “Fuck … fuck … FUCK” he yelled at the top of his voice. No one was around to hear. It was too early for even the religious surfers to be out. “FUCK YOU … FUCK YOU … ASSHOLE!” Asshole lingered on his voice. He yelled even louder as his breaths started to get quicker and shorter. He needed time. He should have just fallen asleep in his car last night. She was being a bitch.
He kept looking towards his car. No sirens … no lights … He would have seen the lights; blue and red lights in the early dawn. They’re hard to miss. He left her covered up in the passenger’s seat. It would look like she was asleep in the car, unless they looked closely. They wouldn’t even notice unless they were ticketing his car. They ticketed cars on odd numbered streets on Tuesdays. The waves formed around him. None were worth wiping out for, and they broke in front of him, harmlessly … rhythmic. The landscape went up and down as the water swelled under his board. Still no lights. Still no one surfing but him. The salt water began to sting his cuts. He endured. Up, down, up, down, the waves would form and break, form and break, form and break … no lights. Nothing but short breaths and regret. THE END.
Well let’s just say that she said I had a strong voice. I love it when people gloss over their distain with positive comments. And I say that non-sarcastically, cause I do really love it. I think it’s the way to be, if it’s not transparent. It wasn’t transparent when she said it, so I’m grateful. She also told me that I couldn’t say he regretted anything at the end, if I didn’t set it up in the story. That was a good point. She also said I cussed too much. I think there are schools of thought on this cussing thing. I’ve actually tried not to cuss too much recently, but … well lets just say there’s a time and place for everything, and I have a whole post on being honest in spirit in your writing … and I think my writing is, I wonder how many can say the same? I later got some other critiques, and they all said pretty much the same thing … except a couple people actually said that they didn’t know what PCH was, and that I should change it to Pacific Coast Highway … I thought that was dumb, and I skipped it.
