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How Soon Is Now
Former Member
Posts: 1,876,323 The Mix Honorary Guru
(Leave constructive criticism, or just give me your honest opinions! =])
It was a sad state of affairs. Everything was these days. He was verging on fifty years old and he just couldn't bring himself to argue with the world any more. It was often said that he could argue with himself in an empty room, but for Anthony all the fun in disputes was proving that he was right. And he was. Always.
Sunday morning and he awoke in his room, in that space in his bed next to where his wife used to lie. 'Before she decided I was aggressive, the bitch.' Yawning and bemoaning the fact that he was still alive, he grabbed his housecoat from the pile of Godknowswhat on the bedside table and sat himself up in bed. 'Right, what next?' Pulling the moth-eaten garment around him and tying it loosely around his waist, Anthony made his way down the staircase where his children used to play. 'Before they decided I was boring, the bastards.' Now it must be noted that because it was Sunday there would naturally be no post on his doormat. But he still found reason to curse the Royal Mail who apparently had been losing his post for years now.
Into the livingroom and his lips trembled into a small curve. In comparison to a cat, Anthony's 'smile' was Cheshire, but if he chose to show himself to the outside world anyone else would suppose he had some kind of nervous twitch. Whether or not cats know what a human's smile means, his family were happy to see him nonetheless. Huxley and Austen and Orwell and William all came rushing towards him, sprinting from their sleeping places on the bookshelves. Anthony was always one to pretend he was an avid reader, especially back in those days when he still taught but knew little of anything in particular at all. Tiny scrutinising eyes spotted his favourite family member, sulking and stretching across the greying sofa; Mr Morissey Smith. If the cats had musicals when Anthony was asleep, Mr Morissey Smith would be the oldest one, the wisest one, the one that was cunning in his day. Reality was though that he never was. He was brooding and callous and incredibly boring. So much like Anthony that it was obvious that he was the special favourite.
The kitchen was most probably the cleanest place in the house. Anthony never cooked much more that a microwave meal, so the pots and pans and plates were never needed to be used. Just the cutlery. 'And the stupid bitch took all that with her, too.' Fork, knife and spoon lay in the draw. 'So where the hell is the tin opener?' The tin opener was reserved for that cats' food only; the very best for his most beloved and all that. Tesco Value cat food was sitting in small dishes across the floor, but Mr Morissey Smith sat on the worktop, licking at his Felix feed while Anthony made his coffee around him. Anthony would sit for the rest of the day on the sofa with his family, watching the news so that he didn't forget that other people did exist, and so that he could find some reason to moan about people who couldn't hear him. He would put on The Smiths and realise that although he was alone it didn't really matter because everyone was anyway. His new family loved him, and he supposed that was enough. It would bore me to write any more of Anthony as there is nothing more to say. Not just a lazy Sunday, as his days were always like this, except that some days he might wash.
The son and the heir of nothing in particular, soon would always be now for Anthony. And he would always be aware that the keen creative writing student he once taught had much more of a life than he could ever imagine. Anthony had learned his very own lesson; he really never had anything to write home about.
It was a sad state of affairs. Everything was these days. He was verging on fifty years old and he just couldn't bring himself to argue with the world any more. It was often said that he could argue with himself in an empty room, but for Anthony all the fun in disputes was proving that he was right. And he was. Always.
Sunday morning and he awoke in his room, in that space in his bed next to where his wife used to lie. 'Before she decided I was aggressive, the bitch.' Yawning and bemoaning the fact that he was still alive, he grabbed his housecoat from the pile of Godknowswhat on the bedside table and sat himself up in bed. 'Right, what next?' Pulling the moth-eaten garment around him and tying it loosely around his waist, Anthony made his way down the staircase where his children used to play. 'Before they decided I was boring, the bastards.' Now it must be noted that because it was Sunday there would naturally be no post on his doormat. But he still found reason to curse the Royal Mail who apparently had been losing his post for years now.
Into the livingroom and his lips trembled into a small curve. In comparison to a cat, Anthony's 'smile' was Cheshire, but if he chose to show himself to the outside world anyone else would suppose he had some kind of nervous twitch. Whether or not cats know what a human's smile means, his family were happy to see him nonetheless. Huxley and Austen and Orwell and William all came rushing towards him, sprinting from their sleeping places on the bookshelves. Anthony was always one to pretend he was an avid reader, especially back in those days when he still taught but knew little of anything in particular at all. Tiny scrutinising eyes spotted his favourite family member, sulking and stretching across the greying sofa; Mr Morissey Smith. If the cats had musicals when Anthony was asleep, Mr Morissey Smith would be the oldest one, the wisest one, the one that was cunning in his day. Reality was though that he never was. He was brooding and callous and incredibly boring. So much like Anthony that it was obvious that he was the special favourite.
The kitchen was most probably the cleanest place in the house. Anthony never cooked much more that a microwave meal, so the pots and pans and plates were never needed to be used. Just the cutlery. 'And the stupid bitch took all that with her, too.' Fork, knife and spoon lay in the draw. 'So where the hell is the tin opener?' The tin opener was reserved for that cats' food only; the very best for his most beloved and all that. Tesco Value cat food was sitting in small dishes across the floor, but Mr Morissey Smith sat on the worktop, licking at his Felix feed while Anthony made his coffee around him. Anthony would sit for the rest of the day on the sofa with his family, watching the news so that he didn't forget that other people did exist, and so that he could find some reason to moan about people who couldn't hear him. He would put on The Smiths and realise that although he was alone it didn't really matter because everyone was anyway. His new family loved him, and he supposed that was enough. It would bore me to write any more of Anthony as there is nothing more to say. Not just a lazy Sunday, as his days were always like this, except that some days he might wash.
The son and the heir of nothing in particular, soon would always be now for Anthony. And he would always be aware that the keen creative writing student he once taught had much more of a life than he could ever imagine. Anthony had learned his very own lesson; he really never had anything to write home about.
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Comments
Lose the "old." The sentence flows better without it.
Lose the 's. It makes the passage a bit clunky with too many s sounds in a short space, and "human smile" is just as acceptable. You also don't need the "nonetheless" because I think it serves the same function as "Whether or not" at the beginning of the sentence. But I don't like this sentence altogether. The first clause bears no relation to the second. I think if you're going to introduce the concept of "his family" it shouldn't be halfway through a sentence about something else.
I also think that the cat metaphor seems quite contrived. Bring the pet cat into the scene straight away, and then use that as a metaphor, rather than simply bringing a cat into it, when it appears to have nothing to do with what is actually happening in the scene at the time. Like I said, otherwise it seems like you've just brought it up because it's convenient to you as the writer.
I don't think "old" means "old" I'd say "12 years old" or "30 years old" He was verging on 50 years old means the same as he was vering on 20 years old... unjless you were to say "he was 50 years young" which is just silly.
I don't think this colloquial style fits in with the rest of your writing. If you want to use it, maybe put it as a quotation mark, like some of the other parts of the story, so that it's the character who is saying/thinking it.
But overall, I think it's a decent effort at a short character study. :thumb:
Oh, and it's Morrissey btw.
Ah, sorry, I thought you were focusing on the old part, my bad
And I wouldn´t add the thing at the end about yourself, because it unfortunately devalues the previous story. Maybe dont say he is alone explicitly, but make is obvious in the general description of his life and demeanour.
I'd go one step further and just put 'verging on fifty'. The reader can fill in the blanks. Good writing is not just about the words you write, but about the ones that you leave out. That rule served me well over the years, but it did mean that I never reached a maximum word count. Oh well.
I'll show you what I mean:
Anthony never cooked much more that a microwave meal, so the pots and pans and plates were never needed to be used.
The bits in bold are too wordy, and don't flow well. I'd be tempted to chop them, like so:
Anthony rarely cooked more than a microwave meal, so the pots and plates sat unused.
Also, I had a bit of an issue with these bits:
'Before she decided I was aggressive, the bitch.'
'And the stupid bitch took all that with her, too.'
Are these supposed to be Anthony's thoughts, speech, asides to the narrator, or just the narrator speaking? It isn't clear. I'd guess at his thoughts, in which case I'd consider using something other than the inverted commas to differentiate from the rest of the text. I've seen italics used very effectively in this way.
I'm With Stupid - was a bit confused about what you meant about the cat metaphor. I don't really know what you were trying to say there.
And thanks for spelling Morrissey's name right for me! I know nothing about the Smiths. I just wanted to make a dig at my teacher at school. Heh.
Yusss! I win! Heh.
I always assumed he was a wee bit older. But what do I know? Haha!
I mean you start with "In comparison to a cat......" and it sounds like you're creating a convenient metaphor that has nothing to do with the scene. And then you introduce the cat. I think it would be more natural if you introduce the cat first, and then go onto any metaphors you might wish to use it for.
Aye, I getcha.
Thanks for your input, all!