Antonya Nelson

Greetings Fiction Fans! It's been a while!

I apologize for my absence; I've been pretty busy with school, work, writing projects and counting down the days until Glee returns from its four-month hiatus. Anyway, today I return with a little review of an Antonya Nelson story entitled "Shauntrelle". In this story, a woman named "Constance" attempts to start a new life after a divorce and a break-up.

What's that, you say? A divorce AND a break-up? Yep. That's right. Our heroine had been cheating on her hubby for five years before going public with her sordid affair. An affair that doesn't last long after she moves in with the other man. And Lady Gaga thought she new something about Bad Romances...

I liked this story for its honesty. Constance is never really painted as a sinner or a saint--she's a woman who gave up on her marriage, only to find her "Plan B" relationship fall apart. Where does she go from there? Well, that's the question of the hour for this story. Constance is in a state of flux.

This is where Nelson's talent shines. She utilizes so many techniques to illustrate this theme of loss of identity. Constance's comically over-the-top roommate, Fanny Mann, is the most obvious. The character, with her countless elective surgeries, is a literal interpretation of losing one's sense of identity. She's made up of more fake parts that Darth Vader, for crying out loud.

Nelson also uses simple yet effective language to convey Constance's sense of disorientation. She refers to keys and car tags as "devices for entry into her new life." People mistaking her for Felicia or Gerald or Shauntrelle help plunge the reader into this sense of a newly-forming identity.

The only qualm I had with the story is the whole third person, thing. I get that she doesn't recognize herself or her life, but people speaking in the third person (and italicized thoughts) really bug me. I guess that's just a personal thing, though. All in all, I really enjoyed this story--not necessarily for the plot but for the way Nelson presents it.

He hopes you'll join him next time for another exciting edition of The F Bomb

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Here, dear readers, is my entry for NPR's 3-minute fiction contest. Be warned: it's not my usual style. I blame Lost. If you're a big Lost fan then you'll probably see the inspiration. If not, then you'll probably just think I'm weird. Which is fine. Enjoy!

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Once I realized that the old journal was predicting my future, it was all I could think about. I didn’t mean to read it, really. It was just there one day at my usual table. I collected my scone and latte from the barista and headed for the fire-red table near the window. There, where I usually sat a small stack of my favorite novels, rested the journal.

I looked around for its owner, assuming that someone had claimed my spot for the day. But after a minute nobody returned to the table so I sat down and began sipping my latte. I picked up the journal and ran my fingers over its cover. There was nothing exceptionally interesting about it. Just a journal. The deep red cover didn’t feature a label or any designs. The binding wasn’t damaged and falling apart. It looked like it came from a respectable used bookstore.

I flipped open to the first page, eager for a distraction. I had lost my engagement ring earlier that day and knew Nolan wouldn’t be happy with me when I got home. There was no name or date on the inside of the cover, just a tiny set of symbols. They looked like hieroglyphics or something. A hand, a bird, a cane, a half-circle, one leaf, a river and two leaves—that’s what the pictures looked like anyway.

At that point I thought it was an almost-empty sketchbook. There were no secret confessions or important memories preserved on yellowing paper. After turning through a few blank pages, I found a single drawing. Unlike the hieroglyphics, this drawing took up an entire page. It was of a rabbit in the middle of a rectangular maze. In the middle of the maze was a carrot. An arrow at the bottom prompted me to turn the page.

What I found was a larger drawing of the rabbit, who had managed to find the carrot. Under this drawing was a single sentence: Let the rabbit find the carrot. “Carrot” had been written under something that was scribbled out.

That night, I saw a white rabbit. After dinner, Nolan and I went for a walk around the block. I hadn’t told him about the ring yet. Halfway through our walk, he ran into one of his friends from the office—Ryan was his name, I think. Anyway I kept going. When our house came back into sight, I noticed a small, white rabbit standing at the front of our driveway.

The journal didn’t even enter my mind, honestly. I just thought the rabbit was cute. It reminded me of one I had as a kid. So I walked towards it and, of course, it took off. But so did I. I ran after it. The rabbit hopped down my driveway, turned and headed for the alley to the right of my house. My flip-flops fell away as I ran, but the rabbit was getting faster. I finally gave up as I reached the end of my house. And that’s when I felt it.

Something hard poked my bare foot as I walked past the trashcan. I looked down and gasped. My ring. It was at the base of the trashcan. I dropped down, scooped it up and slid it back onto my mind. That’s when I thought of the journal.

Let the rabbit find the carat.

Short Story Review

Them Old Cowboy Songs by Annie Proulx

Um....wow.

STORY: Let me just say that I did not like this story. And it wasn't because of the apocalyptic birth scene or the nasty coyote activity. My problem with Little Author Annie's story is that it features such a long build-up in the beginning. She tells too much. As a fiction student, I've been taught to maintain a healthy diet of show and tell and I thought that Proulx spent a little too much time shopping on the TELL aisle of the Fiction Grocery Store.

STYLE: However, we were told to focus on the Point of View of this story. In short, I loved the POV. Proulx has a way of sounding like a smalltown gossiper when she tells you a story. She stays with the vernacular and is very observant about the world of which she speaks. It's like listening to my grandma tell me a story of two people she knew back in the day (before the wife buried her child and died...)

So, to sum it allll up. I didn't much care for the story but was impressed by Proulx's voice in telling it.

Until next time, Fiction Fans!
-Chevy

Short Story Review

The Idiot President by Daniel Alarcon

I've decided on how I'm going to do these short story responses. Ready for it?

There, I just showed you.

I'm going to come up with a QUESTION that the short story leaves me. That way I have plenty to talk about while I attempt to answer it. And I'm going to break the story into two parts: STORY and STYLE. Here goes!

Question: Is this an optimistic or pessimistic story?

STORY: In all honesty, I didn't like this story for the first couple of pages. The main character was a few body temp degrees away from the Big Greenroom in the Sky and his two acting pals never really seemed to care. It felt like he wasn't taken seriously--even when he was really sick. But when the crowd goes wild and our nameless actor soaks up their enthusiasm...that's when I started enjoying it. And that's why I think this is an optimistic story. A realistic, optimistic story. It's about a struggling actor who literally struggles for his life while on a show tour. He's a fighter.

STYLE: What I enjoyed most about Alarcon's writing were the tiny, exact details and images used throughout. "I would have rather been poor anywhere else in the world than be rich here". The main character says this of the small town he and his troupe visit on their tour. It's such a simple statement but it carries so much power because we know exactly what he means when he says it. Another one of my favorite lines is when he describes the sound of his voice in his deepest moment of illness: "...the raspy plea of a heart patient." The author could've rambled on about how his straw-dry throat scratched out the sounds of a man near death, blah blah blah. But instead he left us a short description that isn't restrictive: it allows us to hear what we think a heart patient sounds like.

All in all I thought this was a really good short story. I honestly cared about this character and what would become of his life and career. It was a feel-good story in disguise.

Wow. That was deep!

Until next time, Fiction Fans.

-Chevy

A Story's Worth a Thousand Words

The following is a 1000-word short story of mine. It is based on actual events. Of course said events have been altered and the dialogue underwent a witty face-lift. But that's the beauty of writing, isn't it? Enjoy...

PLUSone by Chevy Carter

“For god’s sake Terri does it even matter?”

“Well I don’t know, like I’ve ever bought one,” she shrugs. “Do you think she’d rather have the one that says “YES/NO” or the one with the little plus and minus signs.” At that she shoves two different boxes is my face, both irritatingly similar. I do several double takes, trying to distinguish between the two life-changing products.

“I don’t know, Ter. I still say the whole plus/negative thing is confusing. It would be fine if it weren’t for the other bar,” I say, pointing to the second spot on the pregnancy test. One spot hosts the plus or minus sign and the other is merely a vertical line. What that vertical line is for is far beyond me. “Why can’t it just be a plus or minus, as in Plus one body in your uterus or minus one big fat giant scandal. I should be a pharmacist.”

Terri nervously tucks her bangs behind her ear. She’s been jumpy since the minute we set foot in Wal-Mart. And she’s not even the possible mommy-to-be. “Just help me pick one out, Kev. My mom is supposed to go grocery shopping today.”

“God forbid she be forced to recognize you as an adult,” I let slip under my breath.

She’s too busy deciding between e.p.t. and First Response to hear me. “Huh?”

“Nothing. Just go with the words. I’ll pitch in if it’s extra.”

She nods, a pinch of relief washing over her face. As she’s grabbing the YES/NO test, I notice the irony of this particular aisle of the pharmacy. As promised by the aisle sign, the pregnancy tests line the bottom two shelves. The real kicker is the top two shelves, generously stocked with sexual products. Green apple flavored lube, magnum XL condoms and heated sensual oils are but a few of the items readily available to the sexually active bargain hunters. Have too much fun with these products, shoppers and you’ll be heading on down two shelves to Pregnancy Scare Central.

“Please hold this,” she says, shoving the box in my face. “I’m not comfortable strolling around Wal-Mart on a Sunday with a pregnancy test. I roll my eyes and snatch it out of her hand. I have no idea how I got roped into this, anyway. Chloe isn’t even my friend. Barely know the girl. But she and Terri have been friends since junior high and any friend of Terri’s…blah blah blah.

As we are leaving the pharmacy section and getting back into the main shopping traffic, Terri grabs my arm, stopping me mid-step. “Should we get an extra one? Just to be sure? I heard that you can get a false negative or positive if you’re on any medication or the pee stick can be screwed up or something.”

All I can do is stare. “So glad I’m gay.”

We split up. I send Terri to groceries to pick up a large bottle of tea—Chloe’s gonna need it. I double back to the Planned Parenthood aisle to grab another test, this time a plus/minus one. Variety is the frenemy.

I told Terri to meet me in the candy aisle because if this thing goes south then all three of us are going to need criminal amounts of chocolate. I don’t really know why I’m stressed about this little debacle—it’s not my future and figure on the line. However I am letting Chloe use the tests in my apartment because she doesn’t want her boyfriend to know and Terri is living at her parents until we graduate next fall. A life could change in my apartment. How TLC is that?

While deciding between dark and milk chocolate, I get a text from Terri asking me to meet her at the fourth self-checkout register near the grocery entrance. God I feel like I’m in the middle of a drug deal. I snatch a bag of dark chocolate M&Ms and head that way.

Terri is tapping her foot at mockingbird speed when I get to the register. “Did you see anyone you know?”

Holy Christmas, I should’ve asked for a Valium prescription while we were at the pharmacy. “No, the coast was clear. Can you wait to have a seizure until we get to my apartment?”

“Just checking, cranky! Let’s get this over with.” As Terri is scanning the two pregnancy tests, an older-looking woman with a big smile on her face approaches.

“Terri Cook I thought that was you!”

The color drains from Terri’s face. She spins around, dropping the tests into the opened shopping bag. “Granny Bowman! How are you!” She kind of yells more than inquires. It’s scary. This Granny character pulls her into a big hug and I swear her eyes linger on the shopping bag by the conveyer belt.

“Just fine, sweetheart. You know I tell Lindsey that she needs to bring you over more often. I’d cook for you girls and everything!

While Terri fumbles a response, I finish scanning the products, careful to cover the tests with the chocolate and tea. While swiping my debit card, I hear my name and tune back into the conversation. “Yes, my friend Kevin. We met freshman year,” Terri smiles. “Kevin this is Lindsey ‘s grandma, Martha. We call her Granny Bowman. Granny Bowman, this is Kevin.”

We exchange polite hello’s and Granny B returns to her stuffed cart of already bagged groceries. I grab the receipt and the bag, leading Terri out of the store. Before she can say anything, I chime in. “I’m sure it’s fine. I don’t think she saw anything.”

“God I hope not,” she pants. “All of our grandmothers are friends. Word travels way too fast.”

We reach the car and climb in. Chloe is staring out the window, no doubt imagining two distinctly different futures. Before anyone can say anything, Terri’s phone beeps.

It’s a text from Lindsey.

Terri stares at the screen, longer that it would take to read a message.

“Lindsey wants to know what we’re naming our baby.”

Rubiaux Rising - A Parable?

Parable (n.)

a short allegorical story designed to illustrate or teach some truth,

religious principle, or moral lesson.

If we use this definition (courtesy of the folks at Dictionary.com) to look at the short story

Rubiaux Rising by Steve de Jarnatt then I think it definitely classifies as a parable.

Shiny head plate: "HEY! DON'T KILL YOURSELF, RU!"

But seriously, Rubiaux (who is already this torn down survivor) learns to never give up. He finds a way to survive just as he's about to hang himself. One helluva lesson of the day.

Despite my ramblings about the moral fiber of this story, my favorite aspect by far is its fiction fiber (or, in non-Chevy terms, style). Jarnatt uses such physical terms and descriptions to make this a grim, gritty tale of struggle and victory. The reader really has to push through the paragraphs of nasty (mice, torn fingernails, rotted-flesh smells) right along with the main character to reach the end.

The fact that Rubiaux doesn't have that strong of a personality or characterization (in my opinion) helps the reader become him. Step in his shoes (or lack thereof, in this case). This is a grim story with a less-grim ending. I wouldn't call it happy--I mean, he's in post-Katrina New Orleans with a mental problem and no fingernails. But he isn't dead. And I think that's the point of the story.

Until next time, fiction fans.

-Chevy