Blue Planet

[Drake Dun]

Okay, apparently I am just supposed to post fiction straight into the forum here, so here we go.

I wrote this when I was pretty drunk (just a few hours ago), and at the time I was pretty impressed with it. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't look quite as good to me now, but I was all fired up about posting it then, so I figure I'll go ahead anyway.

I have never written anything like this before. It is definitely the most gothy thing I have written, too.

It's about 1500 words. Comments are welcome, except if you only have disparaging things to say. In case anyone wonders, this is indeed fiction. I do not own a gun and have never tried to kill myself.

**********

When I first woke up, my head was pounding and I couldn't remember why one wall of my room was covered in black plastic trash bags. I lay there, sort of pointedly experiencing the pain until I remembered. Ah, that's right. The suicide attempt.

Well, maybe it didn't qualify as a suicide attempt. I guess for that, you need some kind of injury, above and beyond mild alcohol poisoning, I mean. Incompetently cut up wrists or something, at the least. What I did didn't even amount to a cry for help, come to think of it. No hospital trip or angry, desperate phone calls to people who should be loved ones, if I were still capable of love. Incoherent rambling and empty threats, with a satisfying slam of the phone at the end, foreshadowing the gunshot that wouldn't come.

Nobody would even know that anything had happened. Or almost happened. All I did was get really drunk and point a pistol at my head repeatedly, while watching a really old VHS tape of Ren & Stimpy for no reason I can remember. I didn't even depress the trigger at all. Really pathetic.

Nice gun, though. I got a fifty caliber Desert Eagle. I had to go across town to get it, since where I live is too pretty and nice for gun shops. It was damn expensive, too. You don't worry about that a lot when you are planning to stop existing soon, though. I'm not sure why I wanted the hand cannon. I have the feeling there was more to it than the obvious fact that it would make a big hole, making sure I didn't end up in some fucking hospital bed with my forearms across my chest, fingers pointing obscenely, mouth open and eyes staring. Shake the hand of the first person who said "vegetable".

Too many movies, probably. Actually, the recoil on it is insane. The guy let me shoot it in the range at the back of the shop, and I nearly hit myself in the face with the back of the gun. He was telling me all about it the whole time, where it was good and not good. The main thing he thought was bad was that the magazine only took seven rounds. But, he told me, the new laws said you could only have ten in the mag anyway, regardless of caliber, so you might as well have big ones. The law was for stopping drive-bys, or something. I told him seven was plenty.

The trash bags were there for the mess. It's funny, but I didn't write a note, and I have always known that if it really happens, I won't. The reason is, there won't be anybody to read it. When you pull the trigger, it isn't just you that eats a bullet. Everybody you know and everybody you don't know gets it too. And all the dirt and water and air and every atom in the world dies, as far as you're concerned anyway. I read this book by a guy about suicide once, and he put it well. "The man who kills a man kills a man, but the man who kills himself kills all men." We all know it. That's why even the ones who go to church piss their pants and beg for mercy when the time comes. The ones who write notes are writing to themselves, getting it out of their systems.

The idea of the mess always bothered me anyway, though. I mean, I've seen pictures. Enough late nights on the Internet and you'll run into them, even if you're not looking for them, like I did. We're talking ugly. Then I hear they make your family clean it up. So maybe I didn't bother to write a note, even though I have written them in my head too many times to count, but I thought the trash bags would at least be nice. Now that I think about it, there is something appropriate about that. Trash bags.

It probably wasn't a really bright idea to use nails, though. Now I have a bunch of holes in the wall. I stole the nails from work and beat them into the wall with a book, since I didn't have a hammer. It's a shitty plaster wall, too, so when I pulled the bags off each of the nails took a good chunk with it. Now the wall is all screwed up, so my plan for keeping things neat actually made quite a mess. That figured. I was definitely back over on this side, now.

I had almost gotten across during the night. For a few seconds, I hit that point where all the hatred and fear goes away, and the pain stops hurting. I put the gun to my temple, but it just didn't happen. I think I knew from the beginning it wouldn't. That's why the booze. I was trying to push myself over the line. It didn't work, though, and the next morning the idea of suicide didn't seem sexy or even like much of a relief anymore. It's weird how a brutal hangover will actually make you less ready to die, instead of more.

I thought about calling in sick, but I decided to go in instead. I figured I was going to need hours to recover, and I might as well spend them getting paid to do nothing instead of sitting at home doing nothing. By the time I got home I had forgotten about the entire episode. Until I saw the holes in the wall, anyway.

The next weekend I went out and got some spray paint for the wall. I figured my rent deposit was toast anyway, so I might as well have some fun. I sprayed each of the holes with a different color, and after I had done that I decided to turn the whole wall into a mural of the solar system. I had to use a lot of black for the background, but I was smart and got like three cans of black, so there isn't too much white left now. There are planets covering all the holes.

I kind of like how it came out. I'm not saying I discovered an artistic talent or anything, but it's colorful and the spray paint definitely looks better on it than brains would. There were more than nine holes though, so it isn't our solar system. It's some other solar system. Somewhere else.

Maybe it's a better somewhere. I think tonight I will find a marker and draw some details onto the blue planet on the right side, there. It can be a water planet with undersea cultures and what not. The people there live in coral palaces and they have webbed feet so they can swim around good. They are all slender and beautiful, plus kind. They don't cut each other open or punch holes in each other or anything, the way people do here. They don't tell each other lies. They don't smile when they aren't happy, but they get to smile anyway because things are so great there they have a real reason to be happy, at least sometimes.

There are definitely a lot of dolphins. Over there I have a beautiful woman, and she is just how I always imagined her, and nobody gives me shit for having a specific picture of my ideal woman. There are these two dolphins who are her friends, and she loves them with the same depth and innocence she loves me with. I can't pronounce their names no matter how many times she tries to teach me, but as long as I'm with her they're my friends too. When she and I aren't making love or holding each other and sighing, we swim around all the time with the dolphins and have adventures. It's great.

I wish I could go there, but I can't. I live here and I will live here until I don't live at all anymore. Still, when I am laying awake at night hating the world, or dwelling on some awfulness I have just seen on the news, my gaze drifts naturally over to the wall. Especially to my blue planet. I like to think that even though I can't go there, it exists somewhere. Everything is well on the blue planet. My lover isn't lonely, because she has the me I should have been. I'm his dark shadow, and for some reason my existing and being wretched here makes their happiness possible.

I crack me up. I can't be bothered to separate my recyclables from the shit that should go to the dump, and I can't even pull a trigger. But if I thought they were in danger over there and I could save them by dying here, I would fire that gun into my head without hesitation. All seven rounds.

For some reason, that knowledge takes the edge off. Since that night, the gun hasn't left its place underneath a bunch of boxes in the closet. The clip is still in and a round chambered. I guess it could still happen, but I have the feeling it won't. Not as long as my blue planet stays on the wall, in my mind, somewhere beyond.

[HumanePain]

An interesting diversion: a journey from depression to an instinctive reach for hope and thus survival. Ironic that his giving up on everything gave him the freedom to act without care for consequences or tomorrow, and his actions within this new context eased his burden, saving his life.

Very interesting!

[Encaitare]

It made me smile towards the end... and I like the style, too. It flows very nicely; I can imagine these being my thoughts -- not that this is the way I think, but rather that it's very natural. Good story!

[Drake Dun]

Originally Posted by Super Spright

Every piece of short prose is explicitly teleological (in that everything leads to the end, and no matter what place you read you can apply this purpose to it)

You know what? If you are going to ignore my request that you not say anything if you only have disparaging comments to make, in keeping with your apparent purpose in life of saying something negative about everything that crosses your path, you could at say something which isn't completely untrue and irrelevant. This sounds like the garbage you get from people who spend their whole lives in some literary ivory tower. Do we get to hear next about how all fiction falls into five broad plotlines?

I will not defend my writing from you. I think instead I'll just point out that you are an insufferable fuck, and you're not even smart, like you think you are. Pedantry is annoying enough coming from someone who knows what they're talking about, and it's unforgivable coming from a dressed up philistine like you. Congratulations on being the first person I have ever name-called or put on an ignore list, in more than a decade of using the Internet. Bye.

Everyone else, thanks for the comments.

Drake

[HumanePain]

Ha! That was an even more enjoyable diversion!

Remind me to never piss you off.

[Mir]

Ahh but where would be the fun in that? This forum thrives on conflict. Far more so on that than on Literature. Now I'm starting to sound like a broken vinyl.

[james"bloody tears"]

that was a beatifull peice of work. would you mind if i posted it on my site(when i get it running)? i would give you full credit because it is yours.l

[Drake Dun]

Feel free. My M.O. for the rare times when I actually write is to bang the whole thing out without too much reflection, then sit on it at least a few days before coming back to pretty it up. So you might want to wait a little while (sounds like you are not ready with the site yet, anyway). I will come back here and post a link when I have gone back and done my editing.

Drake

[MollyMac]

Wow. A whole fuckton of ignored posts. Neato.

Drake, I liked the build up from one instinct to another, an illogical coping mechanism leads to a real one. It's not written in a style that I really gravitate towards, but the theme building wad solid.

But the shining spot, for me, was in your response, and I quote:

"I think instead I'll just point out that you are an insufferable fuck, and you're not even smart, like you think you are.

I like the insufferable fuck part.

[Shyantra]

Spright before you start criticizing people about their works, show us something we are lacking by posting one of YOUR stories, if you have any at all.

For they say, actions speak louder than word. So prove it to me who think your a perfectionist without skills.

[Godslayer Jillian]

Originally Posted by Super Spright

I tried to read it, but I couldn't.

Every piece of short prose is explicitly teleological (in that everything leads to the end, and no matter what place you read you can apply this purpose to it)

Although I generally agree with you when it comes to writing, I have to tell you to read Salvador Late or Early.

[Mir]

This has been a very entertaining thread thus far.

[james"bloody tears"]

spright get off his case man. he did good and did it ever occur to you maybe he is an amiture(sp). besides telling him his work sucks is kinda degradeing man how would you like it if some one did this to one of your works?

[Godslayer Jillian]

Well, that argument is not really applicable.
Read one of his poems he has shown us.
Spright has an amazing grasp of rhythm and meter. He might be a jerk, but criticizing his writing skills is not the way to go if you want an argument.

[Mir]

Oh I agree. The ignore function is actually the only way to go!

*pops a can of sprite and takes a swig*

[Encaitare]

Stories don't have to mean anything. They don't have to build to anything, and they don't have to meet anyone's standards. They can simply exist, as can any other art form. Whether you (or anyone else) like them is irrelevant.

[Shyantra]

Originally Posted by Encaitare

Stories don't have to mean anything. They don't have to build to anything, and they don't have to meet anyone's standards. They can simply exist, as can any other art form. Whether you (or anyone else) like them is irrelevant.

Yes, true. But if readers have a hard time following, isn't it best to let the reader know? If I read a book by an author who has been praised, would I not want to be 'sucked into' the story/plot line?

Some stories appeal to others, while the rest just think it sucks. You can't pick your readers. You can only pick the way you chose to write about the story you want to share with that reader.

Would you not want to share the same experience you (the writer) are going though to your readers?

[knightmare]

Originally Posted by Encaitare

Stories don't have to mean anything. They don't have to build to anything, and they don't have to meet anyone's standards. They can simply exist, as can any other art form. Whether you (or anyone else) like them is irrelevant.

I respectfully disagree. Art has well-established standards, even if they are not absolutes. Art is more cultural than subjective. To be art, the piece must fit into a certain framework. All art, even dadaism, has a purpose of at least compelling an individual to see something commonplace in an original perspective. That is why dadaism is even considered art even though it is practically an anti-art movement. The presence of art critics and the separation of a true artists and normal individuals are dependent on the well-established standards in art. Criticism is useless if you do not have standards to compare your work with.

[Encaitare]

Originally Posted by Super Spright

You're right, but it doesn't make it a good story. Can we agree on that much?

True, simple existence doesn't make every story, work of art, et cetera something to ooh and ahh over. But the way I see it, if it means something to its creator, then it has value, even if others don't see it. I disagree in some respects with what knightmare said -- I think that art is very subjective. And yes, there are and should be standards. Yet art is a creative field, and creativity should not be limited to the framework of standards, even if the result is not going to be perfect or well-received.

Take modern art, for example. I don't like most of it. I find it's rarely aesthetically appealing. I personally don't see the value in it, but maybe its creator did, so I won't reject it utterly. Or think about the composer John Cage and the famous "piece" 4'33''. The performer walks onstage, sits in front of the piano, and does nothing for exactly four minutes and thirty-three seconds. He then gets up, and leaves the stage. Stupid? Maybe. Cage, however, did not discern between music and noise, and the purpose of the piece was to make the audience more aware of the ambient sounds in the theater -- the rustling of programs, rain on the roof, the increasingly disgruntled whispers of the audience. It's a matter of perspective.

With regards to this story, I liked it for what it was. There's nothing wrong with criticism at all! I believe you, Spright, mentioned in the thread "Time" that harsh criticism drives you to improve your writing. I feel the same way with music. I'm glad my teacher pushes me. But sometimes the wrong approach can taken, like saying that the piece is worthless because it lacks X, has too much of Y, and does Z heinously. If my flute teacher only told me negative things about my playing, I'd get discouraged very quickly. But being told something like "This section here sounds good; now make the rest just as expressive" is much better than being told "Your playing is generally boring." Similar statements, but much different connotations.

And that's what I have to say about that. ;D

[LaBelleDameSansMerci]

Originally Posted by Super Spright

If we allow anything from Peter Breughel's "The Fall of Icarus" to a cardboard box that some hobo pissed on to be called art, then art will inevitably turn into something as mindless as the people who make it.

Art does that these days. You can open a public swimming pool to adults and let them do whatever they want, and it's art. You can shit in a can, and it's art. You can put a transport truck container in a gallery, and it's art. As long as you call it art and can make up enough bullshit about why it is art, it becomes art, and people scramble to be one of the few who really get it.
It's incredibly frustrating to a traditionalist like me, *turns to art building* especially when IT'S ALL THEY EVER FUCKING TEACH!... *seethes*

I agree with you on your principles of writing. Proper grammar and spelling should always be there, and tightness is needed in short works. I don't agree with your Criticism Deliver Method though. Encaitare is right in that people need to know they can do better, instead of being told that they suck. My friend has a good formula for critique: Tell them the good things, and then tell them the bad things, and then tell them that it's good overall/has potential/whatever, but NOT THAT IT SUCKS.

[HumanePain]

Originally Posted by LaBelleDameSansMerci

My friend has a good formula for critique: Tell them the good things, and then tell them the bad things, and then tell them that it's good overall/has potential/whatever, but NOT THAT IT SUCKS.

Your friend is wise. That is called the "Oreo Cookie feedback method" in Management:

begin with Nice crunchy cookie outer layer
*****
the real stuff on the inside (the critique)
*****
end with Nice crunchy cookie outer layer

It works in business, art, teaching, anything where interpersonal communication is the
primary goal.

[655322]

Yeah, I usually just switch off during the critique part knowing that there's going to be crunchy cookies coming to me at the end.
Unless it's Super Scrooge, who gives no cookies at all.
That's ultimately why Drake got so pissed off. No cookie.

[HumanePain]

Here is a beautifully told story that doesn't mean anything. But it is captivating, and I enjoyed hearing it. But it doesn't mean anything.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c03b5A_gfIU

[MotherofMercies]

There is a simple way around this. If you can not handle heavy criticism press the little X at the top right hand corner. Something magical will happen!