[Here's the result of another writing prompt given out by my advisor -- oh I didn't tell you all who he is: His name's Kyle Bass, and I heard his stuff yesterday, and my god, is he a damn fine writer! I can't tell you how lucky I am to be working with the guy. He said something to us at this morning's meeting that I really liked. He said, "You all can write, but by the end of this semester, I want you take all the bullshit out of your writing. Truth, truth, truth. That's what I want to read in your packets." Anyway, at yesterday's meeting he gave us a prompt. This is what I wrote. Hope you like it.]
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When Miss Bessie gets on the elevator down on two, everyone gives off a silent little groan. They don’t think no one else hears ‘em, and if it was just one of ‘em, maybe nobody would, but it’s all of ‘em at the same time, and even Miss Bessie, seventy-something and just about deaf, even she hears it. But she don’t let it bother her none.
The thing about Miss Bessie – well, one of the things about Miss Bessie – is that she don’t face the doors like most people in an elevator. She faces the back wall. She keeps her eyes down though, ‘cause she’s polite.
Another thing about Miss Bessie is that she like to sing in the elevator. This time, she begins warbling some song about nobody knowing you when you’re down and out. The other thing is Miss Bessie got herself a terrible singing voice. Everything drowning in phlegm before it can make it all the way out. She carries a small package of tissues with her all the time, in the right front pocket of her overcoat, and she’s always coughing up into them with these vile, moist coughs that spread sickness all through the building.
She’s standing near the doors, facing back, eyes on the ground like always, and she’s hunched and quivering ‘cause she can barely stand under the weight of that thick gray overcoat. She always wears that thing and no matter how many people tell her, “Miss Bessie, that thing too heavy for you,†she always just smiles, pats ‘em on the hand, and says ain’t they sweet, but she don’t get rid of it. Miss Bessie gonna be buried in that overcoat.
Miss Bessie stops singing, and everyone in the elevator, their eyes, they all go down to the right pocket of Miss Bessie’s coat. Uh-oh, they’re all thinking, ‘cause that’s where she keeps the tissues. She’s gonna start coughing. Don’t nobody want to be near Miss Bessie when she’s coughing. All the eyes go back up to the numbers. Miss Bessie’s place is up on ten, and most of ‘em live somewhere above that.
Without trying to let Miss Bessie know it, everyone backs up a little bit, but Miss Bessie’s eyes down like always, and she sees all those fine shoes inch away from her just a little bit. Just like she sung, don’t nobody know you, Miss Bessie.
She pulls out the little package of tissues, and ‘cause her fingers are all hard knots and don’t work right, she has a heck of a time grabbing that little flap that keeps all the tissues from spilling out. She coughs a little bit, but ‘cause she ain’t got the tissue out, she keeps the coughs in. Her eyes get real wide, her cheeks real red, and her lips purse up real tight, like she’s trying to keep the devil from flying out. No one looks at her. All those eyes just stay on those numbers. The elevator slows down as it comes up on eight.
Miss Bessie fusses with the flap, but she’s not gonna make it. The coughs get stronger, deeper, thicker. Miss Bessie’s sad brown eyes tear up and little beads of sweat break out on her forehead, as if whatever it is that’s down there is gonna come out no matter which way it comes; it don’t matter if it’s through her lips, through her eyes, or through her skin, ‘cause it’s coming; gonna come with all its might and vileness, like the devil himself exploding out the pits of hell. Miss Bessie is fighting like the good Christian woman she is, but she’s gonna lose and everyone knows it.
The doors open on eight, and here comes the vile cough. Don’t nobody want to be near it, so to save everyone, I reach out, and real quick, before she can hack up the devil, I push Miss Bessie out. The doors close and the last thing I see is Miss Bessie sprawled on the ground, her legs all twisted, and the poor woman had just littlest bit of blood starting to come out of her nose. Thanks to her coughing though, we didn’t have to hear no scream.
4 Comments
HA!
A marked improvement over the prior story (in my opinion) - in fact, dare I say, I have almost no criticism to offer whatsoever - I’ve never seen you write in that style, and it seemed extremely natural (not at all forced, which is what I was expecting after the first sentence or two). It wasn’t overly descriptive and the setting of the scene and (most importantly) the action all seemed very natural…
there only criticism I can offer is that it was short and I would have liked to keep reading…I found myself just starting to get interested when it ended…
as somone who generally does not partake in the love-fest that occurs amongst most of your writing - this one I thought was one of the most naturally flowing.
good job
I’d be curious to hear what kind of feedback you got on both stories - care to share?
First, let me tell you what the assignment was. We were told to write 2 pages (no more, no less), written from the first-person perspective, where that first-person was your “personal opposite.” So, that was the assignment.
Originally, I was going to try to write a 2-page haiku, thinking that my personal opposite was a tall, obese, asian woman, but then I realized that while the form of the piece would be interesting, I didn’t actually have anything for my tall, obese, asian woman to talk about. At the time, I was listening to a tune by Bessie Smith, and I said, well, my personal opposite wouldn’t like this song, so that’s how this started: Miss Bessie singing and the person not liking her voice.
Once I had that, I started thinking about what makes a character, and being raised a Catholic (as opposed to Protestant), I (sometimes) hold the opinion that a person is what a person does, i.e., it’s our actions that matter, not our intentions (being born a Gemini, I am also capable of holding the opposite opinion, that it’s what inside that counts). So, I knew that whoever my personal opposite was on the inside, the only way to verify the person as my opposite was to have the character do something that I absolutely never would.
I knew that Bessie had a bad cough. I don’t know if you know Bessie Smith, but she can (when she wants to) pull out the old throaty razzle-dazzle. Obviously, not liking her voice, my character would translate that into phlegm, which led to the whole bad cough thing. A little brainstorming led me to the cramped elevator, one of the most uncomfortable places for a person to get a bad, phlegm-filled coughing fit.
Lastly, I didn’t want to use the word “I” until I absolutely had to. The assignment was a first-person perspective, and I wanted to create that not by the tell-tale use of the personal “I,” but by the way all the other words went together. It was a challenge that I added to the original assignment.
As for feedback on this story, it was all very good. My peers all seemed to like it, though one of them seemed a little confused because until the last paragraph, he thought it was a third-person perspective. My advisor did suggest one change, which I totally agreed with. I made the change before posting it, so you’re not seeing the one that he saw.
As for the last piece, everyone seemed to like it. The one critique I got from my advisor was in regards to using the trite “flared up” to describe the old woman’s arthritis, with the idea being that I shouldn’t use “given metaphors” but come up with my own. I couldn’t agree more.
wtf is everyone talking about round hear?