Revision for Support Group

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Support Group

“Hello. Okay, yes. Okay. All right. My name is…it’s Jules and it was 1996 and I was eleven years old when I first discovered masturbation by rubbing my wiener on the side of a couch cushion. Well, actually, I guess, technically I wasn’t rubbing, but more like banging, I think. It still…it worked though.

“I know I shouldn’t be here just for that, but…and I really need to unload right now. I’m kind of desperate for...I don’t know. Something. But I think you all will appreciate what I have to say.

“It was summer and my parents were out working. My friends were over and it was too hot to do anything outside so we just turned on the TV and started watching whatever was on. I’m pretty sure it was some cartoon. That’s all we liked. Kris was in my dad’s recliner and about to fall asleep and Martin was sitting on the floor because I was taking up the whole couch. A really pretty lady came on during a yogurt commercial and…Well, I don’t know why a yogurt commercial with a really pretty lady was on a TV channel for kids, but it was there. She would lick the spoon like…She was really pretty, though. That’s the main point. She had… so…yeah, so me being the funny one of the group said…well I said…Jesus this was embarrassing. I said, ‘This is what I want to do to her,’ and I lay on my stomach and started to raise my butt up in the air and back down to the couch.

“I guess that’s what I thought sex was back then. Just boys banging their wiener over and over on a girl’s vagina. God, I felt so embarrassed. I was really stupid.

“Anyway…anyway, yeah, Martin started to laugh and Kris started to liven up. Martin wanted to play along with my joke so he started to pretend to be the woman, started to speak in a really high falsetto voice saying…okay he was saying stuff like…Christ, like, ‘Yeah, yeah. Do me. Do me, Jules. You’re so good at having sex.’

“Man, I should have known better. God damn it. Sorry, I’m just…this is hard. It’s my first time and I’ve never tried… It feels good in a way though. You see my hand shaking? I have problems, I know. It’s just…some worse than others. Sorry, I’m not keeping on topic. I can’t pay attention. I annoy people that way. Sorry.

“So, yeah, I don’t know how it happened, but banging my wiener on the couch started to feel really good so I kept going and I started to really think the lady was talking to me. And it started to feel even better and I could hear the lady’s real voice and I guess…I could see her whole…well you all know all that stuff. Jesus.

“So when it happened I was breathing really hard and I yelled out ‘Oh’ and I opened my eyes and saw that Kris and Martin were looking at me like I was some crazy person. Oh man. I can see them just staring at me now. I was so fucking stupid. It was like they knew what had happened but didn’t know any of the specifics. I don’t know. Like…like, I don’t know. Like I had just pooped on the carpet. I can’t describe it well. Man, I’m not very good at these things aren’t I.

“Okay.

“I saw their faces and I understood that something unnatural had just happened the way they were looking at me and I didn’t know what else to do so I dragged myself to the floor holding onto my wiener between my legs and I got into the fetal position and groaned. I told them that I had hit my wiener hard on a solid part of the couch and not the cushion so they started to laugh again and watch the cartoon on the TV. We didn’t see each other for a long time after that. I’m a bad actor, I guess.

“Ten minutes passed after my orgasm, I know it was that now, and I went to the bathroom and looked in my pants and saw what it was, you know. I had no clue…I was a sheltered kid. A kid who didn’t know things like that. And we never learned about that stuff in school. I was a late bloomer, as they say, I guess. I thought the stuff in my underwear and all over my… and I know what it is now, was rotten and moldy pee. Like something inside my body was rotting and wrong and unnatural.

“I threw my underwear deep in the cabinet under the sink and they might still be there for all I know.

“Even though I felt that something was wrong with me, I still tried to…I started to masturbate a lot. I just knew it was wrong. There was no internet back then and no one ever told me about all of this stuff. I thought I was diseased. I thought I was weird and gross but I still did it. I still did it and I felt worse every time I did it. I mean, that’s a given. Its stuff like that that’s the reason we’re all here, right? You all know what I mean.

“I did a lot of really silly and stupid things to have an orgasm. I once just humped the ground in my back yard. And I used to climb trees and hump the branches that could hold me. I made a lot of birds leave their homes. I remember a nest fell on the ground once and when I finished I climbed down from the tree and picked it up. The eggs inside had broken and was all over the ground and I remember it looking like what was in my pants a little…I felt so bad that day. Shit. Shit. I still did it in the trees after that, though.

“And…god, I’m sure someone had seen me do it in those trees. Someone in the neighborhood. Someone from school. It might have been Jack from across the street. I did it in winter, too. There weren’t any leaves to cover me up and I’m sure he saw me do it. This one time when I was in…I was probably in seventh grade at that point. I saw a table with a group of eight other kids and Jack was with them. I walked over with my tray and…they must’ve known that I did it in the trees. Jack must’ve told them about me. Said that I was gross and weird and stupid or something. I sat down next to them and they all stopped talking and looked at me just like Kris and Martin did when I first…they looked at me and I didn’t know what was happening. I just kept thinking they know they know.  They all picked up their trays and left and sat at another table. All I did was watch them as they walked away and started talking again and laughing and…and I just sat there thinking they know they know and I’m awful and weird and what’s wrong with me and then I couldn’t eat my pizza after that. And then I went into the bathroom and…well I did it in there.

“Other stuff happened, too. I was made fun of in school for a very long time and I just know it’s because they all knew about me humping those trees. I can see why they did it though. Kids always punish the weird ones for being weird. I admit I was weird and had problems.

 “But even though everyone hated me, I still did it. I didn’t try and stop. I just couldn’t. I graduated from trees and I…well I, you know, I would pretend to have sex with a pillow. I would take the pillow case off then start humping the pillow in my bed. I never told my parents about the rotten… I never thought about the sound I was making…it must have been really loud. I even asked them if I could keep their body pillow. I sometimes wonder why they didn’t say anything to me. They must’ve known about all of my…I mean, I guess we never really talked to each other that much. I never told them I was picked on at school and they never told me about anything, really. They thought they had raised the most disappointing kid, I’m sure. Looking back I guess I didn’t want to validate what they were thinking is why I never said anything to them about my problem. I’m not going to be a disappointment for long though. I’m here to help. I’m here to help you guys.

“Okay, sorry for tearing up.

 “Okay. I’m sorry, I know I’m taking up everyone’s time, but I have just a little bit more to say. I know. I know. But please. You’ll all learn from me.

“So, yes. Okay. I was caught once. By my cousin. I was around twelve or thirteen and she was like sixteen, seventeen, I don’t remember. It was Thanksgiving and my parents had just told me to go take a shower before dinner was served. So after my shower I walked into my room with my towel around my waist and shut the door. I don’t know why I didn’t bring my clothes into the bathroom like I usually did. I used to get dressed in there. But, so, anyway, I take the towel off very slow and I start to think…man, I won’t get used to saying these things. I was so fucking stupid. I thought to myself as I stood in my room naked…yeah, okay, I thought, ‘This is what people are like right before they have sex. This is how naked people get when they do it. People tend to do it when they are this naked.’ And…and I saw my body pillow.

“So…God. I felt so ashamed. Okay, I climbed on top of the pillow and started to hump it. I don’t remember who I was thinking of. It could have been that yogurt lady. Or all of the yogurt ladies in the world. I don’t remember. But my cousin opened the door and didn’t turn away when she saw. And…and…

“Excuse me while I go grab some napkins or paper towels or something. It’s very hot in here. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just me. I sweat too much. It’s gross, I know.

“Sorry, everyone. I bet you get that a lot, huh? Messed up people who can barely get anything out without going crazy. Lot of cuckoos, probably.

“So, yeah, my cousin didn’t turn away. I remember right as the door opened that I jumped away from the door off the end of the bed hugging the body pillow. She started to laugh and walk toward me and kept pointing at me. At my wiener that I had covered up with the body pillow. She kept saying things like, ‘What were you doing?” and laughing. Or ‘Let’s see what you’ve been doing,’ and pointing. She made me feel like a zoo animal.

“I guess it’s also weird that she just came in like that instead of leaving. That’s also my fault. A while ago before that, she was probably 14 or 15 and I was probably, what, ten or something. She was staying the night because of her parents were in a bad way or something and in the middle of night she woke me up and got in the bed with me and put her leg around my body. And I just let her do that and went back to sleep. Another time she was in her underwear getting dressed and she ran into my room and pulled her underwear to the side and showed me her…and I just stood there and looked at it because I didn’t know what it was, really. So it’s my fault she thought it was okay to just come and make fun of me while…I just never said anything.

“So anyway, she kept trying to pull the pillow off of me, and that’s when I did probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Jesus, it was so stupid. I told her that it wasn’t what she thought and she didn’t believe me. She started to laugh and point even more and asked me why I was naked and I told her the first thing I could think of. I said… okay you all can laugh. It’s good to laugh at our traumas, right? We all need a sense of humor.

“Okay, I looked at her very seriously and I said, ‘I pooped myself. I pooped myself, Meredith. And I was in the middle of changing.’

“You guys can laugh. It’s okay. I won’t hate you all or anything. I’m just a really screwed up person, I know. I hope you will allow me to laugh at you, too when you talk about the dumb stuff you do.

“So, anyway, she pretended to believe me, which was probably worse. I’m not a good actor. I should have locked the door. I shouldn’t have even done it. I did this all to myself.

“Okay, sorry, just a few more things to say, this won’t take long.

“I still masturbated after that though. I mean, I know how to really do it a year later and what it really was, but, still, I couldn’t stop. I did it about three times a day. Three times a day. I was such a fucking pervert, I know. I did it so much that I couldn’t even have a sexual relationship, I think. One time I was at his Halloween party and this mummy, barely really wrapped, wasn’t really a mummy. There was more skin than bandages. She was really just a walking corpse at that point. But her face was almost completely wrapped and maybe she thought she was ugly or something. I don’t know. Anyway, she came up to me and I guess she was really drunk and I guess she liked my Chris Hansen costume. You know, from To Catch a Predator. I bet you guys wish he was around doing his thing when you were little.

“I loved Chris Hansen when his show was on. I wanted to be like him. I mean…He took the place over. And you could tell he just felt so powerful over those guys that came into those houses. Every time he said ‘Hi, I’m Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC’ I would just cheer and cheer. He’s such a cool guy.

“But, anyway this mummy girl, she grabbed me and pulled me into the bathroom and started to kiss me and give me a lap dance on the toilet and kept saying to me, ‘Oh, Chris. Talk dirty to me like your transcripts.’ I had made up my own transcripts and would walk up to people, ask them to sit down and demand them to confess. Did you not say, and I quote, ‘You’re a virgin? That’s okay. I specialize in virgins.’ Sir, are you not toughguy69 and did you not say, and I quote, ‘Yes, my dick is pretty big, but nothing you should worry about. Winky face?’

“It was a joke, everyone…

“Tough crowd. I’m sorry. It was funnier at the party, I guess. I’m not that funny. Actually, no one at the party really laughed either, but it felt so good to point a finger at those people and interrogate them. I felt like Chris whenever I did that.

“I didn’t talk dirty at first. I didn’t want to, but she pushed me harder against the toilet and told me ‘Do it.’ So, yeah, I tried to talk dirty like my transcripts to the mummy. And she responded while she was rubbing my wiener. ‘No, Chris, I didn’t say any of that. I only wanted to mentor her.’ Or whatever they say on that show. My penis didn’t react though. I know it’s probably weird to talk about my penis in here since, you know, you all probably hate those by now.

“She noticed how bad I was and laughed at me then walked out of the bathroom. I locked the door and was able to masturbate and finish in less than a minute. I didn’t get it. I didn’t know what’s wrong with me. I was screwed up. I was crazy. And now…

“Please just let me speak. I want to help you all stop being like I was. I know I’m taking up most of the time, but I’m not finished.

“Okay.

“Where was I…

“Another time, this one lady, I don’t even think she was trying to have sex with me. She was just trying to get to know me. She seemed to have some interest. And she was really pretty. But instead of my penis getting stiff, my whole body went stiff and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t talk to her or anything. I just looked away until she walked off. I think she was mad, but I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what’s wrong with me. It was stuff like that that made me have no one to hold on to. When I got sad or started to hate myself, sometimes I would lay in my bed and I feel so lonely and sad. I had no one to talk to or just to hold on to, so I guess I held on to my penis. I didn’t really deserve anyone to like me anyway. I was too crazy.

“But I got better. The last time I masturbated was a few days ago. I still masturbate, sure, like anyone else, but I do it normally and not constantly. Now I’m normal.

“I realized that everything I had gone through wasn’t such a big deal. That it’s actually funny if you think about it. We all go through these weird times in our lives. We out grow it. It’s not a big deal.

“I know I wasn’t sexually abused like any of you were. I wasn’t raped by my neighbor’s kid. I wasn’t forced to suck anyone when I was little. I never needed Chris Hansen. None of that stuff happened to me. But I think I sexually abused myself. I mean, I was kind of crazy like some of you probably are. I was affected by something I did. So I guess that’s why I came here. I’ve been through exactly what you’ve been through. I know how you feel. And I got through it. I’m living proof that you can get through it.

“So now you know. And even I feel better. Thanks everyone. 

Revision for Day Beverly Lost Jessica

Most of the changes take place in the middle of the story. Any feedback?

The Day Beverly Lost Jessica

As Beverly's daughter, dissatisfied with the pace her mother was walking, a speed that, to Beverly, was perfectly fine, dragged  her closer by the hand to the building, which seemed only to be a few months old (the only thing making it remotely aged was the bird's nest in the arch of the “O” in “WORLD WIDE MUSIC” in the sign above the double doors) and, even so, was being cleaned and repainted by two men, Beverly knew that this place was not where she wanted her little Jessica to be, and her discomfort grew when the gentle hand of her daughter forcibly left her own, Jessica’s fake fingernails leaving a sharp scratch on Beverly’s palm, and opened one of the doors to the smell of seven thirteen year old girls’ perfume so strong that Beverly instinctively held her breath.

Inside was a waiting room designed, not for conversation or comfort, but for constant observation of things that seemed to be screeching at her from all angles at all volumes as if they were trying to distract her from observing too much of anything at all, like spending too much time on one thing would harm her in some way and to be safe was to only view something for a miniscule amount of time and thought. Pink and purple televisions in every corner of the room looped the same four music videos (produced by this company, she assumed), each with its own teen pop singer, whose likeness was being used in multiple life-size cutouts which were scattered, like they had just been thrown down from 20 feet high, around the room and some of the girls, with their hair glistening with product, their faces pancaked with blush, and, she couldn’t help but notice, their skirts hemmed up to the upper thigh, were posing beside the cutouts as their parents, invested with smiles behind their cameras, snapped photos and the resulting flash caused Beverly to involuntary slam shut her eyes and turn her head. Large banners constantly blowing due to their position in front of air conditioning vents and congratulating someone named Harmony Graham were hung from the ceiling. Chairs were set up in a circle so that everyone could see everybody else (but not directly for no one wanted to be caught eyeing the person across from them). The girls who weren’t getting their pictures taken were practicing songs that Beverly couldn’t process over the clutter of noise, and even if she could, she wouldn’t have known them. Brightly colored pamphlets were thrown on a round table—which itself was slapped with shiny, but uneven, stickers of microphones, headsets, stars, expensive sports cars, and sayings like YEAH and LOL—in the center of the chairs. Bored but restless parents were speaking loudly over the phone yelling questions like, “What?” or “I can’t hear you, say that again?” As Beverly stood in the entrance, she couldn’t help but feel lost in it all.

She looked at her hand that Jessica had scratched remembering earlier the previous night when she helped put the fake nails on her daughter’s fingers as they faced each other sitting on the living room carpet.

“I just don’t know about all this.”

“Look, Mom. I know how the system works. They want pizzazz. They want presence. And they provide everything else. They don’t want talent, really. They already have it to give.”

“And so do you. I’ve heard you sing. You already have talent.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I’ll get anywhere with it, you know. These guys are supposed to get me out there. I’ll be known. Talent doesn’t come first. Notoriety does.”

“Okay, Jess. I trust you.”

“That’s why I love you, Mom.”

“Excuse me, Ms…” said a young, handsome boy behind a counter near the entrance who kept swishing his head to the side and back, the way young boys with longer hair do this to keep the hair out of their eyes, but this young man’s was short and cleanly cut and didn’t move.

            “Oh, right,” said Beverly. “What?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Oh! Oh, my daughter, Jessica, has an audition…”

            The boy looked at a purple sheet of paper.

“Jessica…Jessica… Twelve, right?”

            “That’s it.”

            The boy gave another swish and said, “Please sit down. Someone will come get her shortly for her appointment.”

            Jessica was in a chair already, messing with her phone, not a bit of self-consciousness in her poise, when Beverly sat down and leaned close to her so they could hear each other.

            “You okay?”

            “What?”

            “Are you nervous or anything?”

            “You shouldn’t ask stuff like that before stuff like this, Mom.”

            “Sorry.”

            A small girl, small even considering the rest of the room’s teenagers, started to dance in place.

            “I mean we can leave right now if you want to.”

            “We can’t leave. Are you crazy?”

            “You’re right. You’re right. I’m just scared.”

            “I’m right here, Mom. I’ll be okay. This is good for me.”

            “Okay, I trust you.”

            “That’s why I love you.”

            With her unscathed hand she reached for her daughter’s, but the wall in front of her, painted with bright shades of purple, pink, and blue, distracted her as it revealed part of itself to be an actual door as it opened, and inside the doorway was a man, possibly around his mid-50s, with sunglasses on, his thick hair gelled in place, his figure perfect for the long sleeve white buttoned down shirt he was wearing, and with a black tie as skinny as her daughter’s wrists it seemed. He looked around the room as he said, “Jessica? Is Jessica here?” and Jessica got up, walked toward him with a stage presence of a more mature—or at least more experienced—teenager. As Jessica walked away, Beverly noticed that she had let her hair down and realized, as the man put his shoulder around Jessica and closed the door, that she would never again see her daughter’s hair bounce from side to side in a pony tail as she walked.

            Beverly picked up, with her wounded, stinging hand, a pamphlet filled with sharp images of cameras flashing, teenagers leaving limos onto red carpets, screaming crowds, sound studios, small text bites such as “120,000,000 views!!!” and “Become a Pop Legend!!!”, and it took five minutes before she found an article of any kind that might have told her more about the place she was in that wasn’t from Jessica’s own mouth, and found bits like “…have chosen Harmony Graham, an extremely beautiful, multi-talented 14-year-old from Long Beach, California to be America's next Pop Star phenomenon!!” and “Harmony is chosen to participate in a challenge that will try and make her into the next Big Thing in only one short week,” and “…songs made specifically for her,” and she suddenly got the urge to know more about this girl.

            The wall-door opened after a few minutes it seemed and a light that wasn’t there before poured forth, but did not reach anyone in the waiting room, and the man, silhouetted, stood and raised his arm and, even though his voiced seemed fogged through the loud music, asked without raising his voice, “Is Jessica’s mom here?” which was answered by Beverly’s hand, the scratch a clear red line across the palm, raised like a child not quite shy enough to keep from answering a teacher’s question.  He waved her over and she walked inside. The first thing she saw was a large window to another room, which she was unable to see inside, and Jessica smiling, sitting on top of a long table with her legs crossed leaning on her hands behind her. She seemed like a Jessica that Beverly had never seen before—when she looked at her she didn’t see herself crying the first time she was able to cradle Jessica comfortably in her arms after a month of holding her premature daughter in the palms of her hands, or always being amused when Jessica would blend her mashed potatoes with ketchup because she liked the color pink so much, or Jessica graciously offering to share her twin-size bed when Beverly told her about her recurring nightmares. Instead she saw Jessica, sitting on a worn couch in a therapist’s office, being diagnosed with clinical depression, being cradled in an older boy’s arms as they watched a movie Beverly had introduced her to years before, stoically refilling a customer’s drink after getting her ass slapped.

“Hey, Mom,” she said.

“Hello, Ms. Faulter,” said the man.

Beverly kept looking at Jessica.

“What are you doing on the table?”

“Auditioning. That’s Jackson, Mom.”

After a few more seconds, she looked at him.

“Hello.”

“We think your daughter is an exceptionally talented artist and we would like to take her on as our client, Ms. Faulter.”

“What did I tell you, Mom?”

Beverly nodded her head, perhaps for too long, and said, “Yeah, super duper.”

“Please don’t say super duper. It makes you sound four years old.”

“Yeah,” Beverly said.

“If you want, we can sit here at the table and discuss what to do from here.”

“Can I go check out in the sound studio?” Jessica asked, looking at Jackson with wide eyes.

“So that’s what’s in the other room?”

“It is, and yes, you can.”

Jessica jumped up and, holding Jackson’s guiding hand and using a chair as a step, walked off the table.

“So, Ms. Faulter, if you have any questions, just interrupt me and I will answer them as best I can.”

A few more superfluous nods. “Okay.”

“As I said, I believe Jessica to be a wonderful girl, excellent singer, and a natural for the stage.”

“You hear that?”

“Just with that one, short audition?”

“Sure, do you disagree?”

“She’s my daughter.”

“Hey, Jackson. Do any of these buttons work?”

“We can provide her with songs made just for her. If she wants to use her own lyrics, we have someone to help her with that—tighten them up. Make them a little more her age.”

“Her age?”

“Have you not seen them?”

“She won’t let me.”

“She let me, and let me tell you, it’s amazing stuff. Wonderful wordplay. Rhythms are powerful. About family, divorce. Even one about post-racial racism. They aren’t just songs, their stories. But we might need to tone them down.”

“Oh.”

“There’s just so many buttons and knobs in here!”

“It will cost you some dollars, but…”

“Who is Harmony Graham?”

“Excuse me?”

“Harmony…the girl that was picked to be a star?”

“Oh yes. We at World Wide Music are extremely excited to join her on her journey.”

“I wonder what they all do.”

“But who is she?”

“I don’t know exactly what you’re asking me.”

 “I don’t think I do either.”

“I’m going to touch one, okay?”

 “She’s very talented.”

“And you think you can make this girl famous in a week?”

“It’s possible.”

“It is?”

“Nowadays.”

“Here I go.”

“Go ahead.”

“But how?”

“The internet. The World Wide Web.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Anyone can become famous now, thanks to the internet.”

“Step out on the floor”

“Oh, not this song. How do I turn it off?”

“Anyone can post videos of themselves singing a song, dancing, playing guitar, and everyone can see them. The world is their audience at the very beginning of their career so no longer do they have to hide in obscurity. There’s so much you can do now, it’s amazing.”

“Okay.”

“Cause I’m ready for more”

“You’ve heard of the Hide-Yo-Kids Hide-Yo-Wife Guy, right? The Charlie-Bit-Me Kid?”

“The DJ keeps playing my song”

“The Numa-Numa Guy? The Star-Wars Kid, for sure. The I-Like-Turtles Boy?”

“I…no.”

“Gonna push ‘send’ text all my friends”

“How do I turn this off, Jackson?”

“And tell them what I’m thinking of”

“The Terrible Sports News Caster? The Crazy Woman on the MARTA? The Winnebago Man? You know the Winnebago Man.”

“Is this the volume?”

“The Serious Face Baby? That one guy who yelled ‘Don’t tase me, bro’?” Come on.”

 “I don’t. It’s all hard to keep up.”

“The Woman Who Fell Squishing Grapes with her Feet? The Big Kid on the Amusement Park Ride? The Sneezing Baby Panda!

“EVERYONE IS HERE AND I AM HAVING SO MUCH FUN”

“I’m sorry! I don’t!”

“Wrong way. Meant to turn this down.”

 “Well, the point is those people were nobodies! Now at least 200 million people—each and every one of them—know who these people are! And it’s all thanks to the internet! Are you okay? You look a little tired.”

 “What? Have you had success with clients before?”

“I HEAR THE SOUND AND THEN YOU KNOW I’M GONNA SING ALONG”

“Jessica, sweetheart, your mom and I are trying to have a meeting!”

“I’m trying to turn it off!”

“I mean. I—I don’t want to push my daughter into some—something like this without any sort of guarantee, you know? I don’t want—want her disappointed.”

“Course we’ve had success. We’re very good at what we do.”

“Lose yourself. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for”

“And what—what—what do you do? I want to hear it from you.”

“We help children like your daughter out.”

“Like m-my daughter?”

“Like me!”

“We discover and recruit young, talented singers. We make it possible for an emerging artist to be discovered, defined and delivered, to advance in their chosen career and be successful. Do you need a glass of water or something?”

“A—And you do this through…”

“The internet, yes.”

“I guess I’ll just let the song play.”

“Don’t speak. The music’s gonna say it for you”

“Look, Ms. Faulter. I fancied myself a good singer songwriter back in the day. Everyone I knew liked my stuff. But I stayed out of the lime light, and you know why? Because the world is big. Very big, Ms. Faulter. I couldn’t be everywhere at once. Now I’m too old for the lime light. So I help artists like your daughter to do what I couldn’t.

“And those p—people in the videos are famous.”

“Those videos have hundreds of millions of views. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Don’t be shy. Just take a chance”

“There are just so many.”

“I love this place already.”

 “Come on come on”

“I—I’m getting lost in it all.”

“Fads come and go, Mrs Faulter. Those views are permanent. They’re going nowhere. What are you doing here, Mark? I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

“Sir, there’s fighting in the lobby.”

“Everybody’s feeling the beat”

“Who? How many?”

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“All of them.”

“Even the parents?”

“I don’t want to lose her.”

“Mom, answer me.”

“Even the parents, listen.”

“Dancing to the rhythm with me”

“Don’t you dare call my daughter a hussy. What does that even mean?”

“Get the camera. You know how to work it right?”

“I don’t want to lose her in it all.”

“She just ripped my shirt! My shirt!”

“Jessica, you better get in there with them. This is what we need.”

“Okay. Mom, are you okay?”

“Enough of the talk now we’re ready to rock”

“It’s on your desk, right?”

“What’s going on out there?”

“Yes! Yes! Get it. Quickly!”

“They’re ripping apart the cut-outs!”

“Let’s go, Jessica. Get in there. This is exactly what we need.”

“Everyone’s here and I’m having so much fun”

“Where’s my daughter? Where did she go?”

A Flicker in the Night

Way to tap into something that I fully relate to. Damn. Good job.
At first I thought you had killed the mother! But I'm happy that you didn't and just showed how important this routine was for the narrator.
Comparing the eyelids to raindrops on a window really set the tone.
I have one question though. What were you trying to do stylistically? The normal paragraph followed by one sentence paragraphs? To me it almost gave me a sense of hypnotism. The hypnotist says a few things and "You are getting sleepy." Says a few more, then "You are getting even more sleepy." I liked it.

Jenson's Day

Jenson's Day is about Jenson and his day. (Thank you, thank you.) But seriously, Jenson is a grown man who seems to have contempt for most of his surroundings.

I think the dialogue in here is really good. (You're very good with dialogue in general.) I like how his boss tells Jenson to make the TV shut up. And the way Jenson looks at things are very well done and funny, too. I particularly like the line, "...he cleared his throat, pushing the nonsense to his lips." I also really like how unaware the boss is about almost everything.

While these things are good, I kind of don't know what the story is about. I know you are trying for sparse, succinct writing, and it works when you want to detail how a person is thinking or what they think of other people. What isn't quite working with the sparseness is the idea of the story. Are we supposed to believe that Jenson really seems okay with his life (as I assumed with the ending)? What do all of these characterizations have to do with the story as a whole? I think that that is what needs to be worked on next. The characterizations themselves? You got that covered.

From Me For You

This is about Isaiah, a (I'll say) adolescent boy in a Spanish family who just got the news of a death in the family, specifically, Isaiah's cousin, Debbie's (A name that I find out of place in such a Spanish family), husband. This all takes place during Thanksgiving dinner.

I think what I like best about this story is the sense of the Spanish culture in the family. I love the details of the food they eat (Green chili stuffing? I'd like to try that out because I have no idea what green chili is.) and the other details about New Mexico, the hot air balloons, the highway bridges, the chili fields. All of that stuff gives a really great background to the piece that seems so rooted in the family.

Few things: make sure you change the section where to cousin is crying on Isaiah. You say it's the aunt when I'm sure you meant Debbie.

I'm confused as to why the family would just go on and pretend nothing happened when they get the news of Albert's death. "They said that time was the only way for her to recover and that there was nothing we could do but continue our plans to celebrate." It's a weird thought to have the day OF his passing. Maybe a week after, I'd let this pass, but right now, it stands that this family is just trying to get away from something icky. If that's what you want to go for (the family not truly being there for Debbie) then you should emphasize it more. As it stands now, it just looks weird.

Also, I don't think there is a significant change in any of the characters. You could probably play up this family thing. They aren't really there for Debbie because they seem to avoid icky situations. But through Isaiah's action of compassion, they are able to finally show some for Debbie. That's just a suggestion.

Something I Wrote About Being a Twin

I've been struggling with myself as to whether or not I should post this ever since we discussed twins in class. For one, it's a very personal non-fiction piece and I don't do well in vulnerable positions, and posting this would definitely put me in one. For two, I was afraid I would look really self-centered posting a non-fiction piece on a blog that was created for a fiction class. For three, I was wondering if anyone cared anyway. But screw it. I'm proud of it. So I'm going to post it.

Hopefully this turns out to be the non-cliche twin thing I was asked about. 

A Twin

INT. CONVIENENCE STORE - NIGHT

My twin brother Mark and I walk up to a cluttered, convenient store checkout counter with our packages of Sour Patch Kids and Gummy Bears. We only hear the beep of the scanner as the cashier turns from left to right and back as he stares at each of us.

CASHIER

                                                            Are you twins?

MARK OR ME

                                                Yeah.

CASHIER

                        Oh man, that’s awesome. I wish I were a twin.

EXT. FOOTBALL FIELD - AFTERNOON

Mark and I walk back to our high school band room after the first practice of the season. An unknown freshman, stumbling with a large sousaphone wrapped around his small body, turns at us and looks confused.

HIM

(with awe)

                                                Are you guys twins?

MARK OR ME

                                                Nope.

HIM

                                                Yeah you are! I always wanted to be

                                                a twin.

INT. DORM HALL COMMON ROOM – NIGHT

A friend playing ping pong sees Mark for the first time. She gives me a look of betrayal.

HER

                                                Wait, are you a twin?

MARK OR ME

(with hesitation)

                                                Yeah.

HER

(loudly)

                                                Why didn’t you tell me? You know,

                                                I’ve always wanted one.

I have never understood the wish to become a twin. At first I would always tell these people that did that they don’t—not really. That they don’t know what it’s really like. But after so many rebuttals I’ve just let it go. It might hurt my brother to admit this, but my twin experience has been more harmful than beneficial. I’m probably just an exception. I don’t know. I’m twenty-one years old and I still don’t think I know who I am.

(Mark and I will say the same thing at the same time without meaning to.)

Our mom drives Mark and me to the orthodontist to get braces glued onto our teeth. Mark’s teeth are more crooked than mine, but I must wear rubber bands inside my mouth to correct an overbite I never knew I had. Two years later, Mark is driven back to have his braces removed while I’m still plucking rubber bands with my tongue in my first period reading class. The next day we are asked by multiple people why we didn’t have them removed at the same time.

Mark is invited to a party by a friend of his. He is asked on arrival where I am and why I am not there with him.

A professor wants to know the name, major, and an interesting fact of each student in the class. My interesting fact is one that produces sounds from the rest of the class that prove that my fact is indeed interesting. When the oohs and aahs and murmurs are over I hear from someone across the room, “So there are two of you.”

           

 (Sometimes I’ll have a song in my head all day and later Mark will be humming the same song.)

 “Are you twins? Which one’s older? Do you have ESP? If I hit one will the other one feel it? If one gets sick will the other one know? Who gets more girls? Which one is smarter? What’s your birthday? What’s your brother’s birthday? Oh, right. Did you guys share the same room? Did you guys fight all the time? I fought with my brother. You didn’t? That’s so weird. Did your parents dress you up the same when you were little? Oh, that is so cute. Which one is cooler? Did you guys ever mix it up to trick girls? You didn’t? Oh. Do you guys have the same penis size? Who’s going to get married first? Did you guys ever pretend to be the other one in school? What do you mean it didn’t work? Do your parents get you mixed up? Do you ever mix you up? What if you were supposed to be Mark and you were supposed to be Paul, but you got switched at birth?”

(At restaurants, I always order after Mark so I can make sure we don’t order the same thing.)

Mr. Hollingsworth calls roll for his seventh grade class, notices two Vances on the paper in front of him, and raises his head. He surveys the room with squinted eyes and mouth half open. He spots us and asks, “Are you twins?” The rest of the class answers yes for us and some proudly say, “But they don’t really look alike. See? Paul has the longer hair.” Or “Mark has a mark on his face.” And Mr. Hollingsworth tells us to stand up so he can study us for a few seconds. “Yeah, I see the difference. His eyes are spread out farther. And he has bushier eyebrows. His head is more round and the other’s is more of a square.” And the students that know us say, “And he is goofier than him but he is always mellow and cool.” And this goes on for another five minutes without either Mark or me saying a word. I stand there rocking back and forth from my left foot to my right foot. I stare at them. I wonder what I should do to make people believe this doesn't bother me.

(I once had a massive crush on a keyboard player in my high school band, and Mark started dating her.)

Ms. Garrett hands out our Pre-Calculus test results. I open up the folded sheet of paper. No smiley face sticker. 74.

            “Did you get a sticker, Mark?” I ask.

            He looks through his test. “Yeah. 95.”

“All right boys, we’re about to leave. Tell grandma you love her and all of that stuff.”

            Mark and I walk up to Macher and she leans down to give us both a hug.

            “Love you, Macher,” Mark says.

            I unwrap my arms from around her and turn away.

            “Paul,” she says.

            I start to waddle and look away from her face.

            “I love you, Paul” she says.

            I keep waddling and stare at my feet. “You too,” I say as quickly as I can. I cringe and close the door.

            The radio in between Mark and Paul’s beds is singing smooth soft rock and the warm, green glow of the night light gives shape to the boys’ breathing bodies. It looks like they are underwater. Mark begins to lightly snore and Paul begins to cry. Neither of the boys shows any signs of movement.

            Mark’s snores diminish and become deep, heavy breaths and Paul starts to sob now. Their mother hears from downstairs. Mark wakes up and shuffles in his bed. Paul still hasn’t moved. Their mother walks to Paul’s bed an picks him up. She embraces him. She speaks calmly.

            “What’s wrong, Sweetie?”

            “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

            “Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”

            “No. I’m sorry. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

            “How can you be crying if you don’t know why, Sweetie?”

            “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

            “Come here. We don’t want to keep Mark up.”

            She carries him out of the bedroom. Mark listens as they walk down the stairs.

            “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

            He falls back to sleep.

           

(Mark and I were both in a relationship with a Sarah.)

My dad has told both of us that his sperm was so strong that it broke the egg in half. I’ve taken more of his genes though. At least I’d like to think so. I don’t know.

Along with depression, I also suffer through anxiety. My brain is sick. I feel anxious in very calm and mellow social situations. And during classes. And during any type of silence. And during therapy sessions. And sometimes when I’m trying to sleep. Mark gets nervous and sad whenever it is necessary. Like a healthy person.

From what I can tell, Mark isn’t as self conscious as me. He has the normal amount of self-consciousness, such as worrying about his appearance every now and then or making a good impression for a girl or authority figure. I am self-conscious for other people. I can’t attend a play because I’m always thinking “Oh no what if they flub their lines? What if they trip and fall?” I grimace when I think of something I believe I did wrong three years ago.  After a conversation, I go over every word I said and figure out all of the different ways it could have been interpreted. I wonder which way it was interpreted. I’ve been like this since I was twelve. Or maybe eleven. Or maybe five. I don’t know.

 (Mark has told me that the only reason his favorite movie isn’t Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is because he knew that it would bother me if ours were the same.)

I wanted to make a short film. It would have been Freaky Friday with twins. I wanted to have some fun with the idea.

JIM

                                                Well, everyone’s prediction was correct. They’re the

                                                same size all right.

JOHN

                                                What are you talking about?

JIM

(disappointed)

                                                Out penis size. We are the same it seems.

JOHN

                                                W—Wha…Quit looking at my penis!

JIM

                                                Well, genetically, it’s our penis.

It quickly turned into something darker: No one notices the switch at first so they have to tell everyone about it. And everyone eventually believes them. But no one really cares.

JOHN

                                                I can’t do this anymore, Jim. I need to get away. I look

                                                at you and I just see me. And I don’t know if I can

                                                handle it.

(When Mark and I went to separate colleges, there were the typical “cut the cord” jokes. After one semester, and some transferring, we now occasionally take the same classes.)

               

 It is three days ago. I am lying in bed staring at the wall. Or my pillow. Or maybe the alarm clock. I don’t know. I don’t care. I am having a severe depressive episode. One of my worst. I have work I need to do. I have skipped all five classes today. I am finally considering applying for Students with Disabilities. This makes me cry. For the first time, I want tell my brother what is going on. That I feel sick. That I feel weak. That I haven’t eaten in the past twenty hours. That I haven’t drunk in the past fifteen. I haven’t left my bed since this morning. That I haven’t showered since the last time I saw you. I hope you understand, but I want to feel this way. I don’t know why. Do you think there’s something really wrong with me? Do you think people notice? I’m scared. Why do I want to keep feeling like this? Do you ever feel this way? You have to, right? What do you do when you get sad? How sad do you get? Do you ever get sad like me? Do you really hate yourself sometimes? I never blamed you for dating the keyboard player. I blamed myself. Why do you think I have this problem and you don’t? Do you have a little bit of it? Are you just better at hiding it? Are you able to just ignore it? You have to have this problem too, right? What kind of person am I? What do you think of me?