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deepundergroundpoetry.com
Last Season as a Boy (NYC FF 2014 - 3 of 3)
Writer's note: I've chosen to post my semifinal entry now because I'm awaiting the judges feedback on my second entry (2 of 3) which is due end of week. I'll post that story and the "official" critique then.
As noted before, this writing comp. started with a pool of about 1,000 from around the globe and got gutted down to 125 semifinalists.
The parameters for my group (25 writers) were: Ghost story - gas (petro) station - dunce cap; with 48 hours to turn it around.
I used a short poem of the same title I penned a while back as a springboard and the rest fell into place (I hope).
Last Season as a Boy
Synopsis: As summer vacation comes to an end a young boy must prove himself worthy of his grandfather's trust and faith.
-------------------------------------
Summer is ending and I start to pack for school. Carolina's sun has turned my skin from pecan to blueberry jam, and everything I now say ends with "Sir" or "Ma'am."
Pine cones and Spanish moss will be replaced by monkey bars and the asphalt of Harlem. I'll miss my grandfather's "coffee" voice singing gospel in the morning, young and old roosters his chorus.
Two nights before I'm to leave my grandfather calls me to the kitchen. Moonlight guides me through the cloaked house and I see him loading his pistol. His shotgun and shells lie on the breakfast table. He tells me there's going to be a parade and for now we need only watch. The parade is on the other side of the fence, the side I'm not allowed on even to chase down a fly ball. I see them march by. Dunce caps made bright by their torches.
Granddad keeps his own dunce cap sitting in the kitchen. He's a Sunday school teacher and the cap is special for me cause he says I have too much gumption in me at times instead of God's word. He says I should save my sass for things like getting the right to vote.
He continued reading scripture, his shotgun in his lap. His voice, not the words soothe me. When we hear nothing but crickets again, he tells me come daylight he's gonna teach me to shoot.
Come true morning I wake again to my grandmother's kitchen offerings, warm buttery grits, fat succulent bacon, and cornbread.
"Junior," my grandmother hums as if my name is gospel.
"Yes ma'am."
"I need you to walk to Mr. Rex's gas station and get me fifty cents worth of kerosene fo' our lamps. And be smart about it, you understand?"
"Yes ma'am."
"I mean it Junior. With men like
Mr. Rex their secrets rest in the lies their eyes can't tell. You understand?"
"Yes ma'am."
When I got to the station I could see friends of Mr. Rex under his shade tree playing checkers and sipping pop. They were no longer ghosts of the night, just old fat men laughin' and cussin'.
I went inside the station house store careful not to let the screen door announce me.
"Morning suh. My grandmama done send me to fetch fifty cents worth of lamp oil."
He was busy taking inventory and barely looked up. He just shoed me off like he was brushing away a gnat, so I left the fifty cents on the counter and went to pump the oil myself.
Outside I could still hear the men under the tree though they paid me no mind. As I tightened the spout on the canister, I heard faint whispers passing by.
I followed the echoes towards the back of the gas station, but still couldn't tell from where they came.
The outhouse.
As I pulled open the wooden door there he was. He'd been beaten, bad. One eye was the size and color of a ripe plum and teeth were missing. He was charcoal in complexion though his was his own, not borrowed for the summer like mine. I knew him from granddaddy's Sunday school class. His name was Andrew, but folks called him Drew.
He was hogtied with rope and gagged with a filthy piece of cloth. His skin reeked with the stench of the outhouse mixed with his sweat.
I tried to untie him but the binding on the rope was too tight.
I looked at him and told him, "Shhhh. This may hurt." With that warning I poured some of the kerosene over his wrists to loosen the knots. The sting of the oil into his open wounds musta cut like razors because he teared up like a baby pleading for me to stop with his eyes but he knew it had to be done.
No sooner than I'd set him free than I looked up to see the men from the tree and Mr. Rex casting their shadows over us.
"Boy, whatcha think ya doin' there?" growled Mr. Rex, a tire chain swinging freely in his hand. The other two held wooden axe handles.
"Smart ass negra' like you gots to be taught is all," snickered one.
I looked at Drew and guided his eyes with mine to my waist. Strapped to my beanpole frame under my shirt was my grandfather's pistol.
Drew grabbed it.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
They were down.
Drew was still on his knees crying. I brushed his tears away the way my grandmother did after granddad had given me a good switchin'.
"Drew you gotta run, getaway from here," I whispered to him. "I gotta go too. My grandparents are waiting."
Before I left I went back into the store. I took the fifty cents back and a Honey Bun for myself. I'd be switched for teefin' but then again who was gonna tell.
When I got back to my grandparents' house I walked along the porch letting my fingers trace the shotgun holes that peppered the front of the house. Inside the charred walls cast black boogey man shadows. Broken glass bottles still cradling droplets of gasoline were scattered about. Inside a bedroom I could still see the outline of my grandmother's body under the bed where she had suffocated.
In the kitchen I could see my granddad's blood and my own splattered over the walls and floors. The dunce cap now streaked in pink and crimson. I stood there for a moment as a gargoyle over the nest of my own death.
And just when I thought I'd break down, I heard his singing. I walked through our kitchen and out the backdoor, and there were my grandparents waiting for me.
"Come 'on Junior let's take you home."
"Granddad?"
"Yes son?"
"Can I sing for you this time?"
"I'd like that"
And I did, as a boy no more, walking between them hand in hand.
-----------------------------------
Postscript: just an FYI - the story's focus is on the Klu Klux Klan and how they terrorized Black families in the American south for decades. They were known as the "White Knights" and the "ghosts of the Confederacy ".
I feel good about the piece given the word limit; and I wanted something different from what I think 50% of the writers in the group will churn out.
The top five in each group (5 groups of 25 writers) advance to the finals the first weekend of December.
If you've got a moment folks ... Tell me what works and what doesn't.
As noted before, this writing comp. started with a pool of about 1,000 from around the globe and got gutted down to 125 semifinalists.
The parameters for my group (25 writers) were: Ghost story - gas (petro) station - dunce cap; with 48 hours to turn it around.
I used a short poem of the same title I penned a while back as a springboard and the rest fell into place (I hope).
Last Season as a Boy
Synopsis: As summer vacation comes to an end a young boy must prove himself worthy of his grandfather's trust and faith.
-------------------------------------
Summer is ending and I start to pack for school. Carolina's sun has turned my skin from pecan to blueberry jam, and everything I now say ends with "Sir" or "Ma'am."
Pine cones and Spanish moss will be replaced by monkey bars and the asphalt of Harlem. I'll miss my grandfather's "coffee" voice singing gospel in the morning, young and old roosters his chorus.
Two nights before I'm to leave my grandfather calls me to the kitchen. Moonlight guides me through the cloaked house and I see him loading his pistol. His shotgun and shells lie on the breakfast table. He tells me there's going to be a parade and for now we need only watch. The parade is on the other side of the fence, the side I'm not allowed on even to chase down a fly ball. I see them march by. Dunce caps made bright by their torches.
Granddad keeps his own dunce cap sitting in the kitchen. He's a Sunday school teacher and the cap is special for me cause he says I have too much gumption in me at times instead of God's word. He says I should save my sass for things like getting the right to vote.
He continued reading scripture, his shotgun in his lap. His voice, not the words soothe me. When we hear nothing but crickets again, he tells me come daylight he's gonna teach me to shoot.
Come true morning I wake again to my grandmother's kitchen offerings, warm buttery grits, fat succulent bacon, and cornbread.
"Junior," my grandmother hums as if my name is gospel.
"Yes ma'am."
"I need you to walk to Mr. Rex's gas station and get me fifty cents worth of kerosene fo' our lamps. And be smart about it, you understand?"
"Yes ma'am."
"I mean it Junior. With men like
Mr. Rex their secrets rest in the lies their eyes can't tell. You understand?"
"Yes ma'am."
When I got to the station I could see friends of Mr. Rex under his shade tree playing checkers and sipping pop. They were no longer ghosts of the night, just old fat men laughin' and cussin'.
I went inside the station house store careful not to let the screen door announce me.
"Morning suh. My grandmama done send me to fetch fifty cents worth of lamp oil."
He was busy taking inventory and barely looked up. He just shoed me off like he was brushing away a gnat, so I left the fifty cents on the counter and went to pump the oil myself.
Outside I could still hear the men under the tree though they paid me no mind. As I tightened the spout on the canister, I heard faint whispers passing by.
I followed the echoes towards the back of the gas station, but still couldn't tell from where they came.
The outhouse.
As I pulled open the wooden door there he was. He'd been beaten, bad. One eye was the size and color of a ripe plum and teeth were missing. He was charcoal in complexion though his was his own, not borrowed for the summer like mine. I knew him from granddaddy's Sunday school class. His name was Andrew, but folks called him Drew.
He was hogtied with rope and gagged with a filthy piece of cloth. His skin reeked with the stench of the outhouse mixed with his sweat.
I tried to untie him but the binding on the rope was too tight.
I looked at him and told him, "Shhhh. This may hurt." With that warning I poured some of the kerosene over his wrists to loosen the knots. The sting of the oil into his open wounds musta cut like razors because he teared up like a baby pleading for me to stop with his eyes but he knew it had to be done.
No sooner than I'd set him free than I looked up to see the men from the tree and Mr. Rex casting their shadows over us.
"Boy, whatcha think ya doin' there?" growled Mr. Rex, a tire chain swinging freely in his hand. The other two held wooden axe handles.
"Smart ass negra' like you gots to be taught is all," snickered one.
I looked at Drew and guided his eyes with mine to my waist. Strapped to my beanpole frame under my shirt was my grandfather's pistol.
Drew grabbed it.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
They were down.
Drew was still on his knees crying. I brushed his tears away the way my grandmother did after granddad had given me a good switchin'.
"Drew you gotta run, getaway from here," I whispered to him. "I gotta go too. My grandparents are waiting."
Before I left I went back into the store. I took the fifty cents back and a Honey Bun for myself. I'd be switched for teefin' but then again who was gonna tell.
When I got back to my grandparents' house I walked along the porch letting my fingers trace the shotgun holes that peppered the front of the house. Inside the charred walls cast black boogey man shadows. Broken glass bottles still cradling droplets of gasoline were scattered about. Inside a bedroom I could still see the outline of my grandmother's body under the bed where she had suffocated.
In the kitchen I could see my granddad's blood and my own splattered over the walls and floors. The dunce cap now streaked in pink and crimson. I stood there for a moment as a gargoyle over the nest of my own death.
And just when I thought I'd break down, I heard his singing. I walked through our kitchen and out the backdoor, and there were my grandparents waiting for me.
"Come 'on Junior let's take you home."
"Granddad?"
"Yes son?"
"Can I sing for you this time?"
"I'd like that"
And I did, as a boy no more, walking between them hand in hand.
-----------------------------------
Postscript: just an FYI - the story's focus is on the Klu Klux Klan and how they terrorized Black families in the American south for decades. They were known as the "White Knights" and the "ghosts of the Confederacy ".
I feel good about the piece given the word limit; and I wanted something different from what I think 50% of the writers in the group will churn out.
The top five in each group (5 groups of 25 writers) advance to the finals the first weekend of December.
If you've got a moment folks ... Tell me what works and what doesn't.
Published 12th Nov 2014
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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The author encourages honest critique.
12th Nov 2014 8:38am
I'll get back to you on this in the next couple of days. I really want to read it, but I've got heaps going on, and am currently too tired to give it my full attention. :(
But I will def be back :)
But I will def be back :)
13th Nov 2014 8:41am
Miss Indie - any feedback from you would be greatly appreciated because you know I love and respect your pen.
Cheers
Cheers
18th Nov 2014 8:26am
I second Atakti's comments on this one. I found the tense change a the start confusing.
Regarding the dunce caps, I get that they were the hoods of the KKK, and idk if it's just me, or if I'm just all for stating the obvious, but identifying them as white dunce caps would have made it easier for me straight up, instead of trying to work things out as I went along. The confusion of trying to figure some things out took a bit away from the story, perhaps because of cultural/historical lack of knowledge. (The KKK have never been prevalent in Australia, at least to the best of my knowledge).
Aside from some clarification and tense issues, I did find the story interesting, well paced, insightful and eye opening. It definitely left me wanting to know more.
Although I did find the ending a bit too sweet for my liking, though that's just a personal preference thing.
Regarding the dunce caps, I get that they were the hoods of the KKK, and idk if it's just me, or if I'm just all for stating the obvious, but identifying them as white dunce caps would have made it easier for me straight up, instead of trying to work things out as I went along. The confusion of trying to figure some things out took a bit away from the story, perhaps because of cultural/historical lack of knowledge. (The KKK have never been prevalent in Australia, at least to the best of my knowledge).
Aside from some clarification and tense issues, I did find the story interesting, well paced, insightful and eye opening. It definitely left me wanting to know more.
Although I did find the ending a bit too sweet for my liking, though that's just a personal preference thing.
19th Nov 2014 3:08am
Miss Indie ... I can't thank you enough for your feedback on something like this ...
Your critique of flip flopping on tense is duly noted ... Just a really horrible writing habit that I can't afford given the level of competition in these kind of writes.
I often wondered how the judges for NYC MIDNIGHT handled cultural nuisances in writing given there are writers from the U.S. - Australia - Great Britain - Canada and any number of countries in Africa. When I wrote for their short screenplay competition (political satire) ... I was surprised the judges picked up on my digs at U.S. presidents past ... but what if I was a writer from Ghana or Ireland - would the judges get my jokes? ...
The bottom line ... Given your comments and Atakti's - I need to write a truly "universal" story without being swooped into cliches.
I hear your concerns on the bow tie ending as well but I think I added enough grit to justify it ... the protagonist steals a sweet roll from the gas station store ... he revisits the scene of his family's murder including his own death in the kitchen ...
... If by chance I should advance I may lean on you two to pick apart my write before submission in December.
Again thanks so much.
Your critique of flip flopping on tense is duly noted ... Just a really horrible writing habit that I can't afford given the level of competition in these kind of writes.
I often wondered how the judges for NYC MIDNIGHT handled cultural nuisances in writing given there are writers from the U.S. - Australia - Great Britain - Canada and any number of countries in Africa. When I wrote for their short screenplay competition (political satire) ... I was surprised the judges picked up on my digs at U.S. presidents past ... but what if I was a writer from Ghana or Ireland - would the judges get my jokes? ...
The bottom line ... Given your comments and Atakti's - I need to write a truly "universal" story without being swooped into cliches.
I hear your concerns on the bow tie ending as well but I think I added enough grit to justify it ... the protagonist steals a sweet roll from the gas station store ... he revisits the scene of his family's murder including his own death in the kitchen ...
... If by chance I should advance I may lean on you two to pick apart my write before submission in December.
Again thanks so much.
19th Nov 2014 5:29am
There was definitely grit in the story, no worries. I think its very hard to write a universal story. We all come from vastly different backgrounds. I think the trick is trying to make it easily accessible to anyone who reads it, though we cant please everyone, and its easier said than done. :) This story is very different from my experience, but that is why I love it. It lets me peek into a world I might otherwise know nothing about. And that is the wonderful thing about art. It broadens our individual and collective worlds :)
12th Nov 2014 6:12pm
The first half is in present tense, second half in past.
This is a gripping tale, but a couple of times I got a bit confused it may be me being slow on a cultural level but here goes:
Why does the grandad have a dunce cap? For Sunday school, but then, why describe the KKK caps as dunce caps? Was that just sass? ;)
I understood that the narrator and his family were black, but then this confused me: "He was charcoal in complexion though his was his own, not borrowed for the summer like mine."
Is that just to distinguish between two different shades, though both characters are black? Is this important to the plot? I like the way it was written, though, "borrowed from summer" is a great phrase.
About your killer ending, I see that the boy goes home and finds his family dead... but so is he..? What a twist, even though I knew it was a ghost story before I started! Good one, enjoyed that.
This is a gripping tale, but a couple of times I got a bit confused it may be me being slow on a cultural level but here goes:
Why does the grandad have a dunce cap? For Sunday school, but then, why describe the KKK caps as dunce caps? Was that just sass? ;)
I understood that the narrator and his family were black, but then this confused me: "He was charcoal in complexion though his was his own, not borrowed for the summer like mine."
Is that just to distinguish between two different shades, though both characters are black? Is this important to the plot? I like the way it was written, though, "borrowed from summer" is a great phrase.
About your killer ending, I see that the boy goes home and finds his family dead... but so is he..? What a twist, even though I knew it was a ghost story before I started! Good one, enjoyed that.
Thanks for taking the time to read it and pepper this with questions ... It helps me know if I'm creating clear lines for my readers or if I've gone off somewhere too far ...
I tried to setup a circular story. It starts off in the kitchen with the grandfather and his grandson (the protagonist) as they prepare for the KKK to march by ... What the reader doesn't realize midway point is that the KKK circled around and attack the family, killing them all. I give a subtle hint of this in the line "come true morning" meaning their spirits have moved on.
Because the grandson is a bit of a handful the grandfather does keep a dunce cap in the kitchen to admonish his grandson when he doesn't take his bible studies seriously (even as a ghost and with three dead the kid stole a sweet cake) ... The young boy having been punished with his own dunce cap sees the KKK hoods as such (they're white and pointed).
The complexion reference is an experience I often went through after a summer in the south with my grandparents. I would literally go from pecan to blueberry after two months of playing in the Carolina sun; but envied the rich dark hue of my friends and family there because they got to keep theirs. Mine faded by end of September.
Your right though it doesn't move the story along so I need to be mindful given the word count limit.
I'm glad the ending was still a surprise given you knew upfront as a reader that it was a ghost story so that gives me some confidence in the work overall.
I'll watch my use of verb usage (present and past) for future writes as I know sometimes I drift. That was an early critique by mikimoondancer of one of my early competition poems so I need to take heed.
Thanks for lending your eyes to this ... I'm looking to do another short story competition with the same publishing group - it's a one week turnaround - not this 48 hour insanity - so I'd greatly appreciate your editing help there.
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I tried to setup a circular story. It starts off in the kitchen with the grandfather and his grandson (the protagonist) as they prepare for the KKK to march by ... What the reader doesn't realize midway point is that the KKK circled around and attack the family, killing them all. I give a subtle hint of this in the line "come true morning" meaning their spirits have moved on.
Because the grandson is a bit of a handful the grandfather does keep a dunce cap in the kitchen to admonish his grandson when he doesn't take his bible studies seriously (even as a ghost and with three dead the kid stole a sweet cake) ... The young boy having been punished with his own dunce cap sees the KKK hoods as such (they're white and pointed).
The complexion reference is an experience I often went through after a summer in the south with my grandparents. I would literally go from pecan to blueberry after two months of playing in the Carolina sun; but envied the rich dark hue of my friends and family there because they got to keep theirs. Mine faded by end of September.
Your right though it doesn't move the story along so I need to be mindful given the word count limit.
I'm glad the ending was still a surprise given you knew upfront as a reader that it was a ghost story so that gives me some confidence in the work overall.
I'll watch my use of verb usage (present and past) for future writes as I know sometimes I drift. That was an early critique by mikimoondancer of one of my early competition poems so I need to take heed.
Thanks for lending your eyes to this ... I'm looking to do another short story competition with the same publishing group - it's a one week turnaround - not this 48 hour insanity - so I'd greatly appreciate your editing help there.
σας ευχαριστώ
sas ef̱charistó̱
