[Matt Q]

The Woods

Wednesday, and there’s nothing on TV. There never is. They walk the woods for hours. His grey mongrel bitch is Benjy, like his first dog, like every dog he’s ever had. It’s dusk. He thinks she’s scared a rabbit, then glimpses a blouse the colour of moss, a face behind a fern, a mouth of blood and lipstick, half-open eyes. He stops to tie the dog, squats to touch a cheek as cold as evening woods, rolls a cigarette, sits and smokes, watches an ant crawl haphazard across her lips. Takes out a grimy handkerchief and spits – begins to clean her face, mumbles. Leaves her his coat -- an afterthought against the frosting of the coming night.

Home is how it always is. A forked path of carpet through an undergrowth of pizza boxes, unopened mail, empty bottles of cut-price coke. Left to kitchen, right to couch, the only roads he takes – bedroom long since stolen by the woods. He sleeps wrapped in TV static, a blanket of grease and semi-darkness, wakes to banging. At the door it’s her: cleaned-up face, blouse open a button lower than before. She holds him on the couch, cradles head to ice-cold bosom, like his mother might once have done, but never did. He wakes. His room is how it’s always been.

Thursday morning. The woods again. Leaves the dog at home, gathers stitchwort, bluebells, pink purslane. She’s waiting, wears his coat, but it’s not the welcome of his dream: her face grown darker, a thundercloud of bruises spread across a winter sky. He doesn’t stay. He leaves the flowers and lets the trail take him back to couch and dog and the nothing that’s always on T.V. He finds a plate that’s almost clean, spreads sliced white bread with margarine, crams sandwiches with budget crisps, sinks two foaming litres of plastic coke.

That night she’s at the door again, crashes in – one eye gone, worms all over, woodlice in her hair. She rips back her blouse, exposes perfect breasts, bright mushroom white, starts towards him, tongue caressing scabbing lips. He screams himself awake, breaks the stillness of an almost Friday dawn, goes straight out. Stops at the allotments, steals a spade. Buries her rolled up in his coat, throws in the faded bouquet, staggers back, spade still gripped in muddy hands. Stays in for a quiet TV day, a silent dreamless night.

The next night, another dream. Bluebottles in their millions, emerging iridescent from her grave, buzzing insistent as a doorbell – wakes to banging, dogs barking, grabs the spade, stumbles half-awake toward the door, freezes, can’t go further. The door bursts in. It’s Sunday morning, and the dawn swarms with the busyness of police.
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[John Riley]

Matt, this one is difficult to critique. First off, as I said before about a poem on the met board, this has your mark. It's your voice. No one else's. I guess I consider that such an achievement because I feel I'm still floating around between different ones. The descriptions of the dreams of the outside and the life of the inside are very vivid.

He thinks she’s scared a rabbit, then glimpses a blouse the colour of moss, a face behind a fern, a mouth of blood and lipstick, half-open eyes.

This may be as good as it can get.

My question is about the structure. I'm not convinced the separate paragraphs work as well as if the entire story was woven in a paragraph. Yes, I know I like long paragraphs and long sentences, but I'm intrigued thinking of how this would work if the inside/outside were woven more tightly together. When the continuing chaos becomes more overwhelming what if it sprang loose at the end? It'd be like watching a chicken embryo bursting through the shell if done right. It may demand more of the reader but I think it'd be worth it.

What I'm talking about is making a good story/prose poem--are you as tired as I am trying to make the unnecessary distinction?--more intense. I may be on the wrong path, though.

I hope this helps.

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Matt—

Happy Halloween! Vivid description in the first three paragraphs. I particularly like “a thundercloud of bruises spread across a winter sky.” Nice ambiguity about when he is awake or asleep and whether he killed her or not.

In P1 he seems to simply stumble upon her body and immediately begins providing samples of his DNA and fingerprints on everything around her. In P2 it states that he “wakes to banging,” but he is still asleep when she enters and cuddles with him, not actually waking until the end of the paragraph. This throws doubt on whether he actually “wakes to banging” in the last P.

The crowded squalor of his domicile and the static on the television suggest serious mental illness, so it is remotely possible that he killed the girl and doesn’t remember it. I prefer to believe that someone else killed the girl that he found, but that the police at the end are real and will arrest him for the murder. It’s quite certain they’ll get a conviction. Fun read!

Glenn

[Jim Moonan]

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When I first read this a couple of days ago I had wanted to be the first to respond because it gives one the freedom to say things that might not otherwise be relevant if others have already commented. But I waited too long and now I'm third. C'est la vie.

Now I'm left to say “What Glenn said” and “What John said”. In fact, I had singled out the exact sentence that John did:

“He thinks she’s scared a rabbit, then glimpses a blouse the colour of moss, a face behind a fern, a mouth of blood and lipstick, half-open eyes.”

It’s great writing. It is. What John said.

My first thought was to gather up all the great phrases and just admire them. Hold them like a handful of lovely beach stones and pocket them to bring home.

I love "The door bursts in." There is something so pleasingly perplexing about the door bursting “in” vs. “open”. Some doors open in and some doors open out. But it does not correlate to the actual context in which the person enters or exits. I could think about it for hours. For days, maybe. When a door burst open, whether it be in or out, it is always something fantastic.

I love the rhythm you create by mixing short sentences with longer ones. I get the sense that this is written as director’s notes for a script. I think this story would make for a great short video. No dialog. I can easily see a good director taking nothing but this short piece and making a 15-minute short film. Most good poems give me that sense. This might not be a poem but it’s definitely poetic.

The end is startling.

I might be back.


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[John Riley]

Am I wrong in thinking it is all madness? No one is actually dead? He never leaves the house?