Critique on "Whoever Claims It Hardest, Remembers It Most Obsessively"

Sara Angela Rodriguez

A415-002/Chambers

Student Critique/ Whoever Claims It Hardest, Remembers It Most Obsessively

31 January 2013

Question: if your first sentence your title, part of the piece, or both? I assumed that it was the title because it was the first line and the structure in which you have the first section of the piece resembles a poem (and you know the rule for non-title poems). I think that presenting your title like this is an excellent idea. It brings you right to the middle of the action, which I assume is thinking. What you are thinking about is clear—at least to me (you are remember different circumstances you’ve experience in bathrooms, right?). What I had a problem figuring out is where you were and why you were remembering these specific events. From you last section I kind of got the feeling that you were in a bathroom (“The circumference of cold porcelain brands my skin […]” I assumed was a toilet seat) but I wasn’t sure what you were doing there (there are different reasons you can go to the restroom as I’m sure you know). The last line of your piece especially interests me. It made me think that this whole series of remembrances/memories is going through your head while you’re puking from a drunken night on the town. I really liked your piece and I can’t wait to find out the story behind the bathroom memoirs.   

Critique on "Graffiti"

Sara Angela Rodriguez

A415-002/Chambers

Student Critique/ Graffiti

31 January 2013

I really enjoyed reading your story. I like how you have different sections of, what I assume is, graffiti on the walls and then a short story underneath it elaborating on the title, basing itself from the title, or just giving a story. I would have loved it if for each section you used a different font; I think that this would have given it a more graffiti like feeling and it would help to emphasis that each section contained a different story/was written by a different person/contained a different concept.  I really liked all your sections but my favorite of them all would have to be the “Mad Skillz” section. I feel like even though that didn’t really go along with the rest of your sections (which focused more on the graffiti itself as opposed to the artist(s)) it was very well written, entertaining, and heart-wrenching. I feel like you can relate to the story being told. I especially like the idea that “one misunderstood soul [can] reach out through the barriers society imposes […]” by doing something that most would see as counter-society. Once again I enjoyed your story. I think that most of the criticism I have deal with the structure of the piece; those I have written on the story itself.

Critique on "Overlap"

Sara Angela Rodriguez

A415-002/Chambers

Student Critique/ Overlap

29 January 2013

I wanted to start off by saying: Great title for this piece! When I first read the title I was wondering how it was going to fit into the piece because the two stories did not seem to be connected but when the pool came into the picture I knew that the poor journalist was going to find a surprise before the cement was ready to go down. I think that the way that you used the two stories was excellent; you told both without them interfering with each other—they only “overlapped” in the end.  However, I do think that some of the words, clauses, and sentences in the text seemed a little awkward and at times hard to read. One specific clause whose meaning I was a little confused on was found on page three and reads: “simply tamped down once time had rendered their remains.” After reading it over a bit I figured out what was going on but it just seems to…how to say this…complicated a concept. I think that it’s the “simply tamped” that throws me off. Maybe something simpler like ‘filled in’ would work. Then there were instances where the emotion was shown too much, or not enough. On the same page you have the mother simply frowning when he touches her daughter’s cheek, which she refers to as an ‘it’, when before she was wailing and sobbing. Little things like this threw me off but overall you have a good piece.

Critique on "The Memory Book"

Sara Angela Rodriguez

A415-002/Chambers

Student Critique/ The Memory Book

29 January 2013

I loved, and was admittedly creeped-out by, the images in your story: from the very human-like “bare feet” and long “fingernails” to the anima-like “mucus bubb[ing] in her throat.” But, often times I was left asking, “Who is this intense image/portrait/trait accredited to or describing?” I felt that everything worked well in isolation but I am sad to admit that I was a bit confused while reading the story as a whole. For a while I thought that the story was about a mouse making its way through a house attempting to remember the paths it had forged when it was younger. Then I thought it was about this old, decrepit, dying old mousy woman. But, after reading a bit I saw that the two were separate entities (right? They are separate entities?)  and that the story started off by being told from the perspective of the (now dead) mouse and finished off by being told from the perspective of the (now dead) woman. I think that if that’s the case you should have a break or separation somewhere to indicate you are shifting from one character to another. Besides that little mix up I honestly thought your story was amazingly intense. It creeped me out a bit, but I felt that that made it even better. Great job!

Sara Rodriugez-Fiction Piece 2: "Concussion"

Sara Angela Rodriguez

A415-002/Chambers

Fiction Piece #1

1/17/2013

I wrote this to sort of kind of resemble the stream of consciousness writing done in Robert Walser’s short writing, “New Year Page.” I also wrote this so that I could experiment a little with voice, time movement, and indirect address of topics. I hope it works.

Concussion

I wake up in the middle of the afternoon; vision blurred mouth dry, head pained, stomach emptied. I stumble out of bed and open the door into the hall.

I walk in and they’re all there. They stare at me with those eyes of contempt, those eyes that blame, those eyes that sting. I told them sorry in advance for all the stupid things I would do that night but apparently my ‘sorries’ were only taken as jokes. Now I’m being held accountable for all the things they know they would have done if they would have gotten the chance.

They look away now. They ignore my presence and continue to watch their stupid little show on their ridiculous 50’ H.D.T.V. Who needs that big of a screen? Who needs to see cartoons in 3 fuckin’ D? Not I.  I walk towards the bathroom. It’s locked. I want to ask them why but now they’re laughing at the poor coyote getting fucked over by that bitch of a bird. An anvil lands on his head as he runs to check what’s wrong with the trap. It didn’t go off when the bird pecked at the seed. It was supposed to go off. It was supposed to land on that god damn bird and finish him, but it didn’t. It’s his anvil, it’s his trap, it’s not supposed to hurt him, but he falls victim to it anyway. They’re laughing at the poor sap. Poor coyote. What kind of sick minds came up with this show? They’re obviously masochists. They like pain. Otherwise why would they put up with it so much? I might be a vegetarian but I want that bird finished. I want that coyote to trap him, chop off his neck, hang him by his ridiculously long legs, let the blood drain from his limp-lifeless body, then I want to see him skinned, roasted, devoured: meat ravished, bones licked, sucked dry, and the remains left there; ironically eaten by his brethren fuckin’ cannibals.  Hell, I want to help the coyote eat that bird. I want to take part in his victory—his triumph. I want to sit next to that coyote while we’re eating that bird and talk about how his speed and his ‘smarts’ amount to nothing: he’s dead now and nothing can help him. I want to sit next to that coyote as he rises from his seat with a drumstick in his hand, points it as the heavens, and laughs this laugh that echoes.

Their laughs, they echo. They’re laughing at me aren’t they? Bastards. They’re laughing at the fact that I passed out pissed drunk last night. They’re laughing because I can’t hold my liquor. They’re laughing because I tried to have sex with that stripper failing only because I hadn’t paid my thirty bucks to get into the club. They’re laughing because no one would serve me a drink until I sang my ABC’s backwards which I can’t even do sober.  They hate me. I can see it in their eyes—those laughs are proof. But guess what? I ain’t no fuckin’ road runner. If anything I’m more like …now they’re silent. They’ve noticed me. They’ve stopped laughing. But their laughter echoes. Even if they stop laughing now it will keep playing in my mind only getting distant with time.

***********************

It’s been three days since they’ve talked to me. Well, at least I think it’s been three days. Let’s see: Friday is one (or does it count?), Saturday two (or one), Sunday three (or two), Monday four (or three), and now Tuesday five (or four). No, it’s been four to five days since we last talked. They’ve spent their time cooking, cleaning, watching those damn cartoons, and…shit. Five days? Has it really been five days? I don’t remember. The last thing I remember is being downstairs. Then I was trying to buy a drink. Then I was staring at my ceiling. Then I was in the living room, then bathroom, now here. Where is here? Does it really matter? All that matters is that here is not there. I don’t want to be there with those twats. They think that they’re all high and FUCKIN’ mighty because they remember what happened. Well, let me tell you my philosophy on life: the less you care about something, the happier you are. And how can I care about something that I don’t remember? If I don’t remember and no one will tell me what happened then I can only say: I don’t give a shit! I don’t give a shit about what I did, about what I said, or about anything. I-DO-NOT-GIVE-A-SHIT!

***********************

I swear they’re idiots. If they would have told me I hit my head that night I would have come in sooner. Now look at me: confined to this excuse of a bed in this germ producing factory they call a hospital. Hospital my ass. We’re supposed to come out feeling better when we go to the hospital but we only come out feeling worse. Or maybe we do come out better. Maybe we’re supposed to have bad experiences at hospitals to make us appreciate our good experiences in life. Or, maybe hospitals operate under a sort of Epicurean doctrine: they’re set up so that we can experience the most physical pleasure in the long run only after suffering through a short period of agonizing and unbearable pain. But, that’s unlikely. These mothers don’t know shit about philosophy. I came out feeling worse alright. I feel worse and I have a shit load of pills to pop. I guess the pills aren’t so bad. They’re more that I can add to my collection. I can only think that this could have all been avoided if they had cared more about me instead of the clubs that they couldn’t get into because of me. They say that they want me to remember them when everything is said and done, when we move on, when we move out, when we ‘grow up’, and God will I! I could have died and all they were worried about is getting a drink, getting laid, and getting high. But then again…I set my own trap.

***********************

That damn coyote. He set his own trap. He didn’t do it on purpose.  He was trying to kill that bird. That bird. He takes advantage of that coyote and then runs away. He runs because he’s afraid to feel anything. He’s afraid that he will see what he’s done to the coyote. He’s afraid that he’ll feel sorry, that he’ll feel bad, for what he’s done and then be forced to make things right. He’s afraid that he’ll see the coyote all wrapped up in bandages, lying on a stretcher, with a metal plate in his head and be forced to...by his conscious...to give himself up.

word count: 1,149