[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 and the dawn is swarming.

--------------------------------------

Ending was: "It’s Sunday morning, and the dawn swarms with the busyness of police.". Then "The door bursts in on a swarming Sunday morning". Then, " It's Sunday morning. The dawn swarms with police."




.


The Woods (single paragraph version)

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.



The Woods (single paragraph version with dividers)

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.

[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]

.
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 ominous about a door "bursting". Edit: for a moment I had forgotten why the door bursts in. So never mind about whatever it was I said before about doors opening in or out and entering and exiting. That was just me being me : )

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.


.

[John Riley]

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

[Matt Q]

John, Glenn and Jim,

Many thanks for the comments. I'm pleased this went down well. I actually wrote this about 10 years ago, as a lineated poem, and had forgotten about it. Rereading it the other day, it struck me it might well worked better as presented as a short story than a poem, so I dusted it off, polished up a little, and laid it out in paragraphs.

John,

I think I'm happy with most readings. As Glenn says, the dream aspect actually calls a fair bit into question. I hadn't thought that he'd imagined/hallucinated finding the body, though, but I think I'm fine with that reading too. In some ways, the more possibilities that enter the reader's mind, the better.

At your suggestion, I've posted a single-paragraph version -- not the easiest thing to read on the Sphere, with the narrow line spacing, and definitely easier to read in Word. My initial thought is that I'm not sure if works that well. I think maybe the transitions (of scene, of day) are harder to spot, and it gets more disorienting than intense. But as with all these things, who knows what I'll think when I leave it for a while and come back and read it with fresh eyes. However, I also played with marking the transitions with a '/', and I quite like the effect. It does now seem more intense than the paragraph-spaced version. I'd be interested to hear what you think.

I did wonder if you also offering an alterative suggestion in which the there's a long initial paragraph, then to break out of that format? "When you said, what if it sprang loose at the end?", I wasn't sure if that's what you meant.

Glenn,

Your reading was the one I'd had in mind: That it reads like he just stumbles across the body and then seriously incriminates himself, but that there's also a question mark over whether or not he's also the killer.

I hadn't actually thought about how much ambiguity the dreamed of door-knockings cast on the final door knocking: that maybe there no police in reality. But in future I shall be sure to take full credit for it

Though I guess, in the final paragraph, as in the preceding one, there is "he wakes" (or some variation on that) before the (apparently) waking scene. I'm imagining that the police first try the door-bell, which is what wakes him, then they bang on the door, then they smash the door in. In the original version I mentioned the door-bell again in the waking part, but on revising, decided that was unnecessary.

Jim,

I'm pleased you enjoyed it. Thanks for letting me know what's working well for you. I love the idea that this could be a film with no dialogue. It hadn't struck me that this was the case with the story, though of course it is.


Thanks again

Matt

[James Midgley]

Hi Matt,

I came to this thread more or less by accident but ended up reading the story. I liked it a lot -- taut language that isn't precious, doesn't draw too much attention to its materiality. A few more poetic manoeuvres do crop up like 'plastic coke', as well as some nice turns of phrase like the mushroom white and the stormcloud image. They all work and are very pleasing to this reader.

I didn't understand how the bedroom has been stolen by the woods. I also didn't like the final sentence/reveal so much. It feels like a sudden pull-back and instance of over-narration -- I feel the cogs turning. That may have been especially true for me as a reader as I had guessed what the ending would be somewhere halfway through the piece. Something about 'busyness' is especially irksome for me, but also 'it's Sunday morning' as it self-consciously points out the narrative structure that so far hasn't been so distractingly overt.

I prefer the paragraphed version myself.

Anyway I enjoyed the piece. Thanks for the read.

PS: I've been trying to refigure the ending in my head to work out what's bothering me / what I'd prefer. I think even just nixing the busyness would make it sit a lot better for me, modulate the rhythm into something more deadpan: "It's Sunday morning and the dawn swarms with police". You could also see how you feel about an even more deadpan approach like "The door bursts in. It's Sunday morning. The dawn swarms with police." This latter version accentuates the idea that it's Sunday morning that is at the door. But the rhythm may be overly staccato.