The Word Cloud

Jumping Doesn’t Hurt

‘Well, look, he used to beat ten bells of shit out of me- by rights I should despise the bastard. He’d come reeling home, a whole day out on the piss. Drooping eyelids, slurred speech and lolling his eighteen stone about the place. It wouldn’t be long before the slightest thing aggravated his mood. This would then send him into his frenzy, first it’d be just verbal, then the physical stuff.’ Maggie was squeezing the tissue tighter into her palm as she further exposed intimate feelings, ‘Why I feel the need to share this with you I don’t know, but I’ve started it now so here goes’. With a nervous smile Maggie took a sip from her glass and continued, ‘On this particular day, it was a Sunday. I had a strange sensation that something wasn’t quite right, you know how sometimes you just get that feeling? I’d waited for him to come home. I’d prepared the meal, a roast, he always said he enjoyed my roast-dinners. I’d got everything ready so it could go straight onto the table.

The kids had been bribed and coerced into staying out of harm’s way- they’d got older by then and knew the routine. I waited and waited. It’s a bizarre thought pattern: looking back now, I can see that I was wishing he was home and the ritual had actually come to its end.’ Knowing nods and facial expressions of agreement could be seen spreading through the small audience.

Maggie had taken her turn to speak, not with any particular agenda in mind. The other residents of the hostel were taking it in turn to reveal some personal details about themselves and their life experiences. Huddled around the log burning stove, some wore pyjamas; others were dressed in joggers, wrapped in dressing gowns and some with jeans and a loose fitting top. It was nearing midnight. Most of the gathering had been walking quite some distance during the course of the day and by now had gone through quite a few bottles of wine. Except for Joe, apparently he wasn’t in the mood for drinking.

‘Hi my name’s Joe and I’m not an alcoholic or chocoholic for that matter’. An uncomfortable, yet polite, mumbled gesture towards Joe’s humour was made; there was no voiced laughter. Joe seemed quite oblivious to the idea of pleasing his audience. He stood as if ready to recite a poem to his classmates. Fidgeting and pulling down the front of his pullover, while he waited for their undivided attention. Joe tugged at the seat of his corduroy’s to ease them from the crack of his arse.

‘What I am though is a very abandoned and recovering victim of domestic violent behaviour.’ Joe’s opening and apparent hook had brought the group, women and men to an abrupt quietness. Joe appeared not to be faking the despair and listless tone in his voice, he continued. ‘I don’t think that Johnny meant to do the things he did, I know he loved me. It was our love for each other that kept us going; we always used to say that’. Some of the listeners weren’t sure of the responses they should be giving. Quick glances and raised eyebrows injected the group. ‘Even after some of the most appalling rows we would always make-up and thank our lucky fortune that we had each other to cling to.’

Joe was determined to iron-out his story, crease by crease. He’d adopted a forlorn look of servitude and at certain points during the narration he would dab his forehead or the bridge of his nose with his crumpled monogrammed handkerchief. Away on business when he received the call to notify him that Johnny had in fact jumped from a bridge, the Humber Bridge, Joe added for effect. Almost as if being one of the largest single span suspension bridges, in the world, gave the situation more credence. The details were not backwards at coming forward. Johnny had chosen a reasonably quiet time of day and parked his car in the viewing area; apparently this was on the Yorkshire side of the bridge. I’m not sure what the significance was but again there seemed to be certain importance put on the finer detail of Joe’s story.

A steady walk back towards Lincolnshire had been brought to an abrupt end. It seemed like a funny time to be bringing up the politics of county boundaries. I suppose he descended ‘Humber- middle’, it couldn’t have been that abrupt, those railings take some climbing. Johnny had dropped so close to the structure that his body had been smashed on the concrete plinth before it had chance to meet with the freezing waters of the estuary. His abandoned car had been found two days before his redundant body had washed-up on the shoreline near Skegness. Cannabis suppositories had been found in his system. The crease of detail had just deepened. There was no intended comic effect in these very personal accounts. Perhaps it was just a mechanism I had adopted; it’s easier to see the funny side, sometimes.

I knew eventually I would be expected to share some detail of my life, it wasn’t a prerequisite of the trip. I think Sonia had got it in a nutshell; “but I think if you really want to be accepted... it’s probably best to join in”. It felt like some sort of initiation ceremony, maybe we were going to be taking a sacrificial lamb up into the moors after all.

The way the night was going I was unsure whether to mention the length of hose I had in the

back of the car. It may send out the wrong signal or perhaps someone might take it upon

themselves to beat the sorrow monger’s around the head with it. I was glancing around the

‘common room’; at least I think that’s what they call the main sitting area in a YHA. There were a
few cards of thanks, a note with emergency numbers for the caretaker (Ok, not for him, so he

could be got hold of.) and some rather innocent looking pictures pinned to the notice board. I

think it must have been the innocence of the clumsy colouring-in that brought the tear to the tip

of my nose. The memory stabbed into my conscious. It’s weird sometimes how the strangest of

things can trigger a memory.

Hi 7thSon

An interesting and intriguing piece that leaves many questions unanswered and reveals nothing of where its headed. Tons of potential here.

It does seem to me that it suffers from a confused POV that ends up confusing the reader (or me at least). Nor is the setting explained and with the POV issue it just makes things worse. For example the opening Para, as written it does not make it clear that the narrator is actually the person observing Maggie. It reads like Maggie's own POV. Then the whole thing seems to switch to Joe's with a transition through an undefined POV. I think the confusion arises because you do not present the context or the place in which these folk are speaking. Instead you reveal it slowly as the piece progresses and, in my opinion, doing so just adds to the confusion, is it some sort of self-help support group or a bunch of friends telling secrets in a YHA?

On another issue, some of the dialogue doesn't quite ring true for me, for example:
Well, look, he used to beat ten bells of shit out of me: by rights I should despise the bastard. He’d come reeling home, a whole day out on the piss. Drooping eyelids, slurred speech and lolling his eighteen stone about the place. It wouldn’t be long before the slightest thing aggravated his mood. This would then send him into his frenzy, first it’d be just verbal, then the physical stuff.’

would someone talk that way, especially "drooping eyelids," etc? Maybe something like,

Well, look, he used to beat ten bells of shit out of me: by rights I should despise the bastard. He’d come reeling home after a whole day out on the piss. Drooping eyelids, slurred speech and lolling his eighteen stone about the place. It wouldn’t be long before the slightest thing aggravated his mood would set him off: This would then send him into his frenzy. First it’d be just verbal, then the physical stuff.’

I think, with a little time spent setting the scene a a few tweaks in the dialogue this looks like shaping into a winner.

I agree with Malcolm. The dialogue sounds more like narrative as it is. Use dialogue to establish voice and character - is he the type of person that would use slang or speak in clipped sentences?
Also there should be no : colons or ; semi-colons in dialogue.

Nashelle _ Malcolm

Thanks for the fantastic feedback and for the valuable time you have spent looking at the piece. I'll go through the comments and sort the next draft using your pointers.

Thanks again... keep smiling...

G'day 7thSon,

This has the hooks built in that have me wanting more as a reader. The idea of people sharing is fine with me, given extensive experience of just that.

What the piece requires is:

1 A background and location. Where is this happening, and when, and what is going on in the world, and in this building?
2 Change to point of view so that the shifts do not disjoint the narrative making it difficult to follow.
3 General editing.
4 The dialogue grates, and does not sound authentic, with changes it will engage the reader.

The absorbing story is there and can really ho0k once honed. As Malcolm said, potential.

Greyowl59 (Charles)

I thought at first that the setting was a refuge hostel for abused women, and that introducing a male victim of domestic abuse was an intriguing idea. As I read on, I found that this wasn't, after all, what the piece was about.(attempted paragraph break) Also rather confusing was the way that Maggie's story ends so abruptly: I felt as if someone had torn a page out!(another attempted paragraph break) There are a few peculiar usages, eg: 'raised eyebrows injected the group'. Injected? (still trying to get it to let me do a paragraph break) Cannabis suppositories?!!! Are there such things? And if so, WHY??? I guess they'd not only make your eyes red, they'd make 'em water as well!

Hi,

Thanks Wrathner the Unreasonable and Em,

It's all taken onboard and just waiting for the time to re-draft.

Thanks again for your comments.

Keep smiling...