Huh. I thought the repetition was deliberate: as in, awkward teenager, think again, awkward teenager. I thought it was there to smack home the "fishnet tights" line.

I thought it might be, that's why I asked.

I also just noticed, actually, that I used all five senses in mine. It wasn't intentional, it just happened. But it's sorta neat. Left hand, right hand.

Bev, that's a fascinagting point. I wonder how many of the drabbles did use all five senses?

This isn't a drabble, but I've been working on it for a few days and I'd like feedback. I feel like I'm missing something-- a transition somewhere, maybe?

TWO VERSIONS OF ONE STORY

The first time I heard this story, it was told to me by my tenth-grade English teacher, who called me one day in August, the summer before eleventh grade, to tell me that one of my classmates had died.

The reason she was the one to call me was that she had been the faculty advisor for the literary magazine that year, as well as teaching my English class, and Peter-- the boy who died-- had been on the magazine with me. So it fell to my teacher to call us, the seniors who had graduated with Peter and the juniors who had known him for two years, and the sophomores-- there were only three of us-- who were the newest members of the staff, and hadn’t really known any of the seniors. My teacher had to tell each of us in turn that Peter had been jogging, and there had been something wrong with his heart that no one knew about, and he had fallen down and died at the side of the road.

I heard this story over the phone in my basement, where I had gone to escape the summer heat with a stack of books. I remember holding the phone away from me while the words my teacher was saying rearranged themselves into something I understood, and feeling colder that even the air-conditioned basement should have allowed. I felt, for a moment, like I was at the top of a mountain, or on the moon-- someplace high and empty, with very little air.

I don’t know why I reacted as strongly as I did. I think it was because Peter was the first person I ever knew who died, and far younger, I thought, than he had any right to be. But I didn’t really know him, or anything about him. I wish I did, so I could tell a story about his favorite joke, or the books he lent me, or the poem he wrote for the magazine that made me develop a little bit of a crush on him. None of those things happened, though; Peter was just a quiet boy-- he must have been terribly shy, or at least terribly lonely-- who hardly ever spoke in class, and rarely surrendered any of his writing for us to read. The other seniors voted him “Most Talkative,” because he was anything but. I can’t say that I really knew him, or knew anyone who did.

I wish I had known Peter, because then I might understand the second version of this story, which I heard on Halloween of my junior year. I was out with two of my friends that night, the three of us the last hold-outs in our neighborhood who still went trick-or-treating. We might have been talking about the article about Peter that had run in the school newspaper, which would explain how the subject came up, but I can’t say for sure.

My friend who was dressed like Sherlock Holmes told me her version of this story. She said that Peter had not died of a heart attack, had not even had a heart condition, had never been struck down on the sidewalk by the hand of God. She told us that Peter had committed suicide. She said that he hanged himself in his bedroom and his sister found him when she opened the door, and that his sister had been the one who told this story to my friend.

I remember thinking, when I heard this, that Peter’s sister did not seem like someone who would tell this story, or who could possibly have lived it. I knew her from the literary magazine, which she had joined that year, and I can’t say I liked her. Mostly I thought of her as pretentious, and a mediocre writer besides. I conplained about her often, which might have been how that subject of Peter came up in the first place.

I remember thinking, that night, that if she had told my friend this story she was a better writer than I thought.

That Halloween, my friend who was dressed as a black cat sighed and said how sad, she couldn’t believe it. And I, who was dressed as a bumblebee, shook my head and set my antennae wobbling, and wished that I had known Peter so I could know which story to believe.

I don’t know who told me the true version of this story. I wonder sometimes if either one was true, if Peter died of a pain in his chest or a sudden sharp drop, or something else that nobody has taken and fashioned into a story yet. But these stories I know, which have been worn down like stones with the telling, are the same story in the end: there was a quiet boy I didn’t know at all, and he died. Peter died, and if I knew a better way to end it I would tell it to you.

Holli, I love that. I'm sorry, I know that's not actually helpful, but... there it is.

Oh god, you made me cry. The ending is a punch in the gut. The whole thing is amazing.

Holli, it's a strong piece, very strong. If there's something missing - and I'm not certain there is - it may be in the turn of phrase in one or two places, a sense that the narrator is an observor only. That may make it feel a bit chilly, but chill, in this instance, is no bad thing - you're talking about youth, and youth's tendency is not so much to distance, as it is to dramatise. So the detachment here, of the narrator for the subject, is jarring, but I think in interesting ways.

A couple of mechanical notes:

"conplained" - complained. But actually, I'd lose that entire line, to preserve the continuity of thought here: "I knew her from the literary magazine, which she had joined that year, and I can’t say I liked her. Mostly I thought of her as pretentious, and a mediocre writer besides. I remember thinking, that night, that if she had told my friend this story, (add a comma there) she was a better writer than I thought."

I think the story, as told, certainly comes right down to its point: death is the irrefutable fact, and the only mystery is in how we get there.

What did you feel was missing?

(Just realised how editorial I sounded...)

edit: and damn, out the door in ten minutes for writers group. I'm hoping to see all sorts of commentary on this one when I get back.

Deb, thank you! Editorial's exactly what I need.

I was thinking I needed a better transition to the second version of the story, and from that to the conclusion. The mystery is what I mean by "better," and how on earth to write it. It's problematic.

Got it. I love the fact that you're going less for blind emotion on this one than for clarity - because I live in the headspace and heartspace that tends to define the eternal verities as things we spend our lives hunting for clarity about.

I need to be out the door in about ten minutes (writers group, and for once, I'm not hosting, so I need to go there, and it's over in the Castro) - but may I look this one over again, and let my head nibble around its edges, and ping you later? I'll try to check AIM when I get home.

Definitely. I'll be on IM.