Critique of Elle’s “Stockholm Syndrome”

“Stockholm Syndrome” presents the journal entries of a young narrator (still living with mother) with an undetermined gender who has become host to a colony of parasitic wasps.  Each entry demonstrates a shift in the protagonist’s attitude towards the situation, beginning with sheer discomfort and ending in dissatisfaction at the wasp’s surgical extraction.  As the wasps multiply and continue to build their colony in the host’s arm, further intruding on his/her wellbeing, the host develops empathy for the rampant wasps and views them on an almost human level.  This feeling of attachment increases even during severe reactions and blackouts (entries for February 18^th and 19^th are unaccounted for.

The story is well crafted with great sensory detail.  I almost had sympathy pains for the narrator because the case was presented so vividly.  The repeated phrase, “Wasps place great import on symmetry,” has a nice ring to it and may add more symmetry to the story if used a little more frequently.    

Critique of Laurel’s “Theodicy”

The most noticeable story element that is experimented with in “Theodicy” is time.  The speaker seems to have woken up from a nightmare, one side effect from her depression medication.  Prompted by “Let’s Reminisce,” she informs the reader that she has been treated for depression for a long time, listing various symptoms she has endured since the onset.  After tracing likely causes of her depression and the course of her treatment, the speaker begins to address an anonymous “you.”  She flashes back to her friend/lover’s several failed suicide attempts, of which the speaker was either an accomplice or witness, and the moments of embrace that followed.  Recalling the attempt that didn’t fail, the speaker returns her attention to the present, the 3-month supply of meds, and the fifth of cheap vodka, and says “Let’s forget.”  It is unclear if she is hoping to be temporarily numb to the memories or if she is about to make her own suicide attempt.

 
The term theodicy signifies the branch of theology that tries to explain why a benevolent, all-knowing, all-powerful God would permit evil to exist.  While this story certainly presents several forms of “evil,” no god figure is defended on its behalf.  Should you keep this title, consider ways to include this debate.  I recall mention during class of attributing the psychiatrist with god-like characteristics.  This could be interesting.

Critique of Yvonne’s “Evidence”

“Evidence” is a collection of virtual correspondences through a missed connection on Craigslist, emails, and text messages.  Until the final page, the reader is lead to believe that this Will Peters is cheating on his fiancé, Margaret, with Kat, who he met at a Mexican restaurant.  After reaching out to Kat with a Craigslist missed connection, Will covers up the affair by communicating with his mistress through email.  Supposedly Darlene, Margaret’s sister, served Kat at a coffee shop and accessed her email account after discussing a love interest that sounded very similar to Margaret’s fiancé.  The final page offers a drastic shift when it is revealed that sixteen year Darlene went through the trouble of fabricating the entire scenario so that her sister would not leave for NYC. 

 You experiment, almost obsessively, with text and the various lingos associated with virtual communication.  The story accurately mimics the format of Craigslist ads, emails, and text messages viewed on an iPhone.  It is so convincing that one could suspect that you cut and pasted the text from online sources.  The effort that you put into the composition is impressive.  I’m just a little skeptical that a 16 year old would commit so much time to creating fake email accounts and conversations to keep her sister at home before just talking to her.  Still, the story is very well crafted.

Critique of Alex’s “Whoever Claims it Hardest, Remembers it most obsessively”

Your story provides a rather enlightening look at the nature of memory.  The speaker provides a list of ten of her most vivid memories.  They pertain to different epochs of her life, arranged by their degree of impression on her. While they may not seem especially profound to the average person, the memories reveal subtle moments of personal discovery for the speaker, all recollecting experiences in a modest bathroom.  The sensory detail interlaced into the piece is very creative and amusing.

There is not an extreme shift in language within the text, even when reciting memories from early youth.  The text does, however, alternate between centered poetic verse and the list of memories.  The list is merely a catalogue or collage of memories, while surrounding verse offers philosophical reflections on memory in general.  I found the last paragraph the most intriguing because it approaches memory as a portal into the past, comparing it with the enchanted doorways to alternate universes in fantasy stories.  The final line, “No one pukes there,” demonstrates that the narrator would prefer real memory over a rabbit hole because memory often reminds people of the struggles or uncomfortable moments they had to endure and overcome to get to the present.

Critique of Tre’s “The Memory Book”

At first I thought the mouse was an inconsequential aspect of the story, but after closer reading (with the help of the class) I realized that it was used as the inciting incident that brought the memory book into the plot.  It seems unlikely that an old woman could cause the entire house to shake by stomping on the cellar floor, but I like how you attributed such significance to a little critter that would otherwise be seen as a pest.  Without it, there wouldn’t have been a story. 

Simile and repetition are used invariably throughout.  Their effect is quite clever at times, but the occurrence of simile becomes a little excessive and the repeated phrases do not come up frequently enough to have any major contribution to the plot or impact on the reader. 

 
There were a couple instances of ambiguity in the story, particularly the old woman’s movement through the cellar and the way she fell from the window.  I think it would also help to investigate the old woman’s past, giving the reader more information concerning how she was traumatized by her childhood and her father, and how she came to lock herself in a cellar.  You might give her a name, too.  The story will be easier to follow if you clear up these elements

Fiction #3: Fallow Will

He glares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, scrutinizing the complexion that has only begun to clear up recently, still riddled with scars that testify to years of bursting pimples with dirty nails. 

His head falls. 

Dry hands clasp his face and finger tips press into his temples, and these units of unreliable hands try to till some fertile effort into his skull, but fail.  They merely drag from his forehead, over his eye sockets, to his chin, leaving a red impression in their tracks.

His head rises.

He scrapes his eyes to where his hands began and examines a freshly shaved scalp, which reveals only an awkwardly shaped head.  The purpose of shaving it was to make way for change, but all it did was remind him of what he is stuck with.

His head falls.

A congested nose points right to stale towels, left to a door open to an unkempt bedroom, right to greasy blinds that block the sun, left to the front door through which he should emerge into the world, but he is hopelessly plastered to cold linoleum tiles.  Sniffles.

His head rises.

His eyes meet his own.  He leans in as though to better understand them.  Fruitless.  There is only a void in each, neither casting a glimmer from their depths.  He looks deeper.  Flat blue irises contract.  Pupils dilate.  Voids expand.  He plummets.

His head remains.

He falls for miles, eons.  Estranged from reality, further distracted from where he should be and what he is expected to do.  No matter.  In this moment he is a traveler of time and space, and he chooses his path, his destination.  He can worry about lost time later, like always.

His head remains.

All he can see is grey.  All he can feel is cold mist saturating his skin and an even colder wind embedding the liquid shrapnel into his flesh.  He listens in the distance for something else, but can only hear the howl of the wind taunting him. He walks.

His head remains.

Up ahead the fog assumes a lighter tint.  No longer opaque, but only slightly translucent.  He walks further.  There is certainly light up ahead.  There is an escape.  His feet gain speed.  He begins to run.  Brighter.  Brighter still.  The fog is behind him.

            His head remains.

He stares out at the expanse in front of him.  A green valley stretches for miles, surrounded by towering mountains that continue beyond the horizon.  Everything showered in the warmth of the sun.  Everything alive and with purpose.

            His head remains.

            He shouts into the open air and smiles as his cry soars without resistance.  Such sustenance.  It echoes a dozen fold, each reverberation coming back to greet him. Coming back to kiss his ears, but he recognizes the voice.  Thunder sounds.  He falls.

His head shakes violently.

The world shrinks.  The expanse narrows.  He sees only himself, judging himself.  Stuck in the here and now but not sure what to do about it.  So much to catch up on but not sure where to begin.  So eager to live, but not sure how to move forward. 

His head falls.  His head remains.