Monthly Archives: August 2010

“You only get one shot,” the man with the cigar says, “Make it count.” The burning stub illuminates his grizzled face.

Cesar Rodriguez looks down to a pistol is cradled in his grip. He never asks the obvious question: Where did the gun come from? Cesar aims. If he stopped to think about it, he would not have remembered how he knew where the target was, either.

“What’re you waiting for?” the man with the cigar asks. “Shoot!”

The target falls to the ground, but Cesar does not hear the shot.

Cesar realizes the man with the cigar has no name.

Korth’ax cannot seem to make up his mind as he peruses the nutritional supplements.

Lorgwain the Unlicensed approaches Korth’ax. “May me help you?” he says in a gravelly voice.

“Korth’ax look for supplement to give me edge,” Korth’ax says.

“Lorgwain have drugs. Very potent. Very illegal,” Lorgwain motions down the illicit drug aisle.

“Me not in that scene,” explains Korth’ax, “Me believe in natural solution.”

Lorgwain sighs, “Me have fish oil. Good for brain, also make smell good for she-orcs.”

“Bit expensive,” Korth’ax says pensively, “Korth’ax on budget.”

“Human oil cheap,” Lorgwain says, “Side effects include desire to destroy own species.”

“I return from robbing the rich to give to the—What’re you doing?” Robin Hood announced as he entered the humble cottage.

“Oh, hey, Robin,” Peasant Pickens did not get up off the sack of potatoes that had been fashioned into a sitting device to greet him. “Good job.”

Robin stared incredulously, “Have you even gone outside today?”

“Outside?” Pickens shifted to a more comfortable potato, “What’s the point if you’re helping us out?”

“I did not take up the vigilante life so you could become the very potatoes you sit upon!”

And thus “couch potato” entered into the common vernacular.

René sits alone outside a café. His coffee has become lukewarm. He absentmindedly fiddles with a spoon in his hand, as he looks down Market Street.

One car drives past him and makes a left turn onto Lafontaine and disappears behind an old brick building.

René takes a sip of his coffee, and returns to the spoon. His reflection appears distorted and upside-down in its reflective face.

The ground trembles, and coffee cup rattles on its saucer.

“It’s begun,” René says. He drains the cup of its remaining contents.

His last thoughts drift to regret that only he decided to stay.

Continued from Reader-Response Criticism- Part 1.

Ursula reads one sentence of Hank’s rough draft and practically spits fire. “It did not take hold of me. Try again.”

“But it—”

“Try again!” Ursula says through clenched teeth.

“It’s just a draft,” Hank tries to explain.

“Fine!” Ursula reads one more half sentence, “Your character’s name is dumb and cliché. She should be named Reginald. Also she should be a man. Also he should be a dog, because I like dogs.”

“But it’s a story about—”

Ursula sighs deeply, “There you go again! What are you going to say? That my opinion is invalid? That I don’t get it?”

“Hey, Ursula—”

“What do you want?” Ursula growls.

Hank jumps back a bit, “I’m, uh, working on a novel. Thought since you’re such a great writer, maybe you’d like to see my work in progress.”

“I don’t like proofreading other people’s work,” Ursula says, snatching the papers from Hank.

“I didn’t—”

“I don’t want to hear you make excuses! It’s never my genuine opinion! I either didn’t get it, or I didn’t read it close enough, or I’m in a bad mood, or I’m being grumpy for whatever reason. If I, the reader, am not impressed, it’s the author’s fault. Always.”

To be continued…