- Joined
- Jul 3, 2017
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Here’s an extract from the middle of my 9.5K story, ‘Awareness’: a young, privileged African woman’s cyber-companion is developing rogue self-awareness and conspiring against her. I’m nearly done editing the story and am looking to do some beta-swaps to fine tune it. Any takers?
Longer term I'm looking out for critique partners.
The next morning Thuli brings flowers to the chronic intensive care unit. Flowers! She feels ridiculous. This is beyond her experience. She doesn’t want to be there. But she can’t let Sam down; has to face the final consequence of her actions. (It wasn’t my fault! part of her still silently screams.)
Sam is looking as disheveled as Thuli has ever seen her. There are deep grooves in her face and her eyes are ash pockets. A physician in a hospital coat presents her with a clipboard and pen. “If you could just sign here,” he says, his voice dignified, modulated with calm restraint.
Sam and Thuli stand at the foot of the bed, Thuli shifting the lilies awkwardly in her arms. Bonni lies motionless, except for the ceaseless expansion and contraction of the ventilator. She is thin as ever. No, thinks Thuli, thinner. The crudely drawn stick-girl with her bloated head has become a slim, inverted exclamation mark inscribed on the blue expanse of the bed sheets: inscribed on the edge of eternity, ready to spring impetuously into the blue immensity of heaven.
“I understand you want to be present at the, ah…disconnection?” inquires the physician.
Sam nods.
He moves to stand by the machine and gently asks, “Do you have any words you want to say?”
Sam shakes her head and Thuli, feeling the moment irretrievably slipping by gasps out, “Yes… I do.” She finds herself in the spotlight, once again, playing out the drama that she started, and self-consciously begins: “I never knew Bonni. Everything I know about her I learned from you, Sam. And it makes me sad that I never knew her,” Thuli’s eyes are prickling, “that I never got to see you in her, as she smiled, or moved her head, or ran. I never got to hear you in her voice, those turns of phrase, those intonations that make a family…” Thuli can’t go on.
“Thank you,” whispers Sam. With infinite reluctance she nods to the physician.
With a faint moue he flicks a switch.
And the ventilator cycles to a halt.
A minute passes. Does Bonni twitch? It’s an almost imperceptible tremor.
The physician places a stethoscope over her heart.
“She’s gone.”
Sam and Thuli face each other.
Sam begins to cry. Thuli drops the lilies on the floor and Sam folds into her arms. Thuli begins to cry as well.
Longer term I'm looking out for critique partners.
The next morning Thuli brings flowers to the chronic intensive care unit. Flowers! She feels ridiculous. This is beyond her experience. She doesn’t want to be there. But she can’t let Sam down; has to face the final consequence of her actions. (It wasn’t my fault! part of her still silently screams.)
Sam is looking as disheveled as Thuli has ever seen her. There are deep grooves in her face and her eyes are ash pockets. A physician in a hospital coat presents her with a clipboard and pen. “If you could just sign here,” he says, his voice dignified, modulated with calm restraint.
Sam and Thuli stand at the foot of the bed, Thuli shifting the lilies awkwardly in her arms. Bonni lies motionless, except for the ceaseless expansion and contraction of the ventilator. She is thin as ever. No, thinks Thuli, thinner. The crudely drawn stick-girl with her bloated head has become a slim, inverted exclamation mark inscribed on the blue expanse of the bed sheets: inscribed on the edge of eternity, ready to spring impetuously into the blue immensity of heaven.
“I understand you want to be present at the, ah…disconnection?” inquires the physician.
Sam nods.
He moves to stand by the machine and gently asks, “Do you have any words you want to say?”
Sam shakes her head and Thuli, feeling the moment irretrievably slipping by gasps out, “Yes… I do.” She finds herself in the spotlight, once again, playing out the drama that she started, and self-consciously begins: “I never knew Bonni. Everything I know about her I learned from you, Sam. And it makes me sad that I never knew her,” Thuli’s eyes are prickling, “that I never got to see you in her, as she smiled, or moved her head, or ran. I never got to hear you in her voice, those turns of phrase, those intonations that make a family…” Thuli can’t go on.
“Thank you,” whispers Sam. With infinite reluctance she nods to the physician.
With a faint moue he flicks a switch.
And the ventilator cycles to a halt.
A minute passes. Does Bonni twitch? It’s an almost imperceptible tremor.
The physician places a stethoscope over her heart.
“She’s gone.”
Sam and Thuli face each other.
Sam begins to cry. Thuli drops the lilies on the floor and Sam folds into her arms. Thuli begins to cry as well.