Home Alone by Raymond Carver
I was standing in front of the living room window, my reflection half transparent, drinking a gin and tonic. My family had left me alone for the holidays; I just didn’t feel up for the motions and devotions necessary to complete the season. That was the thing with years: there were always more. My face through the window seemed lakelike; each squint, as I tried to make myself out, a little ripple moving outwards towards the world at large. The failed hail of snow had fallen. Two men knocked on the door and I started to run away.
That was mine, yah, sorry. Now it’s your turn to give it a go in the comments section — nothing too long, just a couple of sentences. Others are welcome to critique entrees; why is it or isn’t it Carver? Let’s try to find out what it was he* did, and how he* did it. (*Yah, Lish, I know.) For me, Carver is romantic without being romantic. It’s reticent emotional hyperbole, which is like, uh, really difficult. Good luck!
Tags: home alone, raymond carver
By the time I got past the foyer into the kitchen, one of the men was pressing his nose against the window glass above the sink. He appeared to be on tip toes. His chin rested on the window ledge, while two gloved hands made a frame around his face. He was trying to peer past the Levelor blinds, which were drawn, but not all the way shut. I stood there, staring back at the strange face in the glass. One of the ice cubes in my highball popped and cracked, as the doorbell sounded, and I dropped the tumbler of gin on the linoleum floor.
“Lakelike”? In Carver? Maybe you could put it in the mouth of an estranged wife — let’s call her Mira — after she’d been drinking. She’d accuse the narrator of being one thing and another, finally she’d fly off and call him “lakelike.” The narrator, he’d scream something right back. Later, he’d think:
“Lakelike! What was she talking about? I don’t know, honestly. I don’t think Mira knew. It was just the sort of thing that people were saying those days.”
Yr photoshop is priceless.
“Lakelike”? In Carver? Maybe you could put it in the mouth of an estranged wife — let’s call her Mira — after she’d been drinking. She’d accuse the narrator of being one thing and another, finally she’d fly off and call him “lakelike.” The narrator, he’d scream something right back. Later, he’d think:
“Lakelike! What was she talking about? I don’t know, honestly. I don’t think Mira knew. It was just the sort of thing that people were saying those days.”
Yr photoshop is priceless.
The boy was scared. What had happened? They were gone, all of them. His mother. His father. His family was gone and he was home. Home alone. He walked from room to room. Then he ran. He ran from room to room. The house went on and on. how is it he never knew there were so many rooms? Each room was empty. The boy was alone.
A knock on the door. The boy stopped. Another knock.
keep the change ya filthy animal
keep the change ya filthy animal
For fun, here is a Lishian edit of the first comment:
In the kitchen I saw a man’s nose against the window. On tip toes, chin on window ledge, he peered past the blinds, gloved hands around his face. I looked at him in the glass. The ice in my highball popped. The doorbell sounded. I’m apparently quite popular as strangers simultaneously peep in my windows and ring my doorbell. I BASHED EVERYONE’S BRAINS OUT WITH ONE ROCK.
For fun, here is a Lishian edit of the first comment:
In the kitchen I saw a man’s nose against the window. On tip toes, chin on window ledge, he peered past the blinds, gloved hands around his face. I looked at him in the glass. The ice in my highball popped. The doorbell sounded. I’m apparently quite popular as strangers simultaneously peep in my windows and ring my doorbell. I BASHED EVERYONE’S BRAINS OUT WITH ONE ROCK.
damn
damn