Pop Pop
drama, short story
Published on:
July 8, 12:28amWord Count:
757Last Edited:
July 8, 12:31amWork Description
What would you think about?
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When he went to that class at
the clinic, they told him that a heart attack would feel like a
tingling pain moving down his left arm. He didn't find it to be
that exactly, more like the time he took a bullet in the shoulder.
And if it wasn't for the stabbing in his chest he'd guess it was
getting set to rain.
His mind races as he sinks to his
knees and then falls back on his elbow. He remembers serving those
seven months in Iraq, seven months out of twenty-four. It was
the bullet in his shoulder that sent him home early. A different
bullet, but one just like his, maybe even fired from the same
rifle, sent his best friend home too, only in the cargo-hold of the
plane instead of the passenger compartment with him. He remembers
all the sand and all the palm trees; he'd never seen so much sand
in all his life. There never was much sand in Iowa, not outside the
kid's sand-boxes at the park, and all that sand had to be brought
in by trucks. But in Iraq it was everywhere, and where-ever you
tried to keep it out, it still found a way to get in: his bed
sheets, his boots, his rifle, his food, his eyes; it was
everywhere. He remembers the heat. The kind of heat that sat on
your chest and dared you to breathe. The kind of heat that made you
want to live naked, or just never wake up. He got used to the sand,
but the heat was torture for him.
He remembers being on patrol one
afternoon in a usually quiet Baghdad neighborhood thinking about
how hot it was, thinking about jumping in the pond down the street
from his old house, thinking about how much he missed the miles and
miles of green corn fields, the smell of gasoline from the
harvesters, the smile on his wife's face when he walked in the door
all dirty with corn-dust when the shooting started. He heard a few
shots and the soldier walking next to him, his best friend, fell
into him like he'd been shoved. That's when the bullet ripped
through his shoulder, right in the place where he always felt a
dent between the muscles before the bullet, now the place where he
feels the rain coming across the prairie even before the storm
clouds darken the sky. He remembers the heat went away and he got
very cold. He remembers thinking he must be dead to not feel the
Baghdad heat anymore. He remembers being very tired and closing his
eyes to sleep.
He woke in the hospital,
surrounded by a million other men in various states of agony. He
remembers a man in Class A's coming in to tell him that he'd be
going home with a medal. He asked about his friend and was told
that his mother would be getting his medal and a folded American
flag.
He remembers stepping off the
plane in Des Moines, his wife's belly swollen with their first
child, her eyes pouring tears at his safe return. He remembers her
hugging him so tight bolts of pain shot through his wounded
shoulder. He remembers not caring or asking her to stop; he just
kept on squeezing her.
He remembers the birth of the
child two months later, a beautiful little girl, the first of four
little girls to run through their house and through his heart. He
remembers wiping a million tears from their eyes from scraped
knees, burned fingers, and stubbed toes; from a few broken bones,
and more than a few broken hearts. He remembers their burgundy cap
and gown ceremonies when they graduated from High School, being
amazed at how fast they grew up, sad that they would be leaving. He
remembers watching three of the four kiss the man of their dreams
as they were wed, and then wiping tears from his own eyes. He
remembers the coming of his only grandchild, another little girl.
And, once again, a little girl was running through their home and
their hearts.
As the pain in his chest
intensifies, as the left side of
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He remembers all the sand and all the palm trees; he'd never seen so much sand in all his life.
I feel like this should have started with a new paragraph, since the theme jumps from bullets and planes to palm trees and sand.
the soldier walking next to him, his best friend, fell into him like he'd been shoved.
There are some unnecessary descriptors here, cluttering up a very precise scene. "next to him" and "into him" are the main ones. I think also that "fell into him like he'd been shoved" could be a tighter analogy. The way you've worded it seems almost flippant. I think it'd work better with a more concrete description.
a man in Class A's coming
As a military brat, I understand this, but fear that the majority of readers won't. Perhaps a description of the man, his dress and behavior, would help explain the significance of this. I feel that throughout this scene, that it moves too fast with telling the action as opposed to showing us what's going on. Showing us what this story is really about.
He asked about his friend and was told that his mother would be getting his medal and a folded American flag.
I feel this is significant and feel a little let down that you didn't make it so.
he hears her little voice, delicate as the silk sprouting from the heads of the stalks, soft as his wife's breast she says,
While this is a neat analogy, I'm not sure that it fits here, comparing a child's voice to a woman's breast. Just seems wrong.
Overall, I like the concept. I think that you have a potential to take this story to another level, expading it from where it's at to something more concrete. To accomplish that, I would like to see you take the examples of his life, pick out the most important, and really embellish them with description, bringing the reader into the life of the character and the life that flashes before their eyes.
This is excellent work, but I want to see more.
Thanks for the read,
Amber Lynn
In general I liked the story. I think it just needs some polishing.
The plot was believable but was a little hard to follow in the beginning. He starts out in a class at a clinic? But he is also having a heart attack? While he is having a heart attack he is remembering being in Iraq?
Once we are in Iraq it is a little clearer but there is still some jumpiness to it.
I would also like to know what happens, does he make it?!
Pacing was fine just a bit choppy from paragraph to paragraph but I was totally NOT bored. I enjoyed the plot line.
LOVED the descriptiveness of the story. Although I think you could take away SOME of it. For example,
He remembers all the sand and all the palm trees; he'd never seen so much sand in all his life. There never was much sand in Iowa, not outside the kid's sand-boxes at the park, and all that sand had to be brought in by trucks. But in Iraq it was everywhere, and where-ever you tried to keep it out, it still found a way to get in: his bed sheets, his boots, his rifle, his food, his eyes; it was everywhere. He remembers the heat.
I love it when you described the sand in Iraq, how it got into everything. But the comparison to Iowa? I think you could leave it at, "There never was much sand in Iowa." and it could be more poignant.
Then again when he was in Iraq and he was remembering his home town,
thinking about jumping in the pond down the street from his old house, thinking about how much he missed the miles and miles of green corn fields, the smell of gasoline from the harvesters, the smile on his wife's face when he walked in the door all dirty with corn-dust when the shooting started.
I liked the details in this description.
The point of view was consistent.
As stated in the opening comments, I liked the story overall and it has a great plot and background. I think it just needs a little restructuring perhaps?
Hey,
My name's Alexis, and I would just like to start off by saying that I'm not the most experienced writer, so forgive me if what I say doesn't sound...professional?
He didn't find it to be that exactly, more like the time he took a bullet in the shoulder.
Instead of saying, "...he took a bullet in the shoulder." I thought that saying, "...he took a bullet to shoulder." would sound better.
His mind races as he sinks to his knees and then falls back on his elbow. He remembers serving those seven months in Iraq, seven months out of twenty-four. It was the bullet in his shoulder that sent him home early. A different bullet, but one just like his, maybe even fired from the same rifle, sent his best friend home too, only in the cargo-hold of the plane instead of the passenger compartment with him. He remembers all the sand and all the palm trees; he'd never seen so much sand in all his life. There never was much sand in Iowa, not outside the kid's sand-boxes at the park, and all that sand had to be brought in by trucks. But in Iraq it was everywhere, and where-ever you tried to keep it out, it still found a way to get in: his bed sheets, his boots, his rifle, his food, his eyes; it was everywhere. He remembers the heat. The kind of heat that sat on your chest and dared you to breathe. The kind of heat that made you want to live naked, or just never wake up. He got used to the sand, but the heat was torture for him.
I also wondered why after the first paragraph your story was written like following: ^. It just didn't make sense to me.
That's pretty much it. Your such a great writer!
-Alexis
The first few paragraphs made me a fan. The last few made me wonder. Overall it was a great piece but it did seem a little ununified. There's a definite difference in the tonal expressions in the first half and near the end. It'd be great if those gradations were intentional and progressive, but they instead come off as just a little abrupt.
It's obvious this is a closely inspired work. The flat concept is good and makes a lot of good sense. The comparison of a heart attack to a bullet wound makes sense and you provided a lot great imagry to back up the both of them. The departure into an detailed revisitation of the campaign felt a little tangent to the RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW I'M HAVING A HEART ATTACK mood... Which left it a little unrealistic. However, still a good comparison and the memory of being shot and the rest appearing as a flash would be easily understandable.
I couldn't possibly comment on the pacing. The story was the appropriate length, again, a little tedious around the war memories, but that's all.
There was a singular line that blipped this story's EKG and kinda threw it off a bit. It's been mentioned. "soft as his wife's breast." Not only does that drive an immediate mental image into the frame right before we realize we're talking about a child, it's also kind of an abrupt way to introduce the first mention of his wife. Her breasts are soft.
I can understand the comparison, again, just as in the comparison between bullet wounds and heart attacks. But this is the difference between when something is true, and when something is right. It may be true. But it's not quite right.
I'd like to have seen this from the perspective of the child. It would probably be horribly difficult, and first person from the eyes of the guy undergoing the heart attack is the appropriate POV but all the same I think it'd be an interesting experiment.
Disregarding the above I'd say it was a decent piece, interesting read, and I'm interested to hear more. Mix up your flavors a little more. Personify the inanimate, naturalize a character...
Not a bad read. Keep it up!
I was wondering how this would work if it were choppier. "He didn't find it to be that, exactly.l More like the time he took a bullet." I don't know, just something different. Play with it a bit. This bit has potential.
This is kind of an "eye-twister".
The first paragraph screamed past tense to me, but here you flip into present. Maybe it was just me, but I found myself having to switch gears.
There are a few unnecessary words here, like "those", and the repetative use of Months." Seven out of twenty four is understandable.
Alright, I thought I could finish, but I need to crawl into bed. I promise, I'll finish tomorrow. This isn't one of yours I read before, so I'm excited.
Good Night!
Amber