Bad Writing for Good Readers

Monday, December 13, 2010

Martin hit her on the cheek, breaking Susan's zygomatic. It wasn't the first time, he would send her to the hospital, and it wouldn't be the last. She is crouched on the ground, barely wimpering at the pain with her hands sheltering her newfound wound. Swelling is all ready taking over the left side of her face. With no open wound, it pushes her cheek to three times its normal side.

Martin is glad she isn't bleeding. Blood is less affective, bruises last longer, more terrifying, more visible. He stands above her. For a second, he thinks she might cry. He wants to console her, to be a hero, but Susan just cowers, wide-eyes boring into his, trying to control the slight whine seaping from her lips. Martin doesn't say he's sorry. He walks out of the living room and turns on the television in the bedroom, waits for the white noise to take over.

He doesn't hear her moving. He wonders if she's writhing in pain. He mulls the word in his head writhe. writhing. writhe in pain. He likes that image, he likes to think of her hurting.

Susan will need to go to the hospital. Martin knows this. He knows something is broken when he sees that his knuckles are swollen. They only swell when he breaks her bones. He wonders if she would drive herself or catch the bus. He wonders what the nurse will ask, how Susan will response slipped on the hardwood and hit my face on the door knob.. He knows that despite the nurse pressing for a report on domestic violence, Susan won't say anything. He didn't do anything; it's not his fault.

After some time, Martin wakes up. He must have fallen asleep to the television. He returns to the living room. Susan is gone. He looks out the window, she took her car. She was okay to drive.


Fuck I can see the plate sliding to my right. I think I can catch it with the hook of my elbow. If I can hold my breath long enough, I can slow time down enough to make it stop, yet maybe one's heart must stop as well. Gravity doesn't yield to mental powers, this isn't a graphic novel.

Panic inducing crash. Chards of plate scatter in their appropriate impact times velocity (or whatever the fucking formula is, I failed fucking physics in high school). A tinge of red flushes my face. I hate when this happens. I just couldn't do anything about it.

I keep in step, keep walking. I have arms full of other plates. Someone else will bring a broom and dust pan. Alert. Alert. I'm not going to look back.


I dropped the entire plate. On the floor. On purpose. Forty-five seconds before I released my fingers, I imagined the plate falling, slow motion, shattering as it hit the floor with a panicking inducing noise, food splattering. It seemed cathartic to let go.

Now, it's forty-five seconds later, after an exhaled oh shit, I grab large chards of plate. I know someone in the back is rushing with a broom and dust pan. I pick up what I can and hurry to the back to dispose of the mess I've picked up and pretend that it was an accident, a random occurance.

I should let go more. It was cathartic.


I threw the plate at his head. I knew he'd duck. It's just something you know. If I throw x at Z's head, Z will duck, Z will take ALL actions to move OUT OF THE WAY.

I can't say the same about Z's actions before said moment. He really should have taken all actions to not provoke a plate being chucked at his head, but I'm sure he's recalling hindsight is 20/20 or some other similar cliche.

He looks at me like I'm crazy. It's an appropriate response.

"WHAT THE HELL?!?!" he screams at me, staring at the broken pieces of plate scattered near his vicinity.

"It slipped?" I shrug. "Accident."

Wide-eyed, he shakes his head at me. "No, no way. You..."

"Yes?" I pander. "I, what?"

"Fuck you too." He turns to leave, but pauses, "Don't think you're not fucking cleaning this up."

"Wouldn't dream of it."