Short Story Review Excerpts
He came home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on the floor, and the
voice suddenly become raucous shouting, “Isn’t anybody here?”
At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister’s milk, and remarked
that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain.
“How was school today?” I asked, elaborately casual.
“All right,” he said.
“Did you learn anything?” his father asked.
Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said.
“Anything,” I said. “Didn’t learn anything”
“The teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter. “For
being fresh,” he added, with his mouth full.
“What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?”
Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked him and
made him stand in a corner. He was awfully fresh.”
“What did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and left,
while his father was still saying, “See here, young man.”
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My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the P.T.A. meeting.
“Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a look at her.”
“If only she’s there,” I said prayerfully.
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“We’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said.
“Well, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.”
“We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly, “but now he’s a
fine little helper. With occasional lapses, of course.”
“Laurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s Charles’s
influence.”
“Charles?”
“Yes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with
Charles.”
“Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”
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Shewas a large woman with a large purse that had everything in it but hammer and nails.
It had a long strap and she carried it slung across her shoulder. It was about eleven
o'clock at night, and she was walking alone, when a boy ran up behind her and tried to
snatch her purse. T
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"If I turn you loose, will you run?" asked the woman.
"Yes'm," said the boy.
"Then I won't turn you loose," said the woman. She did not
release him.
"Lady, I'm sorry," whispered the boy.
"Um-hum! Your face is dirty. I got a great mind to wash your face
for you. Ain't you got nobody home to tell you to wash your face?"
"No'm," said the boy.
"Then it will get washed this evening," said the large woman
starting up the street, dragging the frightened boy behind her.
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"Do you need somebody to go to the store," asked the boy, "maybe to get some milk or
something?"
"Don't believe I do," said the woman, "unless you just want sweet milk yourself. I was
going to make cocoa out of this canned milk I got here."
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She led him down the hall to the front door and opened it. "Goodnight!
Behave yourself, boy!" she said, looking out into the street.
The boy wanted to say something other than, "Thank you,
m'am," to Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones, but although his
lips moved, he couldn't even say that as he turned at the foot of
the barren stoop and looked up at the large woman in the door.
Then she shut the door.
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I told them becaus all my life I wantid to be smart and not dumb. But its very hard to be
smart. They said you know it will probly be tempirery. I said yes. Miss Kinnian told me. I
dont care if it herts.
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We had a lot of fun at the factery today. Joe Carp said hey look where Charlie had
his operashun what did they do Charlie put some brains in. I was going to tell him but I
remembered Dr Strauss said no. Then Frank Reffly said what did you do Charlie forget
your key and open your door the hard way. That made me laff. Their really my friends
and they like me.
Sometimes somebody will say hey look at Joe or Frank or George he really pulled a
Charlie Gordon. I dont know why they say that but they always laff. This morning Amos
Borg who is the 4 man at Donnegans used my name when he shouted at Ernie the office
boy. Ernie lost a packige. He said Ernie for godsake what are you trying to be a Charlie
Gordon. I dont understand why he said that. I never lost any packiges.
We are reading a very hard book. I never read such a hard book before. Its
called Robinson Crusoe about a man who gets merooned on a dessert iland. Hes smart
and figers out all kinds of things so he can have a house and food and hes a good
swimmer. Only I feel sorry because hes all alone and has no frends. But I think their must
be somebody else on the iland because theres a picture with his funny umbrella looking at
footprints. I hope he gets a fend and not be lonly.
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She said never mind but I shoudnt feel bad if I find out that everybody isnt nice like I
think. She said for a person who god gave so little to you done more then a lot of people
with brains they never even used. I said all my fends are smart people but there good.
They like me and they never did anything that wasnt nice. Then she got something in her
eye and she had to run out to the ladys room.
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Before, they laughed at me and despised me for my ignorance and dullness; now,
they hate me for my knowledge and understanding. What in God’s name do they want of
me?
They’ve driven me out of the factory. Now I’m more alone than ever before.
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June 5—I must not become emotional. The facts and the results of my experiments
are clear, and the more sensational aspects of my own rapid climb cannot obscure the fact
that the tripling of intelligence by the surgical technique developed by Drs. Strauss and
Nemur must be viewed as having little or no practical applicability (at the present time)
to the increase of human intelligence.
I feel that this, in itself, is an important discovery.
As long as I am able to write, I will continue to record my thoughts in these progress
reports; it is one of my few pleasures. However, by all indications, my own mental
deterioration will be very rapid.
I have already begun to notice signs of emotional instability and forgetfulness, the
first symptoms of the burnout.
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Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have
seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what
foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man
than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I
turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an
opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light
shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how
cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb
the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far
that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as
this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so
cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin
ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at
midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for
it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the
day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by
name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would
have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I
looked in upon him while he slept.
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If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise
precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked
hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the
arms and the legs.
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No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice.
Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much
such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet
the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily
increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations;
but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro
with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise
steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the
chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose
over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men
chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
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I’m standing on the corner admiring the weather and about to take a
stroll down Broadway so I can practice my breathing exercises, and I’ve got
Raymond walking on the inside close to the buildings, cause he’s subject to
fits of fantasy and starts thinking he’s a circus performer and that the curb is
a tightrope strung high in the air. And sometimes after a rain he likes to step
down off his tightrope right into the gutter and slosh around getting his shoes
and cuffs wet. Then I get hit when I get home. Or sometimes if you don’t
watch him he’ll dash across traffic to the island in the middle of Broadway
and give the pigeons a fit. Then I have to go behind him apologizing to all
the old people sitting around trying to get some sun and getting all upset with
the pigeons fluttering around them, scattering their newspapers and upsetting
the waxpaper lunches in their laps. So I keep Raymond on the inside of me,
and he plays like he’s driving a stage coach which is O.K. by me so long as he
doesn’t run me over or interrupt my breathing exercises, which I have to do on
account of I’m serious about my running, and I don’t care who knows it.
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But as they get to me, they slow down. I’m ready to fight, cause like I said I don’t feature
a whole lot of chit-chat, I much prefer to just knock you down right from the jump and
save everybody a lotta precious time.
“You signing up for the May Day races?” smiles Mary Louise, only it’s not a smile at all.
A dumb question like that doesn’t deserve an answer. Besides, there’s just me and
Gretchen standing there really, so no use wasting my breath talking to shadows.
“I don’t think you’re going to win this time,” says Rosie, trying to signify with her hands
on her hips all salty, completely forgetting that I have whupped her behind many times
for less salt than that.
“I always win cause I’m the best,” I say straight at Gretchen who is, as far as I’m
concerned, the only one talking in this ventriloquist-dummy routine.
Gretchen smiles, but it’s not a smile, and I’m thinking that girls never really smile at each
other because they don’t know how and don’t want to know how and there’s probably no
one to teach us how, cause grown-up girls don’t know either
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I glance to my left and there is no one. To the right, a
blurred Gretchen, who’s got her chin jutting out as if it would win the race all
by itself. And on the other side of the fence is Raymond with his arms down to
his side and the palms tucked up behind him, running in his very own style,
and it’s the first time I ever saw that and I almost stop to watch my brother
Raymond on his first run.
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And she nods to congratulate me and then she smiles. And I smile. We stand there with
this big smile of respect between us. It’s about as real a smile as girls can do for each
other, considering we don’t practice real smiling every day, you know, cause maybe we
too busy being flowers or fairies or strawberries instead of something honest and worthy
of respect . . . you know . . . like being people
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I n the April night, more than once, blossoms fell from the orchard trees and lit with
rustling taps on the drumskin. At midnight a peach stone left miraculously on a branch
through winter, flicked by a bird, fell swift and unseen, struck once, like panic, which
jerked the boy upright. In silence he listened to his own heart ruffle away, away, at last
gone from his ears and back in his chest again.
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For with the careless bones of the young men harvested by night and
bindled around campfires were the similarly strewn steel bones of their rifles,
with bayonets fixed like eternal lightning lost in the orchard grass.
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The man’s knees cracked as he bent still closer.
He smelled as all fathers should smell, of salt sweat, ginger tobacco, horse
and boot leather, and the earth he walked upon.
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Good grief, that has a beat and sound to it fitting for Mr. Longfellow.10 ‘I was the
drummer boy at Shiloh.’ Who will ever hear those words and not know you, boy, or what
you thought this night, or what you’ll think tomorrow or the next day when we must get
up on our legs and move! ”
The general stood up. “Well, then. God bless you, boy. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.” h And, tobacco, brass, boot polish, salt sweat and leather, the man
moved away through the grass.
Joby lay for a moment, staring but unable to see where the man had gone. He swallowed.
He wiped his eyes. He cleared his throat. He settled himself. Then, at last, very slowly
and firmly, he turned the drum so that it faced up toward the sky.
He lay next to it, his arm around it, feeling the tremor, the touch, the muted thunder as, all
the rest of the April night in the year 1862, near the Tennessee River, not far from the
Owl Creek, very close to the church named Shiloh, the peach blossoms fell on the drum.
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Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented
more singular features than that which was associated with the wellknown Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in
question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes,
when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street.
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"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."
"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."
"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I
have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"
"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.
"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man
furiously.
"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my
companion imperturbably.
"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel! I
have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."
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"I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To determine its
exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of
the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at
the time of the wife's death was little short of 1100 pounds, is now,
through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than 750 pounds. Each
daughter can claim an income of 250 pounds, in case of marriage. It is
evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would
have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him
to a very serious extent.
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Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and
were about to enter through the window when out from a clump of
laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted
child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran
swiftly across the lawn into the darkness.
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But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I
heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary
eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend
lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly
pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and
was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the
silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened.
It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and
anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek.
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The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped
to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was
there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming
to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I
coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a
supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right
track.
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The children with their yellow hair hollered at the deep dome of Martian sky.
There was no answer but the racing hiss of wind through the stiff grass.
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Something happened that afternoon.
Laura stumbled through the settlement, crying. She dashed blindly on
to the porch.
"Mother, Father - the war, Earth!" she sobbed. "A radio flash just
came. Atom bombs hit New York! All the space rockets blown up. No more
rockets to Mars, ever!"
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He perspired. He glanced about. No one watching. He removed his tie. Pretty
bold, he thought. First your coat off, now your tie. He hung it neatly on a peach
tree he had imported as a sapling from Massachusetts.
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Lying abed, Mr.Bittering felt his bones shifted, shaped, melted like
gold. His wife, lying beside him, was dark from many sunny afternoons.
Dark she was, and golden, burnt almost black by the sun, sleeping, and the
children metallic in their beds, and the wind roaring forlorn and changing
through the old peach trees, violet grass, shaking out green rose petals.
The fear would not be stopped. It had his throat and heart. It dripped
in a wetness of the arm and the temple and the trembling palm.
A green star rose in the east.
A strange word emerged from Mr.Bittering's lips.
"Iorrt. Iorrt." He repeated it.
It was a Martian word. He knew no Martian.
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They leaped into the canal water, and he let himself sink down and down to the
bottom like a golden statue and lie there in green silence. All was water, quiet and deep, all
was peace. He felt the steady, slow current drift him easily.
If I lie here long enough, he thought, the water will work and eat away my flesh until
the bones show like coral. Just my skeleton left. And then the water can build on that
skeleton - green things, deep-water things, red things, yellow things. Change. Change.
Slow, deep, silent change. And isn't that what it is up there!
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"What do you think of naming those mountains the Lincoln
Mountains, this canal the Washington Canal, those hills - we can name
those hills for you, Lieutenant. Diplomacy. And you, for a favour, might
name a town for me. Polishing the apple. And why not make this the
Einstein Valley, and further over... are you listening, Lieutenant?"
The lieutenant snapped his gaze from the blue colour and the quiet
mist of the hills far beyond the town.
"What? Oh, yes, sir!"
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Mr.Bittering gazed at the Earth settlement far away in the low valley.
"Such odd, such ridiculous houses the Earth people built."
"They didn't know any better," his wife mused. "Such ugly People. I'm
glad they've gone."
They both looked at each other, startled by all they had just finished
saying. They laughed.
"Where did they go?" he wondered. He glanced at his wife. She was
golden and slender as his daughter. She looked at him, and he seemed
almost as young as their eldest son.
"I don't know," she said.
"We'll go back to town maybe next year, or the year after, or the year
after that," he said, calmly. "Now - I'm warm. How about taking a swim?"
They turned their backs to the valley. Arm in arm they walked silently
down a path of clear running spring water.