General Fiction posted May 24, 2018

This work has reached the exceptional level
A contest entry. A short story on Criticism.

Constructive Criticism doesn't float

by Swampfox1

Stop Contest Winner 

It was the third of June, a Sunday-ish type of event, if you will, on a Monday of all things.  Ever had those days when it feels like a weekend but it ain’t or it felt like a Sunday and it wasn’t.  Sunday-ish is exactly that type of day, it felt like a Sunday, but it was a Monday.  It should have been a three-day weekend, of all things.
  I was in a club where poetry was the in-thing.  I had joined to write poetry and get criticism but never expected some of the things that took place.  Such things as some people being overly nice, going out of their way to make a bad story sound good, giving it all the flair, putting on the rose-colored glasses and lying about the whole thing just to make friends. Where was the reality and the purpose of the club. Where are the rules poor Yorick, I knew him well. Is that right, or is that wrong?
I was the kind of person that enjoyed being honest, not brutally honest, don’t get me wrong, just honest enough to help a person along. I always tried to be kind along the way. How else was one person to help another person through all this poetry stuff if one was not honest about the whole mess. In fact, being honest was part of the rules.
Some poems were just not worth the mention and yet they were painted with gold-trim, made to sound like the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize or something just as close and they wouldn’t have passed a kindergarten contest if everyone would have played by the rules.
 To be quite honest some of the members were in the club to be in the click, to make friends, to create an atmosphere of gossip and listening to the rose-colored, made-up- bull excrements of others who were trying to play up to them.  It was all a made-up bull scheme to just to keep in touch with each other.
  If one person tried to help, no matter how kind the words these people blocked the person.  I knew it to be true, I had it happen to me on many occasions, so I decided to write a poem about it to read before the club.  I had never written any such poem, but I knew what was in my heart.  So, I wrote and then I practiced reciting the poem.  
Then this Sunday-ish event came about.  I call it a Sunday-ish type event because it was a dress-up thing and the writer had to at least wear a full suit and tie.  Oh, my, God, I said to myself, I detest ties.  I feel all tied up.  I would have much rather have dressed up like one of these hippy things reading at a poetry reading back in the 60s of the last century then to wear a tie.  Well, the time came, and I showed up at the event.
There were several people before me. I wish I had been first in line and ready to go because I wanted to get it over with. I had butterflies, big ones that could have been moths.  But then came my turn and I walked up to the podium and introduced myself.  I then began reading the poem.  I pasted the poem directly below for you to see, see.
There are those who block me
They total 2 score
With them the truth must not be
They would rather be such a bore
Most of what people write is a train wreck
But they really don’t care, by heck
They just love to hear the good stuff
They pretend they are tuff
As for me I am not close to obsequious
Yet, I do not even try to be offensive
They would just rather block me
And just have fun, their cry – Let me be
STOP, STOP, STOP, the person kept shouting not even giving me time to finish reading my poem.  The person, whom I had not seen before came up to me at the podium and began to insult me.  Throwing nasty words at me, like how foolish I was to write such malarkey and things.  Throwing words as though taking them out of a basket, of all things.
“My name is Herschel, how dare you write about me!”
“STOP!, “ I said. Stop that , why are you doing that to me. Let me read my poem,” I said. Then I added
“Dude,” I said, “This is not about you at all.  Did I mention your name?” It really surprised me the things this creature was saying.
“No,” said Herschel, “But I still know you’re talking about me”
“How can that be, dude, how can that be that you should set me free and not hear my plea.  I did not do any such rude thing to you”
“No, but I blocked you last week, so I know the poem is about me, and then my sister penny blocked you also, and the Mustang Sally girl, and my cousin Icy Pearl did too because she told me.” 
“Dude, are you for real?  What gives, where forth art thou, Lie-mouth”
I stepped down from the stage.  I wanted no more of this being torn down.  Couldn’t even finish my poem.  I just could not believe this, even when I was not referring to anyone they still blamed me and still wanted to stop me; and still wanted me to just stop and let them be.  
“STOP!” the voice came out of nowhere.
Wow!  Such a veracious absence of truth as it should be, a telling of truth they do not want to hear, they want to hear lies.
I went home, laid in bed, and I decided to become a novel writer.  I figured out that the absence of truth is the reason for all the fake news, too.  No one wants to hear the truth.  People want to live in a rose-colored world, a lot of problems with the real-world, and why the real-world is disappearing.  Fake, fake, fake, no truth anywhere, just polish it up is what they look for.
The End

Writing Prompt
Write a story of any type. But at some point your character must shout: Stop!

Contest Winner

No, it's not about you. It's about time, it's about space.
It's just a little bit about how some people truly are in every which place.
Cette une petite histoire de la poeise .
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

Save to Bookcase Promote This Share or Bookmark
Print It View Reviews

You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.

© Copyright 2018. Swampfox1 All rights reserved.
Swampfox1 has granted, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.