NIGHT RIDE Revision Options

[Psyche]

Night Ride

The ambulance slices thin night air through inconsequential streets. I sit in the back, beside the frail man. Oddly, I get the feeling that I’m in a camper: there’s the burner, bottled water in a corner, emergency kit, seats for kids.

We pitch and bounce over cobblestones in peripheral avenues. I worry about the frail man: internal ruptures, bleeding, that sort of thing… maybe something inside him will snap. His head rolls sideways and he drops a thin leg over the edge of the stretcher. Bending forward, I lift it back, but the medic says: "It’s OK, let him be, he’s well strapped in." I glance at him doubtfully. The medic languidly places a cushion to protect his head.

Street lamps peer at me through small ambulance windows, playing with shifting shadows in the hushed interior. Now and then a lone policeman on a corner lifts an arm in respectful salute. I spot silhouettes of drunken men stumbling out of late night bars. A few valiant prostitutes cluster nearby. The ambulance’s harsh beams focus briefly on their wary, scarlet lips. I wonder about them, their lives, their kids maybe, their men, different things… A startled night bird swoops up from a pile of rubbish, carrying nameless refuse in its beak. I shudder at the coarse scene. Other worlds, no less real than my own relatively sheltered one, pass in procession before my eyes.

I’d imagined the siren would have wailed constantly, but no, we make our soundless way through night time echoes, stopping at all the streetlights. Not an urgent case, I suppose, calculating in my mind the frail man’s earlier convulsions, the galloping fever, and his heart condition.

He still has a high fever. Back home, we’d been putting loads of iced-cubed towels under his armpits and on his groin, following instructions over the phone. Now he looks at me through the eyes of a scared child. I smile at him and hold his hand. He doesn’t appear to know me, but he grasps my hand weakly, unmoving, calmer now.

One more bend in the road and we’re in the Emergency Unit. The stretcher slides out neatly. Cool morning wind doesn’t care about the frail man wrapped in a light coverlet. Medics give orders, personnel in green move fast; things are under control, it seems. He’s hurried through a door that snaps at me: Restricted Area!

I wait on a hard black plastic chair. My mind wanders. For some reason, I remember the frail man waving his hand at me in greeting, as I used to descend the stairway from night university. He was straight and strong then, handsome. His smile was contagious, bursting with energy. We’d rush off to a nearby stand-up grill to eat good Argentine steaks, washed down with glasses of Mendocino wine. Then we’d stroll out to walk around the city streets for a while, before heading home.

Now I sit on the unfriendly chair and wonder how long they’ll keep the frail man in the Unit. Nearly five hours stagger by; my head nods regularly.

The hostile door swings open. A doctor tells me that I can take him home now. “Just keep putting ice-cubed towels on him, if the fever returns”, he says authoritatively. I dare to ask what treatment they’d given him. “Oh, nothing special”, remarks the doctor, “mainly we used ice”. “Oh…” I say dimly.

The ambulance drives us home; the frail man smiles faintly, perhaps remembering his welcome, secure bed. The return trip is slow, weaving through early morning, impatient traffic. The driver uses the siren intermittently.

I’m too tired to reflect on anything now, nor even to glance out the windows.

By Psyche

Sylvia Maclagan, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2007.
All rights reserved as an unpublished work.

[Guest_Cathy_*]

Hi Sylvia,

I'm so sorry I missed this! I don't know what I was thinking! I wanted to let you know I've read it but I want to give it some thought before offering any critique. It's a very sad story, almost like they didn't think it was worth doing anything for him. I will be back after taking some time to look it over more closely.

Cathy

[Psyche]

Thank you, Cathy! Things seem to move slowly in this forum, so don't worry. I'll look forward to your crit whenever you have the time.
Hugs, Sylvia

[Guest_Cathy_*]

Hi Sylvia,

I made it back! lol It has been a bit slow in here lately. Hope it picks up soon!

A few thoughts... {omit}[add]. Take or toss as you see fit! *smiles*

Night Ride

The ambulance slices the thin night air {of}[through] inconsequential streets. I sit in the back, beside the sick man. Strangely enough, I get the feeling that I’m in a camper: there’s the burner, bottled water in a corner, emergency kit, seats for kids.

I like the addition of the last two lines above. I've been in an ambulance... both as a patient and a rider... and I can understand why the mind would want to imagine it was somewhere else or riding in a camper.

Soon, we pitch and bounce over cobbled avenues. I worry about the frail man. Ruptured scar, that sort of thing… maybe something inside him will snap. His head rolls sideways and he drops one leg over the edge of the stretcher. I bend forward and lift it back, but the lady doctor says it’s OK, let him be, he’s well strapped in. I glance at her doubtfully. She languidly {puts}[places] a cushion to protect his head.

I might use a semi-colon after 'frail man' and a lower case 'r' on ruptured. Another line maybe... 'Bending forward, I lift it back but the doctor says, 'It's ok, he's well-strapped in.' Are there doctors in the ambulance? We just have EMT's and paramedics.

Street lamps peer at me through small ambulance windows, playing with shifting shadows in the hushed interior. Now and then a lone policeman on a corner lifts an arm in respectful salute. I spot silhouettes of drunken men stumbling out of late night bars{.}[,] [a] few valiant prostitutes cluster {together} nearby. The ambulance’s harsh beams focus briefly on their wary, scarlet lips. I wonder about them, their lives, their kids maybe, their men, different things…

Isn't it odd the things we might think about while in an ambulance?

I’d imagined the siren would have wailed subtly, but no, we make our soundless way through nighttime echoes, stopping at all the streetlights. Not an urgent case, I suppose, calculating in my mind the frail man’s earlier convulsions, the galloping fever, and his heart condition.

I don't think an ambulance wails subtly... what about...
'I'd imagined the siren would have wailed loudly, but no, we make our way soundlessly through nighttime echoes...

He still has a high fever. Back home, we’d been putting loads of towels with ice-cubes under his armpits and by his groin, following instructions over the phone. Now he looks at me through the eyes of a scared child. I smile at him and hold his hand. He doesn’t appear to know me, but he grasps my hand weakly, unmoving, calmer now.

Maybe 'ice-cubed towels' and 'on his groin'?

One more bend in the road and we’re in the Emergency Unit. The stretcher slides [out] neatly. {out.} Cool morning wind doesn’t care about the frail man wrapped in a light coverlet. Male nurses give orders, personnel in green mov[ing]{e} fast; things are under control, it seems. He’s hurried through a door that snaps at me: “Restricted Area”!

I wait on a hard black plastic chair. My mind wanders. For some reason, I remember the frail man waving his hand at me in greeting, as I used to descend the stairway from Night University. He was straight and strong then, handsome. His smile was contagious, bursting with energy. We’d rush off to a nearby stand-up grill to eat good Argentine steaks, washed down with glasses of Mendocino wine. Then we’d stroll out to walk around the city streets for a while, before heading home.

The memories of an earlier time are a nice touch!

Now I sit on the unfriendly chair and wonder how long they’ll keep the frail man in the Unit. Nearly five hours stagger by; my head nods regularly.

Is there a reason why you've never given the man a name? It's almost as though the narrator has set him/herself apart from him.

The hostile door swings open. A doctor tells me that I can take him home now. “Just keep putting towels with ice on him, if the fever returns”, he says authoritatively. I dare to ask what treatment they’d given him. “Oh, nothing special”, remarks the doctor, “mainly we used ice”. “Oh…” I say dimly.

Maybe... 'If the fever returns just keep putting iced towels on him.' It's almost as though these people don't care about him. Maybe not a good hospital or they think he's too old to take time with. And sadly, there are places like that.

The ambulance drives the frail man home to his waiting, secure bed. The return trip is slow, weaving through early morning, impatient traffic. The driver uses the siren intermittently.

I’m too tired to reflect on anything now, nor even to glance out the windows.

A very sad story! I hope it's not a true one...

Of course, use or lose anything you wish.

Cathy

[Psyche]

Hi again, Cathy!

Thank you so much for reading my story. I apologize for the delay in answering. Been overloaded with life's "obstacles".

I read your suggestions carefully and I think they are all good. I'll not edit my story right away, since I have to log out now and get some other stuff done... Today's is my first proper visit to MM in weeks.

I'll be back to do the revision, following your advice.
Many hugs, Sylvia

[JLY]

Sylvia,
This is a well written story with a lot of detail. An initial thought for the opening line

The ambulance slices the thin night air of {inconsequential}[nondescript]
streets.

I enjoyed how you provided the reader with the images of the people that inhabited the streets.

The only nit I have is that you repeatedly refer to your main character as the frail man. You used the word frail 6 times. I think after you have characterized this man as being frail, it may no longer be necessary to continually use the word frail.

You have provided us with some descriptive words: sick, lanquidly to establish the condition of the man, so frail is pretty much a given after you initial use of that adjective.

Night Ride

The ambulance slices the thin night air of {inconsequential}[nondescript] streets. I sit in the back, beside the sick man. Strangely enough, I get the feeling that I"m in a camper: there's the burner, bottled water in a corner, emergency kit, seats for kids.

Soon, we pitch and bounce over cobbled avenues. I worry about the frail man. Ruptured scar, that sort of thing' maybe something inside him will snap. His head rolls sideways and he drops one leg over the edge of the stretcher. I bend forward and lift it back, but the lady doctor says it's OK, let him be, he's well strapped in. I glance at her doubtfully. She languidly puts a cushion to protect his head.

Street lamps peer at me through small ambulance windows, playing with shifting shadows in the hushed interior. Now and then a lone policeman on a corner lifts an arm in respectful salute. I spot silhouettes of drunken men stumbling out of late night bars. A few valiant prostitutes cluster together nearby. The ambulance's harsh beams focus briefly on their wary, scarlet lips. I wonder about them, their lives, their kids maybe, their men, different things.

I'd imagined the siren would have wailed subtly, but no, we make our soundless way through nighttime echoes, stopping at all the streetlights. Not an urgent case, I suppose, calculating in my mind the {frail} man's earlier convulsions, the galloping fever, and his heart condition.

He still has a high fever. Back home, we'd been putting loads of towels with ice-cubes under his armpits and by his groin, following instructions over the phone. Now he looks at me through the eyes of a scared child. I smile at him and hold his hand. He doesn't appear to know me, but he grasps my hand weakly, unmoving, calmer now.

One more bend in the road and we're in the Emergency Unit. The stretcher slides neatly out. Cool morning wind doesn't care about the {frail}[feeble] man wrapped in a light coverlet. Male nurses give orders, personnel in green move fast; things are under control, it seems. He's hurried through a door that snaps at me: "Restricted Area"!

I wait on a hard[,] black plastic chair. My mind wanders. For some reason, I remember the {frail}[fragile] man waving his hand at me in greeting, as I used to descend the stairway from Night University. He was straight and strong then, handsome. His smile was contagious, bursting with energy. We'd rush off to a nearby stand-up grill to eat good Argentine steaks, washed down with glasses of Mendocino wine. Then we'd stroll out to walk around the city streets for a while, before heading home.

Now I sit on the unfriendly chair and wonder how long they'll keep the {frail} man in the Unit. Nearly five hours stagger by; my head nods regularly.

The hostile door swings open. A doctor tells me that I can take him home now. "Just keep putting towels with ice on him, if the fever returns", he says authoritatively. I dare to ask what treatment they'd given him. "Oh, nothing special", remarks the doctor, "mainly we used ice". "Oh'" I say dimly.

The ambulance drives the {frail} man home to his waiting, secure bed. The return trip is slow, weaving through early morning, impatient traffic. The driver uses the siren intermittently.

I'm too tired to reflect on anything now, nor even to glance out the windows.

[Ephiny]

Hi Sylvia

I really thought this story, though sad, was beautifully written. I'm not very good at critiquing prose..so probably can't offer you any suggestions but just wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed reading this. I think you told your story and its message subtly and poignantly. I can relate to it too, seeing how vulnerable people are often treated in hospitals..and I am sure, many of us can also, recalling times when someone we were desperately worried about, appeared to be treated without the concern or respect that we would wish. You described the scene perfectly, interlinking your present observations with memories, and especially, memories of the ill man, reminding us that he is not merely a patient. Descriptions such as "unfriendly" chair and "hostile" door sum up the atmosphere and the experience as it feels for the narrator. Your last lines are perfect..the worried person, just too exhausted and worn out by the experience and maybe too disillusioned, for further reflection. Really beautifully written, and I hope too that it is not based on personal experience...

Hugs!

Lucie

[Psyche]

Gee, Cathy, I've also just 'made it back'.... so sorry!!! Let's see now:

Hi Sylvia,

I made it back! lol It has been a bit slow in here lately. Hope it picks up soon!

A few thoughts... {omit}[add]. Take or toss as you see fit! *smiles*

Night Ride

The ambulance slices the thin night air {of}[through] inconsequential streets. I sit in the back, beside the sick man. Strangely enough, I get the feeling that I’m in a camper: there’s the burner, bottled water in a corner, emergency kit, seats for kids.

Yes, through is correct, thanks!

I like the addition of the last two lines above. I've been in an ambulance... both as a patient and a rider... and I can understand why the mind would want to imagine it was somewhere else or riding in a camper.

Yes, I really had that feeling... I put it down to my own exhaustion and probably denial of the hard facts. Hadn't slept for nights...

Soon, we pitch and bounce over cobbled avenues. I worry about the frail man. Ruptured scar, that sort of thing… maybe something inside him will snap. His head rolls sideways and he drops one leg over the edge of the stretcher. I bend forward and lift it back, but the lady doctor says it’s OK, let him be, he’s well strapped in. I glance at her doubtfully. She languidly {puts}[places] a cushion to protect his head.

Yes, right again!

I might use a semi-colon after 'frail man' and a lower case 'r' on ruptured. Another line maybe... 'Bending forward, I lift it back but the doctor says, 'It's ok, he's well-strapped in.' Are there doctors in the ambulance? We just have EMT's and paramedics.

Gee, Cathy, perhaps it was a paramedic... no idea! I'll study your suggestions when I revise, which I hope to do very soon...

Street lamps peer at me through small ambulance windows, playing with shifting shadows in the hushed interior. Now and then a lone policeman on a corner lifts an arm in respectful salute. I spot silhouettes of drunken men stumbling out of late night bars{.}[,] [a] few valiant prostitutes cluster {together} nearby. The ambulance’s harsh beams focus briefly on their wary, scarlet lips. I wonder about them, their lives, their kids maybe, their men, different things…

Isn't it odd the things we might think about while in an ambulance?

Yes, it's really odd, and I'll see about the suggestions, thanks!

I’d imagined the siren would have wailed subtly, but no, we make our soundless way through nighttime echoes, stopping at all the streetlights. Not an urgent case, I suppose, calculating in my mind the frail man’s earlier convulsions, the galloping fever, and his heart condition.

I don't think an ambulance wails subtly... what about...
'I'd imagined the siren would have wailed loudly, but no, we make our way soundlessly through nighttime echoes...

I don't know, Cathy, but here in this big city of Buenos Aires, ambulances actually do lower the sound of their sirens when it isn't necessary to waken the whole city. I've been in several that didn't use their sirens at all at night. I guess it depends on the urgency, also. They may even stop at red lights.

He still has a high fever. Back home, we’d been putting loads of towels with ice-cubes under his armpits and by his groin, following instructions over the phone. Now he looks at me through the eyes of a scared child. I smile at him and hold his hand. He doesn’t appear to know me, but he grasps my hand weakly, unmoving, calmer now.

Maybe 'ice-cubed towels' and 'on his groin'?

Yes, right again!

One more bend in the road and we’re in the Emergency Unit. The stretcher slides [out] neatly. {out.} Cool morning wind doesn’t care about the frail man wrapped in a light coverlet. Male nurses give orders, personnel in green mov[ing]{e} fast; things are under control, it seems. He’s hurried through a door that snaps at me: “Restricted Area”!

OK!!!

I wait on a hard black plastic chair. My mind wanders. For some reason, I remember the frail man waving his hand at me in greeting, as I used to descend the stairway from Night University. He was straight and strong then, handsome. His smile was contagious, bursting with energy. We’d rush off to a nearby stand-up grill to eat good Argentine steaks, washed down with glasses of Mendocino wine. Then we’d stroll out to walk around the city streets for a while, before heading home.

The memories of an earlier time are a nice touch!

Thank you, Cathy.

Now I sit on the unfriendly chair and wonder how long they’ll keep the frail man in the Unit. Nearly five hours stagger by; my head nods regularly.

Is there a reason why you've never given the man a name? It's almost as though the narrator has set him/herself apart from him.

Yes, I did it on purpose. High fevers, hallucinations, deliriums, dementia, etc. really do change a loved one into someone else. And that 'someone else' turns it into a highly heartbreaking experience, so I guess psychologists would call it my 'defense mechanism', OK?

The hostile door swings open. A doctor tells me that I can take him home now. “Just keep putting towels with ice on him, if the fever returns”, he says authoritatively. I dare to ask what treatment they’d given him. “Oh, nothing special”, remarks the doctor, “mainly we used ice”. “Oh…” I say dimly.

Maybe... 'If the fever returns just keep putting iced towels on him.' It's almost as though these people don't care about him. Maybe not a good hospital or they think he's too old to take time with. And sadly, there are places like that.

Yes, too many. Even expensive, private places.

The ambulance drives the frail man home to his waiting, secure bed. The return trip is slow, weaving through early morning, impatient traffic. The driver uses the siren intermittently.

I’m too tired to reflect on anything now, nor even to glance out the windows.

A very sad story! I hope it's not a true one...

[b]Yes, it's a true one, slightly fiction-ized, Cathy.

Of course, use or lose anything you wish.

Use or lose! I think I'll use more than lose...
Thank you!

Cathy[/b]

[Psyche]

Hi John!

Sylvia,
This is a well written story with a lot of detail. An initial thought for the opening line


The ambulance slices the thin night air of {inconsequential}[nondescript]
streets.

Yes, I'll take that into account, thank you.

I enjoyed how you provided the reader with the images of the people that inhabited the streets.

Thank you.

The only nit I have is that you repeatedly refer to your main character as the frail man. You used the word frail 6 times. I think after you have characterized this man as being frail, it may no longer be necessary to continually use the word frail.

You have provided us with some descriptive words: sick, lanquidly to establish the condition of the man, so frail is pretty much a given after you initial use of that adjective.

Yes, your nit is highly justified. But I used 'the frail man' as a sort of substitute name for him.
The repetition is on purpose. It may not work for many people. I explained to Cathy what I imagine could be my reasons for this ruse. Thank you, John.

Night Ride

The ambulance slices the thin night air of {inconsequential}[nondescript] streets. I sit in the back, beside the sick man. Strangely enough, I get the feeling that I"m in a camper: there's the burner, bottled water in a corner, emergency kit, seats for kids.

Soon, we pitch and bounce over cobbled avenues. I worry about the frail man. Ruptured scar, that sort of thing' maybe something inside him will snap. His head rolls sideways and he drops one leg over the edge of the stretcher. I bend forward and lift it back, but the lady doctor says it's OK, let him be, he's well strapped in. I glance at her doubtfully. She languidly puts a cushion to protect his head.

Street lamps peer at me through small ambulance windows, playing with shifting shadows in the hushed interior. Now and then a lone policeman on a corner lifts an arm in respectful salute. I spot silhouettes of drunken men stumbling out of late night bars. A few valiant prostitutes cluster together nearby. The ambulance's harsh beams focus briefly on their wary, scarlet lips. I wonder about them, their lives, their kids maybe, their men, different things.

I'd imagined the siren would have wailed subtly, but no, we make our soundless way through nighttime echoes, stopping at all the streetlights. Not an urgent case, I suppose, calculating in my mind the {frail} man's earlier convulsions, the galloping fever, and his heart condition.

He still has a high fever. Back home, we'd been putting loads of towels with ice-cubes under his armpits and by his groin, following instructions over the phone. Now he looks at me through the eyes of a scared child. I smile at him and hold his hand. He doesn't appear to know me, but he grasps my hand weakly, unmoving, calmer now.

One more bend in the road and we're in the Emergency Unit. The stretcher slides neatly out. Cool morning wind doesn't care about the {frail}[feeble] man wrapped in a light coverlet. Male nurses give orders, personnel in green move fast; things are under control, it seems. He's hurried through a door that snaps at me: "Restricted Area"!

I wait on a hard[,] black plastic chair. My mind wanders. For some reason, I remember the {frail}[fragile] man waving his hand at me in greeting, as I used to descend the stairway from Night University. He was straight and strong then, handsome. His smile was contagious, bursting with energy. We'd rush off to a nearby stand-up grill to eat good Argentine steaks, washed down with glasses of Mendocino wine. Then we'd stroll out to walk around the city streets for a while, before heading home.

Now I sit on the unfriendly chair and wonder how long they'll keep the {frail} man in the Unit. Nearly five hours stagger by; my head nods regularly.

The hostile door swings open. A doctor tells me that I can take him home now. "Just keep putting towels with ice on him, if the fever returns", he says authoritatively. I dare to ask what treatment they'd given him. "Oh, nothing special", remarks the doctor, "mainly we used ice". "Oh'" I say dimly.

The ambulance drives the {frail} man home to his waiting, secure bed. The return trip is slow, weaving through early morning, impatient traffic. The driver uses the siren intermittently.

I'm too tired to reflect on anything now, nor even to glance out the windows.

Thank you for taking all this trouble over my story. I apologize for the delay in replying.
Hope to revise very soon.
Cheers, Sylvia

[Psyche]

Hi Lucie!

I'm so pleased you dropped by to read my story. Your opinions are always highly appreciated.

Exactly, I find it unbearable to watch vulnerable people (of all types & ages) being treated like 'objects'. So many institutions, including hospitals, carry on as if the mentally affected, young or aged, don't understand ANYTHING. Not true!

IMO, these people's minds capture things that 'normals' don't. We can learn a lot from them, beginning with truthfulness, as in the story about the small boy & the naked emperor... :-)
When they do tell lies, it's mostly in self-defence, because they intuit that they won't be understood if they state things honestly.

I'm happy that you enjoyed the read, Lucie. I hope to make the revision very soon. And yes, it is based on personal experience... ;-(
But life goes on, and writing about it is cathartic and, sometimes, useful to others..
Hugs, Sylvia ***

Hi Sylvia

I really thought this story, though sad, was beautifully written. I'm not very good at critiquing prose..so probably can't offer you any suggestions but just wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed reading this. I think you told your story and its message subtly and poignantly. I can relate to it too, seeing how vulnerable people are often treated in hospitals..

and I am sure, many of us can also, recalling times when someone we were desperately worried about, appeared to be treated without the concern or respect that we would wish.

You described the scene perfectly, interlinking your present observations with memories, and especially, memories of the ill man, reminding us that he is not merely a patient. Descriptions such as "unfriendly" chair and "hostile" door sum up the atmosphere and the experience as it feels for the narrator. Your last lines are perfect..the worried person, just too exhausted and worn out by the experience and maybe too disillusioned, for further reflection. Really beautifully written,

and I hope too that it is not based on personal experience...

Hugs!

Lucie

[Guest_Don_*]

Dear Psyche,

Enjoyed the read and scanned following threads. My comment upon subtle sirens is that inside a thick walled box of an emergency vehicle the sounds are muted for the comfort of the the patients. I imagine, being inside, the sirens were considerably attenuated. Your images throughout are classic. Yes, the leg dangling off the cot is unimportant, the caretaker assures; but the pillow is fluffed to show you that she really cares. The show does go on, no?

I am certain the heroin's mindset pressed the siren far into perceptive background.

Don

[Psyche]

Hi Don!
Thank you for scanning the threads as well as reading the story. Your insight into the mindset of the story-teller may be right, I wouldn't know. There's a black humor joke in my city that when the siren blasts extremely loudly (for the passers by), it's because the ambulance is carrying a hot pizza for some bigwig in a hospital... not ill, natch, probably the administrator.

Evidently, 'subtle sirens' don't go down well with the readers, so I'll study that bit and see what I can come up with. Perhaps I should make it clearer that it's from the interior of the ambulance that these sensations are felt.

Still haven't done any revising! Now I have to go for a check-up myself.... Wish me luck!
Cheers, Syl ***

Dear Psyche,

Enjoyed the read and scanned following threads. My comment upon subtle sirens is that inside a thick walled box of an emergency vehicle the sounds are muted for the comfort of the the patients. I imagine, being inside, the sirens were considerably attenuated. Your images throughout are classic. Yes, the leg dangling off the cot is unimportant, the caretaker assures; but the pillow is fluffed to show you that she really cares. The show does go on, no?

I am certain the heroin's mindset pressed the siren far into perceptive background.

Don

[Guest_Don_*]

Dear Sylvia,

You have our prayers toward a satisfactory health checkup.
Our community does not yet allow sirens on pizza delivery vehicles. The teenage drivers might have too much fun.

I vaguely remember being a patron in one our heavy duty emergency vehicles. Thinking myself quite lucide on the way to a heart hospital I noticed how relatively muted the siren sounded during the few times it was used. I think my less than ideal conciousness may have participated in the muting. My caretaker and I discussed the construction and safety of that boxy tank, which is impervious to more than we think.

I also know that distraction can obliterate an oncoming siren blare.

Although you claim to not knowing, you write realistically.

Don

[Guest_Cailean_*]

This was quite good with the right amount of description - not too much to slow down the action, while still enough to get a sense of place, albeit a "moving" place.

I think it's perfectly fine for having all your characters nameless. Names often can be overrated - if you keep your characters nameless they can be anyone. The frail man can be your brother, your father, your uncle, your son, your cousin, your lover. Each reader may have a different interpretation on who the frail man is to them and it will affect their interpretation of the story. If you, for example, name him "Dave", readers will go "Well, that sounds like my uncle Osbert, but he's called Dave instead, oh well." and there can be a level of distance. The "everyman" concept, combined with in some ways a minimalist structure of description works well for this illusion. I was told by a sales teacher once "Tell me and I'll forget. Show me and I may remember. Involve me and I will understand" and I feel that this "less is more" style is involving the reader.

We don't know his name and the only actual descriptive terms we receive of him is when he's actually well - straight, strong and handsome, these are all possible attributes to everyone once again, straight and strong can be quite subjective as well as handsome. I feel that the way you have written this, as I mentioned on my poem, is a strength rather than a weakness.

OK, now to the nits :) You tend to capitalize a few things that I wouldn't have, it's a minor aside but I feel the text would flow easier without the capitalizations (Night University - unless that's the name of the university, rather than just a university that is attended at night, Emergency Unit but oddly I would keep "Restricted Area"). On the other side of the coin, since you are attempting to create a feeling of speed (and in many places, that speed is quite apparent, good stuff! :) ) you might want to speed it up a little more with using shorter sentences and have a more "broken up" sentence style. Even single word sentences work rather well (technically speaking they are extremely grammatically incorrect, but what have rules done for us lately, eh? :) ). Although we don't need the speed of a car chase, I feel that the pacing could be sped up a little more, especially describing the journey. Your nameless protagonist (also undescribed, but that's perfectly fine! Helps with relation if the reader sees themselves as "I") and her/his musings don't need to be sped up unless there's a specific reason they need to be faster, however! I personally don't see that, her/his thoughts should tumble out at an appropriate speed and I don't feel they need to. Your call.

Just a few suggestions, but ultimately it's a matter of personal taste :) However, your somewhat minimalist description style works rather well - not everyone can. In some ways it's not minimalist but some people may consider it such since some writers can describe pretty much everything while in this piece you are concentrating on what really matters. That I can appreciate! I deplore pointless detail for the sake of detail, there are no wasted words here.

(If I post Forsaken sometime, the story I mentioned with the undescribed protagonist, you'll see the similarity I am sure! You may see some similarities between this piece and Under a Twin-Moon Sky here, where the protagonist has a name and an ethnicity but we learn more about how she feels rather than what she looks like.)

This Critique was created with the assistance of Western Australian Shiraz, for better or worse!

Cailean

[Psyche]

HI Cailean!
Thank you so much for your highly insightful comments. I've read everything and have taken note of the nits. I've also learnt things from you.
I'll see about the capitalized words and anything else that may occur to me in relation to your commentary.
I'm relieved that you don't mind nameless characters! I like to experiment with different styles, tho' mainly I try to concentrate on one issue in a story. How different from the classics! I'm presently reading The Brothers Karamazov, where Dostoviesky takes the liberty of writing LONG chapters which include several twists & turns, and descriptions are numerous, both of characters and places...Well, another time, another context!
I hope to revise my story asap., must go out now.
Thanks and good luck!
Sylvia

This was quite good with the right amount of description - not too much to slow down the action, while still enough to get a sense of place, albeit a "moving" place.

I think it's perfectly fine for having all your characters nameless. Names often can be overrated - if you keep your characters nameless they can be anyone. The frail man can be your brother, your father, your uncle, your son, your cousin, your lover. Each reader may have a different interpretation on who the frail man is to them and it will affect their interpretation of the story. If you, for example, name him "Dave", readers will go "Well, that sounds like my uncle Osbert, but he's called Dave instead, oh well." and there can be a level of distance. The "everyman" concept, combined with in some ways a minimalist structure of description works well for this illusion. I was told by a sales teacher once "Tell me and I'll forget. Show me and I may remember. Involve me and I will understand" and I feel that this "less is more" style is involving the reader.

We don't know his name and the only actual descriptive terms we receive of him is when he's actually well - straight, strong and handsome, these are all possible attributes to everyone once again, straight and strong can be quite subjective as well as handsome. I feel that the way you have written this, as I mentioned on my poem, is a strength rather than a weakness.

OK, now to the nits :) You tend to capitalize a few things that I wouldn't have, it's a minor aside but I feel the text would flow easier without the capitalizations (Night University - unless that's the name of the university, rather than just a university that is attended at night, Emergency Unit but oddly I would keep "Restricted Area"). On the other side of the coin, since you are attempting to create a feeling of speed (and in many places, that speed is quite apparent, good stuff! :) ) you might want to speed it up a little more with using shorter sentences and have a more "broken up" sentence style. Even single word sentences work rather well (technically speaking they are extremely grammatically incorrect, but what have rules done for us lately, eh? :) ). Although we don't need the speed of a car chase, I feel that the pacing could be sped up a little more, especially describing the journey. Your nameless protagonist (also undescribed, but that's perfectly fine! Helps with relation if the reader sees themselves as "I") and her/his musings don't need to be sped up unless there's a specific reason they need to be faster, however! I personally don't see that, her/his thoughts should tumble out at an appropriate speed and I don't feel they need to. Your call.

Just a few suggestions, but ultimately it's a matter of personal taste :) However, your somewhat minimalist description style works rather well - not everyone can. In some ways it's not minimalist but some people may consider it such since some writers can describe pretty much everything while in this piece you are concentrating on what really matters. That I can appreciate! I deplore pointless detail for the sake of detail, there are no wasted words here.

(If I post Forsaken sometime, the story I mentioned with the undescribed protagonist, you'll see the similarity I am sure! You may see some similarities between this piece and Under a Twin-Moon Sky here, where the protagonist has a name and an ethnicity but we learn more about how she feels rather than what she looks like.)

This Critique was created with the assistance of Western Australian Shiraz, for better or worse!

Cailean

[Lady Poet]

Greetings Sylvia,

I was at one time a CNA and use to work for a private duty nursing agency. I had many clients with alzhiemers and dementia in all cases it was both heartbreaking and a blessing. I only saw one case where family members had disassociated themselves from a parent because they were in the last stages and it was easier on them somehow. I always called them by name and talked to them like they could understand, sometimes they would respond, mostly not. This was to me, a profoundly poignant story, and told well. It brought tears to my eyes.

Blessings, Pami

[Psyche]

Hello Pami!
Wow, you certainly get around MM a lot! I'm such a slowbie...Thank you for reading my story and commenting, I appreciate that very much. Yes, I agree that one should talk to people with dementia in a normal fashion, and give them lots of love. Love is so important in any illness, isn't it? I know one can get through to them fairly often, even if it's just by way of 'feelings'... a warm touch, a caress, a kiss, or even some yummy goodies!
Hugs & thank you, Pami,
Sylvia ***

Greetings Sylvia,

I was at one time a CNA and use to work for a private duty nursing agency. I had many clients with alzhiemers and dementia in all cases it was both heartbreaking and a blessing. I only saw one case where family members had disassociated themselves from a parent because they were in the last stages and it was easier on them somehow. I always called them by name and talked to them like they could understand, sometimes they would respond, mostly not. This was to me, a profoundly poignant story, and told well. It brought tears to my eyes.

Blessings, Pami

[Guest_Rosemerta_*]

Hi Sylvia,

I only skimmed through the other comments made and will add a little of my own thoughts. I'm not that good at the technical end of things so usually just go with what jumps out at me.

My first impression is that the visual details were of such that I expected this (or something close to this) was experienced by yourself. To that effect it ads a richness to imagery that might otherwise be missed.

The descriptions of images was great as was of sound though you could add more of the latter. What I would have liked to seen more of was that of the feelings or thoughts running through the orator's mind. What you have is very good and easy to expand on without overkill.

The consistant use of 'frail man' was the main thing that jumped out at me. I understand your reason for keeping him nameless and the challenge of not making it repitious. I had the same problem in one of my stories and it took a lot of creative thought to correct it. For instance you could use 'this fragile form', 'my old friend', "man in delicate state", or "weakened being".

There was a comment made on the sirens and in truth there are many cities who do not sound them during transportation if the patient's condition doesn't seem life threatening. Not having them sound may show less compassion and/or maybe short bursts at intersections which is commonly done.

You have a very powerful tale here but it almost seems cut short at the end. I got the feeling you were mentally exhausted from reliving the experience (which I have often done) to follow through with a powerful ending.

The message, I felt, was of watching someone the orator cared for be treated casually. If this is of actual events one could expand to 'exagerate' the care as to what others might have experienced to evoke more compasion in the reader. The ending is your powerpoint so I would suggest leaving off the line of being tired and replace it with thoughts of what might happen to the man now or become even more dramatic to have him die on the trip home.

To me this was a wonderful account that could evoke awareness of how the old are sometimes treated (or not treated). You have much power to work with here. Nicely done!

~~@ Jackie

[pixordia]

Hi Syl***:
I thought this was an interesting story. Me being a nurse
I felt your concern and empathy for the frail man all the way through.
I sure hope he got well.
Since I am very new to writing prose myself I will leave the critique for others more expert in this area.
just wanted to let you know I enjoyed the read.
Hugs,
SuZ

[Psyche]

Hi Suz!

Thanks so much for dropping by. "The frail man" did get well, sort of, but has pre-senile dementia due to 3 heart surgeries....and some other minor ones.

Do you still practice nursing? I have a vision of you sunning on Hawain beaches, having read your poem! One forgets that poems are not bios, altho' they carry a lot of subjective or subconscious meanings.

I'll be back to read your story, must leave MM now, it's my day off!

Hugs, Syl***
PS: I haven't replied to some comments because those members are not active right now. And our dear friend & writer Don Holmes passed away recently.