I am my mother’s daughter. Our faces align themselves in the mirror of her bathroom. Our eyes large and blue-green. Hers are mostly green and mine are mostly blue. Our hands are making the same movements, applying dark mascara to the length of our eyelashes, our birthmarks brightening with concentration. Her lips are moving, and I am mesmerized. I’m not really listening. I’m following the sound of her voice and wondering if this is what I sound like to her. Our hair is brown; our skin is fair. She is much taller than I am, but if I wear heels it’s hard to tell us apart. The lines around her mouth and eyes are the only things that give us away.
I haven’t been home in years. I’m home now because my older sister is dead. My sister was killed in a car wreck. It wasn’t her fault. We are going to bury her in two days, on a Friday. Fridays are the worst days for burying. No one wants to be sad on a Friday. Mother says it doesn’t matter because we’ve been sad since Tuesday. Today is Wednesday. The house smells different without my sister here. There is an absence of vanilla and coconut. When we sing, as we always have when the silence is heavy, there is a deep alto that is missing. My mother’s eyes will turn gray soon. My father will come back from mowing the lawn and wonder why we are all sitting here, doing nothing. My father mows the lawn when he’s sad. I keep looking around the living room at my discarded family–my Uncle and Aunt down from the mountains of Tennessee, preaching about heaven, and how we’re all just thankful. I’m the only one that thinks Heaven doesn’t make this better. My cousins are wearing black, !
and they never really knew her and that’s why they are crying. My grandparents are holding hands; my younger sister is playing “Canon in D Minor.” I can’t stop watching my mother. I haven’t been home in years.
It’s later on Wednesday. My mother is starting to cook. Frantic cooking–fried squash, burnt okra, chicken salad, fried apple pies. I should probably ask her how she’s doing, but I grab a piece of fried squash off the plate and take a bite. Like I’ve always done. My mother is cooking to control something, the hunger in our bellies, the scent in our noses. Her hands aren’t shaking. She seems calm. I just watch her, waiting for her to burst out in tears. We’ve spent a long time waiting for my mother’s outbursts. My sister always knew what to say when they came. I always watched from a corner in the room. I don’t cry much because mother always did. I think she’s saying something now.
“Sweetie, will you stop staring at me please? If you’re going to sit in here at least make yourself useful. Grab the jar of strawberry jam from the pantry.” This is what she is saying as she points in random directions. I grab her the jar of jelly and set it on the kitchen counter. Growing up we were always arguing. I spent years slamming doors–the car door, the garage door, the front door, my bedroom door. My sister was always stepping between us. She was always stopping the fights. Mother used to tell me I was just like her, and I would tell her I am not like anybody. I am like myself. Now there is no one to stop the fights. So we don’t talk.
Tonight is the visitation. My father and my younger sister and my mother and I make our way to the funeral home. When we get there we walk together in a single file line. We stand for three hours beside my dead sister as strangers and people we know walk through the line to tell us how sorry they are for our loss. My mother weeps. They hug us all and shake our hands and tell us how wonderful she was. We know, I say. We know.
It’s Thursday. My extended family is still dropping by. They stay in intervals of three hours. They take turns holding my mother’s hand as she cries into their shoulders. I’ve been told that it will be ok. I can’t stay in the room with everyone crying, their tears making puddles on the hardwood floor. I spend my time in my old bedroom. It still looks the same. After all these years there are still two twin beds in the room my younger sister and I shared. The walls are still a light purple. Random posters from high school still decorate the walls. There is a picture of me and my dead sister. We are smiling. Someone keeps knocking on my door. I open it to find my mother standing with a photo album tucked beneath her arm. I don’t really want to reminisce with her, but I invite her in anyway. We sit on my bed and she starts to tell me stories, stories I know because they are mine too. “I wish we had let her have that pretty blue dress for her senior prom,” my mother whispers. “!
I hated that everyone always liked her more” I say to the wall. When we reach the last photo she finds my hand and squeezes it. I manage to smile up at her and wish that she would leave. She knows. She walks away. Everyone says they are worried about me because I haven’t been crying into tissue paper. I haven’t really been doing much of anything except watching everything unfold. I think I might cry when I hear my father in the kitchen, his voice breaking beneath the loss of his daughter. We are all sad, I think. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My mother’s face looking back at me.
It’s now late Thursday night. My mother has made dinner, and we are eating at the kitchen table in sadness. My mother asks me how work is. If I’ve made any progress. If I’ve sold any houses. I tell her I wasn’t here to talk about work. She asks me how my boyfriend is doing. I remind her that I do not have a boyfriend anymore. She tells me how he was such a nice boy and how she hates that things didn’t work out with us. I tell her I am not here to talk about boys. We are quiet. I remember being in High School and how my mother would want to meet the boys that asked me out. They would come home with me, and we would have dinner, and she would ask them about school and sports. If she liked them I would dump them that night. I purposefully fell in love with boys she hated. I am 23 now and nothing much has changed. When dinner is over my younger sister and I quietly help my mother clean the dishes. My mother washes, I dry, and my younger sister puts the dishes away. My mother !
starts to sing a church hymn, “Trust and Obey.” We sing along, and it’s not enough to drown out her absence so we stop.
It is December. My sister has died in December. It is cold outside; our Christmas tree is still up, and my father has started a fire in the fireplace. It is still Thursday. We are watching the lights on the tree blink in and out, reds and greens, blues and gold. I turn the television on to a channel that is playing Christmas music. “Silent Night” is on.
“Do you think Christmas will be okay this year?” My mother asks.
“No.” I reply. Her face looks pale, and she looks older than she did this morning. I think about the years of opening presents together on Christmas morning. We always took turns. My mother would separate all the gifts into neat little piles, and my father would video tape us, making jokes as we opened a gift when it was our turn. I watch my mother staring into the fire.
“Yes.” I say. She doesn’t hear me. “Yes.” I say it louder this time.
“Yes? Yes what?” Mother asks.
“Yes, it will be ok.” I try to smile a little, and she is grateful for my effort.
It’s Friday. I‘m the only one awake. It’s 6 o’clock in the morning. I take a shower. I watch my younger sister sleeping and then I take another shower. I lay back in bed and stare at the ceiling. There are glow in the dark stars stuck on the ceiling. Our names spelled out in planets and moons. My sister helped me put them up years ago. I can’t go back to sleep. I put on my dress. It’s black, of course. I bought a hat to wear. It has lace on the front to cover up my eyes. I put on my black panty hose and my black Mary Jane’s. I walk into the kitchen to find my mother standing in the doorway in her black dress and her black panty hose and her black Mary Jane’s. We stare at each other for a long time. She looks as if she has been crying.
Everyone is up now. We are on our way to the funeral home. Today we will bury my sister. My family sits in the front row. My entire family. My Uncle, the minister, says some nice things about my sister. We listen to stories, all funny or happy or touching. Everyone misses her already. It has only been four days. It’s my turn to eulogize her. Mother wanted me to read a poem I had written. So I do. My voice is calm as I read.
Pressing ever so slightly to
Chopin and Debussy
You are the chord played defiantly
by piano-fingered girls. You are not to be
caressed, full of accidentals.
You are staccato, crescendo,
always rising, flowing
(though you shouldn’t)
You require grace
and patience. A fiery, stubborn
composer. You are composed,
written with ink,
played continuously by that one girl
with just enough talent and too much
heart. A song felt more than heard,
hidden beneath Vivaldi and Beethoven
and Bach and Mozart and some German-French
Anglo-Saxon,
you are whispered.
When I am done the band plays an Irish Celtic version of Amazing Grace. The ushers carry my sister’s body out of the church and my family follows. We drive in silence on the way to the grave site, our hearts all beating to the memory of my dead sister’s voice. I lean against the window. “I miss her.” I whisper. My breath creates a circle of fog. I trace my name into the circle. When we get to the grave site my dad helps us out of the car. Everyone is standing around her casket except a few of us who sit in red velvet covered chairs as my Uncle reads “The Lord’s Prayer.” It starts to snow a little, small white flakes falling on the heads of mourners. We wrap our coats around us tighter. I lace my fingers with my younger sister, squeezing three times, our silent form of I love you. I turn to look at my mother as she leans her head into her hands. My father slowly runs his hand up and down her spine. She is falling apart. So am I. My Uncle finishes reading. Somewhere in the !
distance I hear a voice begin singing, “Lord be there for me when I fall, be there for me when I call, be there for me, dear Lord.” I listen closely and realize it is my own. This is a song we would sing together. I start to sing louder and another voice, so close to my own, sings with me. It is my mother, and she is singing my dead sister’s part, and our voices are blending together, trying to reach her one last time. I am crying now, loud painful sobs, my tears falling on my mother’s hand. We are wrapped into each other, and we can’t let go. The people around us continue to sing.
We each take turns dropping a rose on my sisters casket, and everyone starts to leave as they lower her into the ground. I walk up with my mother to lay down our roses. I am my mother’s daughter. Together we feel the crackling of snow underfoot.
Categories: Contest Stories
[...] First Prize Winner: The Week My Sister Died by Kari Wicker of Greenville, [...]
Yeah I find it insulting when people write about somthing soo personal when you can tell that they have never been through it themselves. And I’m not trying make you feel bad I’m just saying it really doesn’t seem real. Stick to what you know girlie
Boring! Is this really the best there is in the pool? The script is devoid of character, hardly luminous and rather flaky. I have been a literature teacher all my life and this will definitely not pass my list. In fact the runner ups fare better. Got to agree with Ms. McNair on her hindsights as well.
[...] First Prize Winner: The Week My Sister Died by Kari Wicker of Greenville, [...]
This made my heart ache. Great story.
The story had a depth some might miss, but either way, the writer has a way with words. Beautiful.
Oh my gosh! First, if this writer continues and is published,I want to know! Not sure what the first two posters’ are talking about. ‘Did you read the same story I just did?”. I am not sure if Ms. Wicker has actually ever experienced what she wrote but I have and I actually had to stop and take a personal break before finishing the story. In very few words you got it ALL exactly right, I felt and knew the story. When I started reading I was thinking how can this only be a short story, without coming up short and disappointing at the end. Ms Wicker, you did it all from beginning to end. And to be able to write a poem that sums it all up and says so much I do not have words for. I read alot and my favorite class in college was literature interpretation. I definitely can see why yours was picked as the winner and I truly hope to be able to read more of you in the future. You are truly gifted! Side note, I was asked to read this and the person who did so knows that I am blatantly honest to a fault. I either comment or don’t and usually am not one to post comments, however, I truly hope that you Ms. Wicker continue your writing and that in your heart you know that the judges did get it right this time no matter what others have to say. Not everyone gets everything, thus the reason there are so many different types of writing. For me personally, you hit the nail on the head with one strike. Please do not give up your talent.
Being able to know you is one of the few valuable items in my life i treasure, thank you Kari.
I have an alternative view.
This story reached out and struck a chord, several chords actually. It moved me.
I don’t know how you know, Kayla, that the author has not been through anything like this. If she hasn’t, then I’m more impressed.
The judges have recognised a big talent here. Congratulations to them and a thank you to Kari.
It is truly amazing that Kari captured the emotion of shock and grief so vividly, whether or not she has experienced this kind of death in a family. I was impressed that this story encompased so many of these feelings. Great job, Kari!
I’ll have to respectfully disagree with you, Sara.
As someone who HAS gone through the tragedy of loss, this “story” feels hollow, empty… just truly devoid. Honestly, it was difficult to read- not because of any inherent emotion in it, but because it feels so poorly written, like it was composed in the space of half an hour or so.
If she “won” because she was simply lucky (random draw) or if she drew out something in the judges that’s not readily apparent, what I can see is this- she really has a long way to go if she wants to write real fiction.
I hope she enjoys her thousand dollars.
I totally agree with Daniel, I too have lost a sibling. This story seems more about the speaker then her sister dying. And when something like that happens it certainly does not seem so calm and poetic. This story is, like I said before INSULTING to us who have gone through this before.
The first person point of view and writing style are unique to Kari, but the main characther reminds me of Holden Caufield who could appear detached in the moments he was most involved. The writing style adapts to follow the action or inaction of the main character. We may never get to the point of Holden’s humanity, but we see Kari in song at the end–the joining of voices is a farewell salute to the dead sister; it bestows honor on her.
What is very apparent here is that Kari is a poet–her style is poetic and lean with well-chosen words. She ends her story with the ultimate poetic proof with her tribute speech to her sister full of music and images that prove she cared intimately for her sister. What the critics may be missing is that this is a Southern story; these are Southern characters and they are totally believable and genuine.
The story is one person’s (Kari’s)point of view. Who are we to criticize how anyone handles grief? I am glad the character is not overcome or overwhelmed or lost in her grief. Instead, she turns to what she knows in the end…her poetry, her love of music, her faith in God. She triumphs over grief as she pays tribute to her sister and trusts her faith.
Congratulations to Kari on winning and Congratulations to the sharp judges who saw this young genius while she is yet budding. Kari, the critics who are blind to your unique style will see your name on the Best Seller’s List one day and remember!
Keep writing and keep sharing. Many will appreciate your unique talents.
What you call poetic, I call cliched, badly written garbage. Horrible story.
I don’t think some of the people who have read this story understand it at all. Maybe that’s why they don’t like it. It’s not a story about the person who died, it’s a story about one’s response to death and how one family copes with the death of the one person who held everything together.
I have gone through and seen many people cope with death and most of the time there is an outward calm hiding an inner storm. If you actually read the story and understood it, you would be able to feel the storm beneath the poetic words, like a tsunami about to break. The reader responds to her sister’s death in shock and bottles up the pain. Her calm reaction is contrasted by her mother’s frantic need to keep busy, her Uncle’s need to rationalize, etc. It’s at the end that you see her break, referenced in the crackling snow.
I’m sorry, but I find it laughable that any reader of this story could possibly be offended by one person’s view of death and how they would/did handle it. If I were the writer and had gone through this, I’d be offended by some people’s ignorance. You don’t have to like the piece, but to attack the writer is rude.
Elizabeth-
You’re way off base. Just because we hate a story doesn’t mean we don’t understand it. Yeah, your friend won. And a lot of people hate the story for a variety of reasons. What’s rude is that you make the assumption that someone who dislikes a piece of writing doesn’t somehow “comprehend” it- that smacks of elitism and, quite frankly, arrogance.
My only hope is that Kari, if she continues writing, doesn’t listen to your advice. She needs serious improvement in grammar, sentence composition, pacing… just about every writing angle. If she wants to do better than a single accolade on an obscure website like this, she needs to get better. If she listens to someone like you, who might very well have the best of intentions (since you’re obviously a close personal friend of hers), then she won’t strive to improve her writing and she’ll just pump out the same stuff, which is never a good thing.
As one of the “people’s choice” finalists, I think it’s inappropriate for me to comment on Kari’s story. I do wonder, however, if the “commentors” (if I may be allowed a word that isn’t a word) have read the other four pieces. There’s a surprising lack of comments on them, and I expect there are some that objective readers might find more to their liking.
Just a thought.
I read your story Evan.
I thought it was excellent.
I thought you should have won.
But, unfortunately, a lesser talent got the prize. Here’s to hoping you continue your excellent craft and become successful at it. All of us who write, we all have hopes of getting that “brass ring”- the publishing contract with our names in raised letters on the cover of a book. But it takes a lot of work, perseverance, and the accumulation of talent over the span of a lot of writing.
I think you have that talent.
Were I in a position to do so, I would most certainly recommend your work for publication in a magazine, journal or other such venue. Alas, I’m but one single voice in that massive cacophony of intermingling thoughts, without the power to even get myself published.
But I think you really, really should continue with your writing. You’ve got the spark. Don’t let it fizzle out.
This, is the very essence of writing. It has evoked reaction from every single one of the people above, which I believe is a tribute to the piece. I would much rather a story that stirred people to comment than one which merely passed by unnoticed.
I personally was captured completely by the story. The short, sharp sentences providing impact and texture to a very difficult subject matter. It does not matter whether the author has been through this or not. Nor should it matter whether the reader has or not.
As a work of writing this is constructed beautifully and took me on a journey which is precisely what stories should do.
Thank you Kari.
“As a work of writing this is constructed beautifully”
No, it wasn’t. Its construction is akin to the dung-heap Mary we’ve seen on display in New York. Offensive, tasteless, composed with little to no talent on display.
The only thing worse than bad writing is bad writing that attracts a following of fools.
This evoked an emotional response in me. It gripped my heart, quickened my pulse. I found that the style of writing communicated very well the trauma that the character is experiencing, and reflected her personal way of coping (or not coping, as the case may be.)
I think it’s tasteless to attack other people’s comments, so I wont get involved in that game. I just want to say that it’s all well and good to criticise while hidden in the anonymity of the internet. If you are so confident, put some of your own writing up for critique and see how well it is received.
“It gripped my heart, quickened my pulse”
Then you have poor taste.
I know kari, I have lost someone very similar to the person in her story. They died in december on a Tuesday….and the persons family seems a lot like her family……….All she did was change a couple of things….your welcome Kari….
Sandra:
That’s just… disturbing.
I mean, really…
She used your tragedy to get a few pieces of silver, so to speak.
And the story wasn’t even good!
Not even my stories are that awful.
“Sandra:”
I’m not entirely positive as to who you are, but I have an idea. I’m sorry if you think I took what happened to you and then made it into a story so that I might possibly win money. I didn’t. Perhaps subconsciously I chose the same period of time (Christmas) but other than that this story was nothing like and nothing about you or your family or your loss. If it was a Tuesday for you, I didn’t even know that. I’m very sorry if I’ve offended you in any way. I would have contacted you privately, but I don’t have any contact information on you at this moment. I’m not going to apologize for writing this story because it wasn’t about what you think it’s about. I am sorry though that it seems to have hurt you.
And as for the comment made anonymously I would never take a story that I know would offend someone I care about and use it to try and win money.
I understand if you think my story is garbage and is horribly written. I understand that some of you feel that it should not have won. I GET IT. The point is that it did, and you can’t go back and change this fact. Trust me, after all this, I wish you could. Jordan and Daniel: I really don’t see why you continue to post? Your point has been made. Now, whether you entered this contest or not, you both are starting to sound merely like people who have lost and can’t seem to adjust to this reality. Mean and bitter is not an attractive look. Making your opinion known once, maybe even twice, is sufficient for me to understand how you feel.
Thanks to those of you who enjoyed the piece.
Why are you singling those two out?
A lot of people think your story is awful. Because it is. From what I saw, Daniel’s last post served to encourage Evan to keep writing.
Kari, you seem to me like a pretty bitter, sore winner.
Which is far worse than a sore loser.
Why don’t you take your thousand dollars and be satisfied with it?
Everyone has their opinion of course, but not having experienced what the writer is talking about,I will try to be a bit more objective. The writing seems very juvenile and appears to be written at a grade school level. I’m sorry if that offends those that enjoyed the story, I’m not trying to do that, but honestly I just don’t see that this piece is very good. Poor writing about a sad subject is still poor writing. The first two paragraphs flowed so badly that I had to force myself to continue to read. It seems like most that liked the story were drawn in by the topic (perhaps something close to them), but purely from a writing standpoint this is drivel.
Same old, same old and dull as doornails. After the first two lines, I scanned the rest of the thing. I’m going to look at the runners up and hope for better. Yawn.
Oh, stop being so huffy, some of you out there. Most have us have suffered death of a loved one. And despair. And depression. Please. These comments shouldn’t be so damn personal.
The issue is the writing- this is pompous, unoriginal, first-person crap IMHO. I have no strong emotional reaction to it at all. It’s slush-fund material.
First, I would like to congratulate Kari on winning the contest.
Her story has a lot of depth and feeling. Maybe adding some spice into her writing will attract more readers.
Realy, Are ya’ll that insecure? Kari is a wonderful young women with many talents. She is loved and respected.I do not appreciate the ulginess that you pitiful people have posted.Do you pitiful people have such narrow minds that you have to try and destory someone else’s good fortune.Well you should try something other than arm chair commandos with a keyboard
Seems that Kari’s family have entered this forum.
Patsy- Kari being “loved and respected” is completely irrelevant in the context in which “The Week My Sister Died” is being discussed. That is, her story was chosen, inexplicably, as a grand prize winner in what (up until now) was a respected competition. It won over, for example, “Scrambled Lives”, which IS a story the readers have agreed is a great work.
That’s what the controversy is- not about Kari as a person, but the fact that the story she wrote just is of very, very poor quality and is unsuitable for any sort of publish, let alone as a winner of this competition.
As someone close to Kari, you may take it personally, but you shouldn’t. Writing is a career full of critique, in which even great authors must withstand the critiques and debasement of hundreds of rejections before a publisher accepts a book.
If Kari and her close relatives can’t take the heat of a handful of forum contributors, I would strongly advise that she exit this field.
Great story, the pace was wonderful, the characterizations perfect. You have a great depth of human understanding. I wish you a long career in writing and hope this success serves as a springboard for many more stories.
What a horrible, gawdawful piece of garbage. I don’t know what these other people are readin’, but this thing made me wanna vomit.
What Daniel Davis said. lol
I am very disappointed this story won (and no, that doesn’t mean it’s because I entered this contest: I didn’t). It was hard just to struggle through reading it; the lack of emotion and depth was really astounding. And the ending seems incredibly self-indulgent. Like the child who fantasizes about his cuter, more talented sibling dying so he can become the center of attention for a few moments because everyone’s sad enough not to point out that he is still inferior.
For some of the people that this has actually happened to (and not many people have managed to avoid losing someone) it may seem like a better story simply because they feel it so strongly. But I have to say this story is very poorly written.
But I can’t say I’m very surprised that it won. She wrote about a painful subject many people would be drawn to whether or not it was well done. It’s like on shows with funny videos; the funniest one is rarely the winner. Usually the winner is of the cutest baby, dog, or prettiest girl, regardless of whether what they did is funny or not.
You can be a crowd pleaser, or you can do something that’s actually good. This wasn’t good.
And the idea introduced somewhere above, that she stole another person’s tragedy and barely even changed any details…well, that’s just depressing, if it’s true. That’s not writing.
Let me first say that I like your piece. I read it through perhaps a dozen times and I found it moving. I read the other entries in the people’s choice category as well and there is some great work there. The main difference here being I only had to read those pieces once to know they were good. In a very real sense you cheated by entering a poem in a short story contest. Then to the chagrin of the other entrants and many of your critics you won.
Much of the short, clipped, first person prose that brackets your poem only works when read as additional free verse. This is especially true of the first paragraph. Absorbed at face value, like most readers interpret prose, it is awkward. Interpreted as additional verse your words are svelte, simple, and powerful. The brush strokes are broad and widely spaced. It is truly written like you knew the inkwell was almost empty.
This style would never work for a novel. Short little sentences like, “Today is Wednesday” become intolerable bumps in the road when they are strung together. Yet those same three words tell us the sister just passed yesterday and remind any reader who has buried a loved one where we are in the process of handling the death. Luckily short stories can be written closer to the page; they can leave much to interpretation.
I must say the concept of a family that sings together missing the voice of a recently departed member is an incredibly touching image, strong and fresh enough that I bet it is rooted in reality. Like visual artists return to the same scene over and over to hone their trade and in pursuit of a masterpiece, I think you should rework this idea. Write it again in prose that flows without regard to word count. Work on the poem and make it better. I think you have something here.
Whether or not Kari deserved to win this was not to be determined by the people that post to this forum; everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and I’m glad everyone can feel free to voice theirs. To make her feel undeserving of the prize she won (and in my OPINION, I doubt she did it for the money) is extremely rude, and to attack the opinions of those that actually liked the story is ridiculous. Post something you have written, let it be criticized by your peers, and see what kind of reaction you get. To address the person that called her a bitter winner, if you had someone insulting your writing, especially a story that has won a contest such as this, I’m sure you would sound pretty bitter yourself. Further, I believe Kari took the comments like a true winner should… With the realization that not everybody is going to LOVE it, or even like it. Instead of posting rude, hateful comments on here why don’t you do something constructive with your writing… Like write a story that SOMEONE can appreciate? Congratulations to Kari… Whether or not you feel she should have won is your opinion. Fact is she did, so kudos to her.
>It won over, for example, “Scrambled Lives”, which IS a story the readers have agreed is a great work.<
Great work? Really?
Ummm. No. It just has the most votes so far. I liked the piece a lot, but no piece is great because it has the most votes.
This is great work, and it won with good reason. Aside from Wicker’s excellent use of language, it is a remarkably accurate picture of what happens when someone dies. The tone & rhythm of the story seem to me intentional devices to convey the reality that survivors keep living; sometimes they’re crying, but sometimes they’re doing the dishes.
Hey look, the snooty elitists have entered the forum. I love the “Whether or not Kari deserved to win this was not to be determined by the people that post to this forum” bit- guess that means they’re so much better than all of us. How absolutely, positively arrogant of you. Get this through your skull, child- arrogant, self righteous elitists and the judges that elevate them might get a book, but that book sits on a shelf AND NOBODY BUYS IT. You want to know why JK Rowling is a billionaire? It isn’t because she won some stupid contest. It was because she honed her writing until it was good enough to entrance a massive audience of people.
I can tell you this- you certainly aren’t helping your friend Kari out by flooding the board with insults about people who, legitimately and rightfully, dislike the honor that this worthless piece of garbage was elevated to.
What you ARE doing is ensuring that anyone in this forum will never, ever buy a book with her name on it. With friends like you, who needs enemies?
Oh yeah-
And “excellent use of language”?
Pff.
I’ve seen more eloquence from a gibbon throwing poo.
When I first read the title of the story I was worried that I’d be reading a piece full of hackneyed metaphors and overworked, over-written emotions. Kari paints clear, poignant images with wonderfully constructed sentences accompanied by a hushed honesty that reminisces about times past with her late sister. Her writing…her grief is somber… sincere, not dramatized.
Your work moved me, Kari.
I enjoyed the story for what it conveyed, for what it meant, not for what I hoped it would have been.
Thank you for sharing this story. It’s always challenging to share personal work, personal labours to the public. I hope the negative comments do not discourage you. As a community of writers and readers, it saddens me that our criticism, particularly when negative, isn’t utilized and taken as an oppurtunity to be constructive.
After reading all the comments, I am shocked and confused by the unnecessary and consciously hurtful things people are saying.
If you have a critique of the piece, share it. Nobody is suggesting otherwise. But the mislead arrogance and ideological purity that Jacob Astrof thinks he possesses is astonishing. What a self-righteous ass. If repeatedly calling this work “garbage” makes you feel better, you really ought to find something to keep you occupied. Not only is it an insult to the judges, but it’s completely disrespectful to the author. You’ve made your remarks clear, why the insistent 7-year old diatribe? Actually, I’d expect more from a 7-year old.
“Worthless piece of garbage.” Sigh. It’s a shame Kari has to read these degrading remarks from a kid who is shamelessly attempting to assert his damaged identity.
Congratulations, Kari. The award is well-deserved. This moment is yours. Don’t let anyone else take it away from you.
All the best!
When I first read the title of the story I was worried that I’d be reading a piece full of hackneyed metaphors and overworked, over-written “emotions”. And I was right! Kari paints muddled, pathetically cliche images with horribly constructed sentences accompanied by a overbearing dishonesty that feeds upon a fool’s blind nostalgia about times past by using the tired image of a dead late sister. Her writing…her grief is unrealistic… insincere, completely dramatized.
Your work moved me, Kari- towards the nearest place I could vomit!
I hated the story for what it failed to convey, for the lack of a true meaning to it- I was nothing of what I hoped it would have been. I was so completely disappointed.
Shame on you for sharing this worthless wreck of a “story”. It’s always challenging to share work, but when you rush through and write some drivel in half an hour, it’s an insult to the personal labours of a public that wants better. I hope the positive comments do not encourage you. As a community of writers and readers, it saddens me that our criticism, particularly when negative, isn’t utilized and taken as an opportunity to stop writing when you really should have never written in the first place.
After reading all the comments, I am shocked and confused by the unnecessary and consciously positive things people are saying. This piece has no place in the literary world, save at the bottom of a pigeon’s cage.
If you have a think you can do better than this piece, share it. Nobody is suggesting otherwise. But the mislead arrogance and ideological purity that Lali Mohamed thinks he possesses is astonishing. What a self-righteous ass. If repeatedly calling this work good makes you feel better, you really ought to find something to keep you occupied. Not only is this THING an insult to the judges, but it’s completely disrespectful to all the other authors who actually put in effort into it. You’ve made your remarks clear, why the insistent 7-year old diatribe? Actually, I’d expect more from a 7-year old.
Worthless piece of garbage. Sigh. It’s a shame the readers of this website have to wade through to read these degrading stories from a kid who is shamelessly attempting to assert her lack of talent
Congratulations, Kari. The award is totally not deserved. This moment is yours, and it’s the only one you’re going to get. It’s too bad the judges were blind- even the worst writing by anyone else should be enough to take it away from you.
All the best!
Awww, that’s so cute, you’re crying for attention again.
Grow up.
Looking at that story, I just have to say… James’ comments seem far more consistent with what I’ve read. This is a terrible story.
Methinks Lali needs to grow up. Or at least find herself a good kindergarten.
It’s good writing, true or not. I CRIED.
I have bee writing for more than 30 years and to hear people crush someone else’s writing the way many of you people have, is beyond my comprehension. So what if you don’t like it? So what if you do. A story is from the heart and mind of someone else. It’s not about you, the people who don’t like it. If a story moves you, fine. If not, leave it alone and move on and read something you like.
Everyone has an opinion and everyone seems to think they’re better than everyone else. So, go write your great story, go eat worms and die because you don’t like a story, whatever. Have some compassion for God’s sake. As a People’s Choice finalist last year, I find it hard to believe that anyone would so blatantly put down another’s writing.
Maybe that’s the new way of taking the blow of not winning, huh?
I randomly came across this website while searching for writing contests and I found something I didn’t expect. All my life I have considered myself a writer, and considered other writers – those toiling away with language in order to craft the visions in their mind into something that can affect others – to be my comrades in arms. I’ve always found it difficult for others who aren’t writers to understand me when I grab their napkins at dinner on a Friday night and feverishly scribble down an idea before quickly shoving it in my purse so I don’t lose it. So I’m greatly disturbed by the comments on this forum – which I thought were going to be respectful, encouraging responses to someone’s work. Other writers, or so I’ve always thought, should respect the work of fellow writers. If you don’t like it – fine. Say so respectfully and offer a professional, respectful critique. Nastily berating and bullying someone isn’t a professional critique. It’s just, well, bullying and makes your stock plummet. No one respects another person who can’t be professional. Maybe this forum isn’t for professionals, thus making it not for me. I will look for a different contest to submit to – one where aspiring writers can behave and comment respectfully on each other’s work.
In an attempt to offer some semblance of a proper critique on this website to Kari, as she deserves, I offer this: I believe that Kari’s work is reflective, simple and searching. It’s meant to be blunt, stark and to an extent – empty. Death leaves a void, as we all know, and it affects people differently. I have never lost a sibling, but I have experienced loss and painfully observed others coping with loss. I would develop the sentence structure a little more, but again, I see where Kari meant for the starkness of the sentence to be a message in and of itself. Simply stating “I am my mother’s daughter” or “I am myself” are strong simple statements. Some of you clearly need to go back and contemplate WHY Kari wrote the piece the way she did. It’s more than the words. Think Emily Dickinson – the way she wrote her stanzas – capitalizing certain words which normally wouldn’t be – were part of the message.
I’m a humanist – I believe wholeheartedly in the individual experience of life – thus we experience its expressions differently as well. Kari seems to be writing from her own personal perspective by observing loss, trying to superimpose her own mind and spirit into how she feels such an experience would be – for her. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I’m shocked by the respondents on this forum who think that fiction must be based on personal experience. Are you kidding me? Would you say that Gone With the Wind was a terrible novel? Maybe you weren’t aware, but Margaret Mitchell didn’t live during the Civil War, never loved a man named Rhett Butler, never experienced the terrifying events of a massive war or lost her mother to scarlet fever. She never waded through hundreds of dying men on a battlefield, watched suffering men have their arms and legs amputated, and never lost the life she’d known since birth. She IMAGINED to the best of her ability what that would be like for Scarlet. That’s all Kari is doing here. Get a clue people – or have most of you not had a proper English/Lit teacher in your life. I’m sad for you if you haven’t. I don’t know Kari, but perhaps she knows someone who HAS experience this kind of loss, or just happened to decide to write about such an event because she felt like it. Free country. So many rude comments have been made about her intentions or ability – most of whom apparently seem to operate under the notion that they are the Pope of Literature and thus have the write to pass such hateful judgement. You hav the the right to dislike something, but say it with respect and a helpful critique. I think that none of the hateful comments on here have come from people who actually understand what it is to be a real writer, because if they did, they’d have more respect for the craft and for those who engage in it. This especially goes for the person who posted that they are a literature teacher. I say to you: you should NOT be a teacher. People like you should not be teaching children. You are supposed to be a role model and give good, helpful advice. Not tear people down. If you treat your students this way, then shame on you. As for the others, I’m just going to assume that you are children.
Good luck to Kari. You have an interesting style of writing. I hope you work on developing it into your own brand. Good luck and congratulations on winning. The experts who judged you see your abilities and I say go for it! Don’t let sore losers and bullies, who sadly have no respect for other writers, on a silly writing forum discourage you.
As a writer, I am deeply disturbed by the fact that this won, and by those who would prop this awful writer up, as if she actually deserved to be propped up.
I think, to counter the emotional garbage being tossed out by the likes of Judy Blaze, and Casey W, that the comments here HAVE been respectful. At least, as much as this awful writing deserves. The only ones I’ve seen being truly awful, on a personal level, have been Kari’s little friends, who feel the need to shove their way into this discussion with things like-
“go eat worms and die”.
Hey, that’s mature!
I find it absolutely incredible that people like her can’t seem to separate the writing from the author. They automatically make the assumption that to say a story is garbage is to somehow insult the writer; on the contrary, you seem to be the only ones steering it in that direction. What the critics of this story are asserting, and quite validly, I may add, is that the writing is just NOT GOOD.
Again-
This story is poorly written, poorly composed, its grammar is terrible, it lacks focus, it lacks style, it lacks substance, and it clings to a tired, cliched plot style in order to elicit emotion (as opposed to using quality).
That has nothing to do with the writer, except perhaps to denote her lack of talent. It has to do with the WRITING.
And Judy, you’re just apparently not smart enough to comprehend that. I read your story- “Normal People are Those We Don’t Know Well”. And it was terrible too.
This award might as well be considered a consolation prize for horrible writers with no other outlet.
Honestly though, the OTHER writings have been pretty damn good. I think that’s what’s gotten a lot of people’s goats. When you have such dreck as Kari’s tale winning out over, for example, “Old Friends” and “Scrambled Lives”, it offends those of us who DO love to write.
You can respond to that with “eat worms and die” all you want, but I’m far too mature to resort to that childish, schoolyard garbage.
What I will offer, is a prediction.
If Kari uses the critiques to better her writing, she might by next year be able to push out a serviceable book.
If Kari listens to people like you, she will NEVER get a book published, and this faux-award will be the last she ever gets.
So she’s got a choice. She can wallow in your mud of mediocrity and back-patting, or she can pick herself up, take her thousand dollars and try to make something that’s actually worthwhile.
>>Shame on you for sharing this worthless wreck of a “story”. <<
Utterly uncalled for. Good story or bad, there's no shame in sharing one's work. It won, so someone liked it. If you have objections, attack the judge, not the writer.
As I posted earlier, I certainly don't think it's the best of the five stories. (But I liked only a couple of them.) But I'm stunned at the vitriol being posted here.
Constructive criticism has its place. The venom that some of you are posting? Shame on you.
Grow up. Throw away the sour grapes. And behave like adults, not petulant children.
As an educator I am sorry to say that I would have graded this piece in the C range. I didn’t care for the style, pacing, or development. I read the piece as fiction as I believe it was intended, but it just didn’t move me at all. It’s fine to disagree; writing is a very subjective business. With that in mind, I cannot be mad at an entrant into a contest. They don’t select the winner. As errant as the judgment may seem, it is not the fault of anyone that submits to a contest and wins. With opinions swinging wildly from right to left, I hope that the author is able to obtain some valuable criticism buried amongst the hyper-tension displayed here. I think there is a lot of room for improvement, but I’m not mad. I simply supplied my opinion. My opinion matters a lot when I’m grading papers, but when I’m writing on the internet it doesn’t matter much at all…
I liked Kari’s story. From the very first sentence, it pulled me in. The visuals were wonderful, and the starkness fit the subject matter perfectly.
Oh wait, something is coming in; I think I’m channeling… George Bernard Fish Head.
Yes, it’s a message:
“Those who CAN win writing contests do, and those who can’t, CARP.”
“Those who CAN win writing contests do”
Unless the writing contest is so subjective and vague that even something worthless and puerile can be selected as the winner.
This contest had nothing to do with talent.
Oh, and Lacy J- grow up.
>. With that in mind, I cannot be mad at an entrant into a contest. They don’t select the winner.<
Mark, exactly. If I don't like the winner of the contest, what's the point in attacking the person who wrote? She wrote a story and submitted it. Good for her. It's more than I've ever done with fiction!
Gloriana, that really makes no sense, unless you intend to attack everyone who doesn't win a contest.
Lacy J – I think we agree. I don’t condone attacking any writer. I would advise the writer to get as much feedback as possible. Some of it you can use; some you just toss. I suggest joining a strong critique group (no friends or family) and signing up for a critique session at a writer’s conference if you are serious. I provided how I would have graded the paper, but in reality my opinion means nothing. My post, nor anyone else’s, will change the outcome (and personally I don’t care about the contest or the outcome). I don’t review contests or writers, I review writing.
“I review writing.”
I can too.
This story is crap!
Trevor – list your credentials as someone who actually has a CLUE what they are talking about before blasting someone else’s comment. I doubt anything you write (judgin by your blithering response) is worth reading. Publish something worth reading and then come back and lecture to us. Have a nice day.
To all the negative nancies on this site (its sickening) – the point of contests like this one is to hone your skills and submit your work for constructive feedback from your peers. There are clearly a whole lot of posers out there who like to think they have some version of expertise – enough to make disparaging remarks about others’ work when most likely they don’t have a drop of talent in their body. If you were a true writer, you’d have more respect for other writers whether you like their pieces or not. If you don’t have IT, don’t judge someone else who is trying to develop their skills and express themselves creatively. That is all.
“the point of contests like this one is to hone your skills and submit your work for constructive feedback”
I’ll respectfully disgree with that statement. The “point” of these contests is to take the skills you have already honed and then take the best you can muster so the world can see it. If you’re still trying to rough out the edges of your writing, it stands to reason you shouldn’t be placing it in direct competition with other works. Similarily, this contest has nothing to do with feedback, either. Kari gets her thousand whether or not she ever sets foot on this site again.
I would submit that you are related to Kari and dismayed that her writing is disliked by the vast majority of posters here. While you have that right, you cannot simply dismiss the critiques on this site as feedback from people who “don’t have a drop of talent”.
Quite frankly, the comments I’ve seen here against Kari have been logical (except for a few), while everything you pro-Kari posters have been putting forward has no basis in logic- you’ve simply been putting out some pretty vitriolic, emotional rantings.
You aren’t doing Kari any favors.
Daniel, no one does Kari any favors by attacking her.
I’m not related to her and I don’t particularly like the story. But as Mark and I and a few others (unrelated, I’m sure) have pointed out is that if you need to lash out at someone, lash out at the judge(s). Kari submitted as story. She won. She did nothing wrong.
FWIW, My favorite story of the bunch — Thing With Feathers — will probably finish dead last. Yelling at Kari for that isn’t going to change anything.
I haven’t seen anyone attacking Kari.
Her work, on the other hand, is fair game. People have the right to judge it however they wish- that is the way of criticism.
Daniel:
1. Where did I question anyone’s “right” to judge? Of course they the right. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should, thought.
2. Maybe we’re reading different sites? Because many of the posts slam Kari herself. They are just as bad as the pro-Kari posts made by her friends. And, like some of those posts, they are “vitriolic, emotional rantings.”
Pity. A battle with Internet trolls and sore loses on one side and the friends of Kari on the other. I have to wonder if either side read all the stories.
“Because many of the posts slam Kari herself.”
You obviously have difficulty discerning work critiques from author critiques. A pity.
My sister passed away May 9, 2010. She was 27 yes old. The cause of death is still pending, she had Narcolepsy, it was getting really bad for her. I can relate to this story in many ways. I think her death really hit me the day of the funeral. It just doesn’t seem real and it is, it’s like a bad dream! Seriously, reading this gave me flahbacks when she passed a couple weeks ago. It’s like someone wrote this about my family, it kinda gave me the chills, congrats on your short story. Good job.
Rachel D
What a horribly written, poorly thought out story.
I have had the awful happenstance of losing a close friend, and this awful garbage just takes that and stabs a person in the eye with its insincerity. Seriously, you can TELL that the person who wrote it has never had an ounce of tragedy in their life.
Shame on you Kari Wicker, for profiting off the tragedy of others. I hope you never get another thing published in your entire life.
I really think this person had some close connections with the judges. There are so many talented writers out there, and they pulled this one out of the drain.
The prose was so choppy that I had to stop reading after the second paragraph.
I’m not going to comment on this story, But am glad I read the comments. A lot of bitter people and either a love or hate reaction. What I will do is not enter this contest. Some harsh critics out there can hurt a writer. Maybe this was fixed, who knows. But don’t say hurtful things like some of you have. She tried and she won, good job Kari.
Wow Robin Carter, that remark was cold! Never look into a mirror when wishing!
What an awful, awful story. Reading it just makes me shudder at thinking what DIDN’T win…
I will echo another comment – this read like a poem reformatted. That was the reason I could not get past the first couple of paragraphs without skimming. The short sentences and repetitious descriptions bored me instead of engaging, as good prose should. I do think she had the emotions (or lack thereof) perfectly – one walks around in a daze with random thoughts – but at the same time, how many people want to read that? In a journal about grieving, this would be perfect. As a short story, again – it’s not engaging for the “mainstream” reader. The idea should be to make those who haven’t gone through this understand what it feels like, to empathize with the character. Even having gone through it myself, I felt nothing like that.
So again, there’s potential, but more work needed. But at least the author is writing and putting it out there – many “authors” never get that far, and that takes guts.
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Okay, so I haven’t read this story and I’m not going to.
I just wanted to say that I’m really shocked with all these reactions I’m reading. Some people either really love it or really hate it. Very few people are in the middle. And those people who are in the middle are the constructive criticism that Kari needs. And that’s all she needs.
That’s all I wanted to say.
Well said, Briana. I read most of the comments and was shocked by the bitter undertones of several posters over Ms. Wicker’s story. Civility and tact are lacking in the global world. Sadly, here too.
Congratulations, Kari Wicker.
No good opera plot can be sensible, for people do not sing when they are feeling rational.
Congrats Kari. You have obviously done a terrific job of evoking emotions with this piece. We should all be this gifted.
It’s quite a shame that many of the comments regarding Kari Wicker’s story are clearly written by writers, educators, members of the literati, etc., who feel as though mocking and berating a young writer who did nothing wrong save enter a short story into an online contest is somehow conducive to the betterment of… her writing? this contest? those who entered yet did not win? the judges? other readers? or, most likely, themselves. I hope that these negative commenters felt better after tearing Ms. Wicker’s story to bits, deservedly or not. They probably took quotes from their own rejection letters from publishers and literary magazines to furnish this little comment box.
As a first time reader, this story transported me back, regrettably, to the last time that I lost someone very close to me. I remember reacting much as the narrator does in Ms. Wicker’s story- feeling at once very insignificant in the shadow of my deceased loved one, and simultaneously as though I stood alone the universe, thinking of no one apart from myself. I remember staring in the mirror, moving on “auto-pilot” for days, but I recall the smallest, insignificant events of daily life, such as moving the jar of strawberry jam from one spot on the counter to the next. In this respect, I read “The Week My Sister Died” as a very authentic representation of the salient incomprehensibility of grief.
Secondly, in response to other commenters who noted that the pace was choppy and uneasy to follow- I recommend that you widen the range of written work that you opt to read, as Ms. Wicker’s prose is not unsophisticated, but rather articulate, poetic and yet, laconic. Its simplicity adds to the grim nature of the hours, days, and weeks constituting a family bereavement.
Cheers, Kari.
Two words. Disingenuous. Exogenous. I’m happy you got the prize money, but I do not believe it was a worthy performance, and quite honestly, am in disbelief the judges selected this prolix perfunctory tale as the victor. Having personally lost a sibling, I find the story line untenable and cliche, and difficult to swallow. Anyone having lived through a similar situation can easily spot this story a disingenuous fake. Sorry for the unfavorable review. Keep writing. You will get better; but in the future, please stick with what you know and describe the feelings you had as a person in the 21st century, and please do not try to imagine what someone else might have felt in a situation unfamiliar to you. It’s tantamount to a white person writing a novel about every day life in ghettos of Gary, Indiana.
i like it. i didn’t think it would make me cry but it did (the part where the lead character started singing)! any story that can move me is a good story for me.
I personally didn’t care for this story at all. But I’ve read every single review for it. Many of you trashed it, ripped it to pieces completely. Fine. Honestly, Kari, if you submitted this story in any of my college level fiction writing classes, that’s what would happen to you. It’s unfortunate, though, that these people (specifically those who claim to be professors or have years of professional writing experience) have taken the time to point out countless imperfections in your story, yet have offered no advice on how to correct them. Perhaps someone has, and I missed it because the amount of reviews. If someone did please let me know. But if there are none, then all of the negative comments are absolute sh*t for constructive criticism. Don’t just tell her what was wrong. Offer suggestions for improvement. Don’t coddle her. JUST teach her. Otherwise your negative comments serve only as insults, not learning tools. If she sucks, point her in a less “sucky” direction.
And no, I will not offer any constructive criticism myself because I’m a college student. I don’t have the experience to justify criticizing someone else’s writing for a professional setting.
I was moved. We just this past week buried my brother. He died on my birthday. How much closer to the emotions of death; of hiding them and letting them out can there be. I guess you have to be there, to see the love behind the hidden lines.
I used to have a friend named Kari. Not sure what happened to her. But she had a way with words as well.