Peer Review by sophmailloux (Canada)

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Wednesdays

By: Lottifus


FREE WRITING

Alex hated Wednesdays, and the dead dog did too, which Alex knew because when she went to lift its head the fur fell off in ashy clumps and skittered across the floor, and the bone underneath was red and raw and bright. She washed the skull with soap and water until it smelled of lavender. She washed it until the red gave way to the colour of the lamplight in the thin December coldness of the city. Her hands smelled of lavender. Her house smelled of lavender.

There was dog blood under her fingernails

Alex folded the dead dog into a pile, like old laundry, with its paws drawn up to its chin and its yawning teeth all stuck in its jaw. She tucked it under the blanket. It lay under the blanket. It did not move. It was dead. Alex loved the dead dog, which she knew because she cried a single tear when she covered its head with the blanket, but which she was also seeming to get over, because she thought of it as a head instead of a face.

There was dog blood on the blanket

Alex left the dog to lie (funny, ha, because of what they say about sleeping dogs; she had a bit of a sad laugh) and walked over to inspect the trap, which was snapped shut across the same hapless backbone it had held in its teeth for weeks, and fixed around the spine - because the spine was the central point in her little composition of death - was a white mouse. The mouse's eyes were oil-spill blue in the lamplight; he was blind. His soft face had a smile on it. He couldn't see the trap or feel the snap of the teeth, and the reason he couldn't feel was because he couldn't see. He could smell Alex, the smell rising above his own fear, and he could smell perhaps crumbs on her, of toast, of early-morning dried cereal, and he squeaked for food.

There was dog blood on his whiskers

Alex leant over the little mouse, and she thought about freeing him, but she decided she didn't, and her thought process was filed with the identical thought processes of the past few weeks, shelved and stamped as not to be rewritten. The mouse problem had been a real problem, but now it occurred to her that there had only ever been one mouse. He had done wrong things. Not in his little mousy definitions of wrong, Alex knew, but in her own definitions of danger and blue lights and hearts running too fast, in terms of gnawing through cables and sprinkling germs on vegetables. He deserved to be in a world of wrong. Instead he was in a world of right, sheltering in his little mousetrap paradise where she brought him crumbs every day and he was unable to see or feel, and unable to fear.

There was dog blood on the vegetables

Alex left him in the trap because she knew that he would die one day. Perhaps he would die happily. She would allow him to die happily because he did not know what death was, so it would make no difference either way. She had held the dead dog when its blood had surged and flooded and sparked the arteries into coarse wires of beginning that shocked dark red endings into the new and pink reaches of its heart, until it was cold; until it was sharp and harsh-grey on the floor of her room and she couldn't get rid of it. She couldn't remember the live dog any more.

There was dog blood on the floor

Alex sat in her room with the dead dog and the happy little mouse and she cried. She cried for about fifteen minutes, and then she turned the lamp off and went to bed. The mouse died on Thursday morning. He died happily.

 

Sometimes I wake up at 4am and have a bunch of words in my head so I vomit them onto a page and realise they make no sense. Then I decide to post them anyway because whyever not.

Wednesdays, am I right?

Message to Readers

Feel free to review, but this will make about as much sense to you as it did to me


Peer Review

I really loved the little italic pieces in between the paragraphs, they added a nice flow and rythm to the story that made it very enjoyable to read. I also liked the contrast between the title, it added an element of surprise when I started the story as I expected it to be completely different than what it was (in a good way, I swear). It might have been nice to have a bit more of a link between the title and the piece itself, but you pulled it off nicely either way.


It would be nice to know a little more about the dead dog. How did it die? I was also a little confused by the bit that said that there was dog blood on the mouse’s whiskers. Did the mouse somehow play a role in the dog’s death? If not, what is the connection between the dog and the mouse?


Reviewer Comments

Overall, great job! Other than a few bits that confused me a little, you did an awesome job of weaving together a mysterious and ethereal piece that had great contrast and flow. I loved reading it!