Hi folks. So...this group of ours. I want to make my first contribution. this is a short story I started yesterday. I am going for a post modernist vibe and would like your critique. here goes:
I watch as Mark Mackey chomps on his sour cream and onion Pringles. How disgusting he is. An unattractive boy caged within the hairy face of an overweight man. Everything about him speaks to his essential wrongness. His haircut is wrong, his clothes are wrong, he does not use enough acne medicine, and if I were on a date with him, he would not make it past appetizer with those noisy eating habits and chapped lips covered with processed genetically mutated potato. Of course, Mark Mackey is me, the author of this short story. I first laid eyes on Mark Mackey while taking an SAT practice test. He sat across from me and had no idea I was typing this little section of my story as a note on my phone. I hate Mark Mackey because he is a disgusting, confused, lost individual. Similarly, I am a disgusting, confused, lost individual.
Mark Mackey will be the protagonist of my shitty little story. I will be god, and I will rule Mark Mackey with an iron fist, governing his every rule. You, the reader of this story will be the antagonist, and you will make terrible things happen to Mark Mackey, because Kurt Vonnegut said to make terrible things happen to characters, and because you, as a character in my story, are now governed by the same iron fist that controls Mark Mackey, and I want terrible things to happen to Mark Mackey, as I want terrible things to happen to me. By the end of this story, you will have killed Mark Mackey, and newspapers will praise you for killing Mackey, the menace to society. You will then go as crazy as I am and kill yourself, and all of beautiful America will mourn your death, and they will all call you that vaunted title: hero. At least you died famous, unlike all the heroes of the desert shithole that is Iraq. Of course, you will not die in reality, at least not until God, the grandest short story author of all, decides to kill you for real. So, dear antagonist, are you ready to take part in a short story in which you are a character? Don’t worry, you won’t feel any pain.
Mark Mackey doesn’t feel very good right now. His computer is not working the way it should. To older folk, this didn’t mean much, but to Mark, this was a shot in the gut, a knockout blow to his nose. He couldn’t do his homework, and even worse, he could not check Facebook. How is a teen supposed to live without Facebook? As Mark contemplates life sans Facebook, Mark’s mother, who we shall call…Belinda…no, we shall call her Sophie, Sophie Mackey. Anyways, Sophie is cooking dinner, which is almost done, but she still doesn’t put in enough salt for Mark’s half Israeli half-brother. Mark hears Sophie calling him for dinner, so he lumbers his awkward frame over the dinner table. Mark wants red meat, like any boy-man. Mark receives a bowl of pasta, drowned in Newman’s Own delicious pasta sauce with dehydrated basil.
Well you asked. It reminds me of Seinfield.