Hugo told me once that fall was his favorite time of the year. Told me to hold leaves as delicate as you would a pretty girl’s hand. His teeth would then spread wide across his face. Pallid and flaked with brown. Rows of sweet tooth that hadn’t been cleared of duff.
On his days off we’d go hunting for mushrooms in the forest behind our house. “It’s hard to tell which mushrooms are edible,” Hugo would say. Always said, giddy over the possibility of the inedible as he led me through the forest. My studies turned to what you can eat. It didn't matter if it were safe or not.
That day, Hugo pulled me along— his meaty fingers pressed white hot divots into my skin. I followed as quickly as I could, but Hugo was excited, alcohol and smoke wafting off him in ribbons. My shoes filled with filth.
Mycology was his most recent hobby. An acquisition from an old friend he said.
Hugo's hobbies often skipped from one gruesome hobby to another. From taxidermy to collecting dead things in jars; these activities though innocuous in some hands, turned sinister in his. A field mouse captured in our backyard was less a friend and more an exercise in how long he could extend its suffering, how well he could preserve those little moments of despair, driving a needle in, then capturing the moment in frame by frame photographs. To pinpoint the exact moment, the most miniscule of details. Measured them in the span of flesh stretched to its limit, twisted in abject horror. It was a different kind of science. One that I likened to a kind of dark magic; powerful and detrimental to its user and the people around him. Wrapped up like something beautiful and awful, sequined and glittering, but dripping in oil slick, rainbow sheets of sludge.
Hugo yanked me forward, grip turning tighter. I tripped and he laughed, still dragging me along over root and rock until we hit a clearing with one solitary tree sitting in its center. Its trunk was devoid of a small swath of bark, smooth even at a distance.
As we got closer, I saw a ring of mushrooms at its base that traveled up its trunk in a spiral pattern. Up and up it disappeared into its canopy.
“Oyster mushrooms,” he said, releasing my hand to pluck one from the bark. He left marks. My reddened wrist contrasted against the pale white of freshly pulled bark. It reminded me of his angry red gums gnashing at me, smiles and frowns. Hugo was smiling at me then, pulling swiftly and roughly, tearing off just as much bark as he was mushrooms, raining clumps of brown to join the clutter of the forest floor.
Bark and mush fell haphazard atop a corpse—a fox—carpeted in what looked like to be more mushrooms. They bisected its torso. The mound of mushrooms, which looked like nothing I'd ever seen in Hugo's many, many books, stemmed like a dress from its waist, draping the rest of its body in its fungal carpet. Only its feet were left uncovered. But they were not bare, frost had started its seasonal creep, transforming the Foxes’ paws into glass slippers. Winter’s supine approach had begun, starting with her. I hadn’t realized it when we first arrived. This was a birthplace; a death, anchoring itself to the forest.
I continued to stare at the fox, searching. Her light-less eyes glittered at me in the dying light. Resurrected under my attention; life found unraveled, unspun at my feet, thread loose and fibers imbued with story. I imagined that she smiled a smile at me full of sharp, friendly teeth. For the briefest of moments I felt the whisper of her touch—her paw caressing my cheek, and telling me how this fate had befell her. A story not too dissimilar from mine. I had to protect her.
I knew what Hugo would do to her if he found her. Exactly the way he’d extricate her and preserve her, perpetually dead in his basement with a sprinkling of mushrooms and fall leaves for company. The other dead animals didn’t count. They had no more half lives; no in-between. That was my domain. With liminal fingers half crusted with frost, straining from the breakdown of cartilage, that life would wrap around the soft bend of my joints, her joints. She’d sit taut and stiff, halfway between specimen and taxidermy, a product of clumsy hands and even clumsier mouths, cruelly propped up against the door to let the draft in. We weren’t meant to be gutted and set for display.
Hugo’s delighted face was sharp; shadows fell across him like they belonged there, deepening the crags and dips of his smile.
The fox’s unseeing eyes still bore into mine, and as Hugo stepped back from his rough foraging to look at me, I blocked the fox from view with my body, leaning languid against the tree.
His eyes raked over me, hungry open maws of sight. He made to move toward me, his basket overflowing with an abundance of mushrooms dangling from his elbow. I did not flinch. I had been chewed up and spat out before. But a single oyster tumbled out of the basket, falling at his feet. His eyes darted down. Curses tumbled from his lips just as the mushroom just had. He crouched and picked up the singular mushroom, angrily brushing the excess dirt off it. He looked so vulnerable there, on his knees, cooing over the fallen thing as though he hadn’t just violently torn it from its home moments before.
A rock sat right by the foxes' head, large enough to serve as its stony pillow, jagged enough that it could promise a painful and messy death. Her dead eyes smiled at me; her form less vulpine and more human the longer I stared at that rock and breathed life into her story. If the fox had hands and strength enough to lift it, would it have lived? Would her paws not be dipped in ice? Would she be here now, acting as my hands? My hands had already found their way to the rock, having leaned down as I had pondered those questions. I inched closer to Hugo, staring at the top of his head. I examined his receding hairline and the numerous nascent liver spots and silver hairs—it looked like pencil lines interrupted by a filthy and worn down eraser.
His eyes met mine then. I don’t know how he didn’t notice until I was already towering over him, rock gripped in both my hands, raised over my head. His eyes bore into me. Terribly blue eyes as death clung to me, whispering to me, “I’d never get them out of my hair—the leaves—the mushrooms—not until…. “
She sat at my shoulder, right there inside the memory of our house sitting quietly without him. A vision tailor made for me. Her tails unfurled; her teeth sharpened. Her gown of mushrooms was apparent and as white as the snow, taking on the quality of shaggy fur. Delicate like the tendrils of a medusa, she was a woman sitting on our porch. She was a fox sitting on my porch, her ears tipped with frost and twitching as leaves fell from our maple tree, never falling outside of the careful circle that we laid out for him.
What would I do without him? she asked.
Maybe spend that fall studying the weight of the leaves and measure them in the fade of green to withered brown. Gather them in piles, feel how they’d crumble to pieces in my hand—the crunch of their skeletons, soft and grainy in their collapse.
Decomposition will sit with you. Set in the circumstance of life. Circles of death and rot. The house will sit empty, but they will sit quietly. No hands to interrupt.
My hands shook imagining the collapse; she shook, shedding the gown of mushrooms, taking on the look of death in its entirety and encouraging me to lift.
And so I did. As I raised the stone higher, I watched his eyes drown with a surety. A certainty. Realization. Recognition. She comes for us all at some point; clever little foxes that don’t stay dead. But for now she wasn’t here for me. All she did was help guide my hand.
The oyster mushroom he had cleaned of dirt sat snug in his hand. I could see it waiting; the knowing of what was to come and the knowing that it would not change anything for it and its brethren. But Hugo and his eyes, those terribly blue eyes did not care. He smashed it in his fist, letting its flesh ooze out between his fingers. And for the second time that day he showed me that sweet tooth smile, wide and menacing.
I swung down.
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hi fabi im haylee i wanna know will u be writing more storys i really love them
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omg that was scary
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Hi Fabi! I was pulled in by the amazing title! Congrats on the win! The story reminded me of a blur between hemlock grove and sleepy hollow.
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Hi Fabi, I am a volunteer at a community radio station, and I am starting a new radio show where I tell spooky stories late at night. I wonder if you will please allow me to read your story on the radio, and obviously give you full credit? The owner of the radio station may upload a recording of the broadcast online to a podcast on Spotify. I won't use your story unless you give permission.
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Thank you so much. And sure! I don't mind as long as I am credited.
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No wonder this won. Well done, Fabi.
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Hello, Fabi. I wonder if I could translate your story on the other languange? Cause it seems really fascinating and I would really like to share it with others. I hope that you won't be mad if I translate it from eng to rus. :)
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Hi, sorry for the late reply, but yeah that'd be perfectly fine. In fact, I'm flattered. Just please take care to credit it back to me and reedsy, otherwise translate away. And please let me know when you finish it! I know I am not fluent in Russian at all, but I'd love to see it either way!
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Best story in years I bet you would become a great author in the future! Thats kinda all I had to say but I encourage you to keep moving forward! GREAT JOB!
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Pretty good the ending though got me
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I agree ur vocabulary is TRASH
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I agree with most of the comments below. The descriptions are vivid. The writing evokes a sinister atmosphere. The voice is excellent but there there needs to be better continuity and tightness. A little more background would help.
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hi Fabi, you have very good taste in writing. I can see you have a broad vocab.
I really enjoyed your book, it is extremely amusing, I hope you write more too.
keep up the nice work
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Hai, I read your short story and was mesmerized by it, it's scary and psychological?. Even so your writing skill definitely so high, Btw I wanted to ask you few question about writing can you DM me just asking?
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Congratulations!
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I felt that this story was definitely dark and poetic. I do agree with another commenter that I wish that there were more background on the two characters. But at the same time, it's hard to sometimes create a rich background when it's a short story. I loved the description and I felt like I was there in the forest looking for mushrooms. Overall, congratulations and well done!
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You got me shaking in my boots
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Congrats on the win, Fabi M.
It must be stated, up front, that this is an uncanny, creepily good idea and concept, with some outstanding writing and haunting imagery, but it also has an abundance of confusing language and questionable syntax. Starting in the very first paragraph, and it continues throughout the story.
The first paragraph seems like a barely comprehensible ‘blend’ of nuance and nonsense. A troubling hint that the reader is in the confines of a literary ‘funhouse’.
I (in my ignorance) did not know that a ‘sweet tooth’ (uncapped) was a type of mushroom. It would have helped if you had written, (His janky smile then spread wide across his face, revealing teeth that were pallid and flecked with brown, like rows of Sweet Tooth mushrooms that hadn’t been cleared of duff.) Instead of what you did write: ‘His teeth would then spread wide across his face. Pallid and flaked with brown. Rows of sweet tooth that hadn’t been cleared of duff.’
When you use commas instead of periods, you organize your sentence so that even the uninitiated reader knows that the sentence is not about his face or his smile, or even mushrooms, but his teeth.
I read the critique offered by Newton-Howes, and came to a similar conclusion that entire sentences in this story did not make any sense. Whole sections of this story are populated with meaningless, truncated, and contradictory phrases that create confusion without purpose. Since this is a story, I don't think it is acceptable. (To me.) If it were a poem, well--but it is not a poem. And that simplifies the discussion. This is not a poem. Therefore, your sentences must make sense.
I spent hours, and more hours, examining this story and trying to
write a critique that was not mean-spirited, but funny, useful without being dismissive, but maintaining my own sense of where this story could be substantially improved, and should have been, before it was posted.
I have now read your explanation of how this story came to be, started over a year ago, revived, edited and finished, and even sent to a thing called a Hemingway App. Apparently some kind of car wash/manicurist for fictional stories. (I appear to be totally out of the loop on this.)
I also read your response to Newton-Howes, and the responses of a few other interested parties. Thank goodness. I can spare everyone my lengthy, profanity-laced diatribe against cheeky suggestions that ‘crappy writing is actually poetic renderings’ cleverly inserted into what is supposed to be a story, you see, because, that’s exactly what I found. Poetic phrases and sentences, emotional triggers I’d call them, cleverly inserted into the story.
I would refrain from lacing my stories with poetry until my stories were grammatically perfect, otherwise, you’ll have readers who think your grammatical errors are poetic, and others who will be certain that your poetry is poor writing. I think that is the case here, and the reason for the wide disparity in responses to this story.
All that having been said, it’s refreshing to see two writers, with very different styles, discussing their methods, results and strategies without feeling the need to defend a bruised ego. You’re both competent writers, and I’ve learned a great deal from both of your stories and even more from your exchange of comments. I’m grateful to both of you. This is the kind of positive intellectual atmosphere that I’ve been searching for. I hope neither of you mind if I follow you.
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I enjoyed the creativity of your story.
Your words are so poetic. I am working hard to bring some life to the way I describe things and hope that reading this gives me some inspiration.
Reading your feedback and then your reply was probably the most intelligent back and forward comment section I have ever seen on the internet haha who knows a debate between yourself and Marcus could make for a very interesting story itself.
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Beautiful, haunting, chilling - sounds like I'm plugging the latest Netflix thriller - but those words so perfectly capture this poetic prose.
Well deserved win.
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Thank you and thanks for taking the time to read and comment. Also you're perfectly fine, I don't mind if it sounds like the latest Netflix thriller, haha, which I don't think it does. Besides, if the words you used to describe the story fit in your opinion, then they fit. It's still lovely to hear.
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Hi Fabi,
I have to tell you that I am mainly only reading the 'Winning' and shortlisted stories in the prompt competitions at the moment to see what I can learn from them as someone very new to writing fiction, being old(er) to the writing desk, and without any formal literary training. But I also have to tell you (politely) that by the second paragraph, I was like, what is this story? And what is duff? :) I was completely lost BUT also in awe that writers use such language that 'looked and sounded' good but I did not really understand or resonate with, or see how it even related to the prompt. But the more I write, the more I read, and I realise I am of the older generation that maybe doesn't understand some of the genres people write within now. Albeit I am far, far away from being a cosy mystery or romance fan as I am not being a Harry Potter fan! :) Being a writer of educational and scientific papers for too many years makes it hard to let go and believe in 'make believe', fantasy story and more especially create it! I've only ever written and submitted two stories in my life and those are here and was totally disillusioned in thinking that they might be good enough to win or be shortlisted. However, without authors such as you, how do non-authors, such as me, know what to aim for? I must admit also that being English I find it hard to read stories set in the US and understand the use of US terms, geography and slang etc, which can affect whether I even continue reading something. I guess we are all so different, as the comments here demonstrate and it would be a boring world if we were not! There is so much to learn about this writing lark. Do we write to market, or do we write from the heart and hope that the market likes it, or write it to fit the current reader trends etc. I guess that's subjective. Who knows, but well done for responding to the feedback so well and of course for winning.
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Hello Sally,
It's a pleasure to meet you. And I commend you for making the leap from scientific and educational writing to fiction. It's always brave to me when someone decides to pursue something they've always wanted to pursue. Welcome to the writer's block! Haha. (Also, in my opinion, a writer is always a writer even if they never publish their work. Or if they don't find success. Or even if they haven't written in a while. I know I went a while without writing after being disheartened by the writing world. If you have ideas, if you have a passion, you are a writer. I wouldn't ever consider you a non-author.)
I understand completely if my story was a bit confusing. Sometimes that happens on part of the author failing to make things clear. Or it comes down to taste or style. Or even a matter of intersectionality: which is the intersection of identities, such as age, race, gender, or class. It happens. I understand that others shared your opinion on that matter. Its a fair assessment and I thank you for being polite about it, haha. And I welcome and thank you for your perspective on the matter.
To answer your question about duff: its the vegetable waste matter found on the bottom of a forest floor, usually beneath trees. I understand that within your neck of the woods, Britain, duff has a different meaning as well. There I think it means "not of good quality."
As for your question, which I am not sure if it is rhetorical or not, but I will answer to the best of my ability anyway. First off, it's a good strategy to read the works of others who have won. It's a good way to figure out what the judges of a contest might be looking for. Moreover, it's a good way to better understand what makes a story successful. Which leads me to something that many of my mentors in my writing life have told me, read widely and as much as you can. Read different genres, and different types of work, ranging from prose to plays, to poetry. Read non-fiction as well, be well informed. Because all of that grants you a better understanding of how to write your vision. What you want to write. Because you first need to understand the rules in order to employ them, or, if you like, break them. Which is a little bit of what I did with my own story by making it more poetical.
However, when it comes down to it, its all you. No one can be Harry Potter, because Harry Potter already exists. Yes its true there's no original ideas. But it's also true that the world just hasn't seen your ideas yet. I suppose that's what this prompt was all about. Remastered. Retold.
And in regards to writing from the heart versus writing to what is expected, I noticed that some of the other past winners, the ones that I've managed to read, did not write anything like what I submitted for this contest. And yet I submitted this, aware that the judges might not like it as evidenced by their previous choices. But hey, part of being a writer is rejection...so much rejection, haha. So, I guess in this instance, I wrote more from the heart, than to my intended audience. Though, technically, it can be said that I did find my audience, especially considering that I won.
Oh and yes I can relate to the feeling of being at a loss with certain words in works that come from a different culture or place. When I've read Chinese web novels, that tends to happen a lot, haha. Thank goodness for the reference pages. Localization really helps. But sometimes, depending on the work, it might not be present.
I will say one more thing about writing from the heart or for an audience, and that's that the writing industry presents the unfortunate reality that we must always write for an audience, as in the end, it is a commercial business. You can still write from the heart, but the audience still has to be kept in mind. I mean Xiran Jay Zhao is one the author that comes to mind. They wrote a scfi YA story with a polyamorous romance. They were told they would not find success writing such a story, and yet they are New York Bestselling author now. But from what I understand, just getting that story published was an uphill battle.
Ultimately, it all comes down to you. Practice, hone your craft. Listen to criticism. Persevere. Don't listen to the nay-sayers. (I know that's a little contradictory. But as Walt Whitman said, "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself./I am large and I contain multitudes.") It can be a balancing act. Either way, the only way to get better at writing, is to write.
And as a creative writing professor of mine once bemoaned while grading his student's work, writing is subjective, as is all art.
Anyhow, this comment has gotten very long, and if you have read it all to this point, thank you very much for that.
And thank you for your comment and for the congrats.
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Congratulations on the win Fabi! Very creepy, a bit too for me, but I loved the poetical imagery and presence that it evoked. Thank you :)
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Thank you! I won't lie to you, despite having written this with the genre of horror in mind, I actually quite detest horror. I still watch it though, and read it. I guess I love to suffer. But, even though I don't like horror, I can appreciate the ways it can be beautiful. I mentioned in another comment that filmmaker Guillermo Del Toro's body of work comes to mind. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can relate to finding something way too creepy for my taste, but enjoying other aspects of it despite that, haha. And I'm happy to hear that my work evoked that feeling for you. It's quite heartening to hear.
Thanks again for taking the time to read my story and comment.
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