The Liar's Room

This is an experimental short story. I wrote it as a sort of reaction to the film 'Carnage' which I loved but I don't think it worked completely. In terms of stories, however, I had a very exciting idea when I was in work today. More to come...

THE LIAR’S ROOM

BY THOMAS STEWART

When it’s finished there’s a moment of silence. Then comes the soft sound of curled paper. Eyes glance upwards and the teacher speaks.

            “So,” says Erica, eyes quivering over the tip of her glasses, “what does everyone think?”

            Silence again.

            “Penelope, what about you?”

            Penelope looks up. “I thought it was very good. Very good descriptive writing.”

            Erica nods. Mouth ajar. “Anything else? Anyone?”

            Alastair shuffles in his seat and edges forward. “I thought it was very good but if you look on page four there’s a large paragraph which could do with some trimming. There’s a few very long sentences.”

            “Such as?” (Erica again.)

            “Erm...well line two. It’s like five lines long.”

            “That’s true,” says Lydia, smiling, sheepishly, toying with the pen in her hand. “I get carried away and – I know I did it here with this story – just bang out really long sentences.”

            She chuckles and a few select people smile in response – Marcia and Penelope being the main ones.

            “What about you, Ben?”

            “It was very good I just thought...” Pause. “...Erm...in parts it could be very subjective.” He looks down and fumbles with the pages. “On page two for example, she says ‘blacks are bad’.”

            “Yes but that’s the character,” says Jamie, frowning.

            “Oh was it? It wasn’t in quotations.”

            “Quotations there, Lydia,” Erica chuckles.

            “Anything else?”

            Ben smiles and sighs “no” before sitting back in his seat.

            “Matthew?”

            He looks down at the page, his pen posed on the heading. Alastair looks over his shoulder and sees none of the pages have been marked. “It’s good. It’s good. There needs to be some punctuation needed but –”

            “Where?”

            The voice takes Matthew by surprise who turns in the direction.

            “I’m sorry?” he responds.

            “Where does the punctuation need to be?”

            Alastair glares at Matthew, his words shimmering forward.

            “Uh...” Matthew looks down and pulls the pages apart. “Page five, second paragraph, there’s a lot of ands and no commas. There needs to be something done there.”

            “I disagree,” Marcia says.

            “Do you?” (Matthew.)

            “Yes. I thought that added to the affect.”

            “Right.” Matthew smiles, meekly. “Subjective.” He addresses the class. “That’s what I love about the world – difference of opinion.”

            Alastair looks at Ben. The share a glance and roll their eyes.

            “And our relationship,” Marcia whispers, just loud enough for everyone to hear – which is what she wants.

            “Barf,” says Jamie but nobody hears him. He bends down to his bag and drops his head below the desk. Nobody notices again but he swigs from a flask, twists his head sharply and shoves the flask back in his bag.

            “Lydia,” says Erica, “how did you feel having it read out?”

            “I didn’t think it was as bad as I thought...”

            Ben leans forward and scribbles on his page. Alastair looks down at sees the message – “FUCKING AWFUL!” – he nods in response.

            “...It needs another draft.”

            “Indeed,” Erica agrees, “what about the content everyone? The story is essentially a stream of consciousness, a woman’s thoughts about the fact her husband ran out on her. Did we like the woman? I...I’m assuming it’s a woman.”

            “Yes.” Lydia smiles. “It’s a woman.”

            Nobody speaks. Everyone avoids eye contact.

            “Ben?”

            “Erm...as I said before I just think it was perhaps a bit edgy in places.”

            “But it was the character who said it,” Jamie says, edging for his bag again.

            Ben still stares at the table. His neck twists with annoyance. “Yes but some readers may perceive the character’s thoughts to be the writers.”

            “It’s stream of consciousness.” (Jamie.)

            “Yes, but,” continues Ben, “it’s stream of consciousness which is dangerous.”

            “What about American Psycho?” Matthew says. “I don’t think Bret Easton Ellis is that fucked up – oh! Sorry! Excuse my language.”

            Erica shrugs.

            Ben frowns. “Do you not? Can you not deny you were thinking ‘whoever wrote this is fucked up’?”

            “Perhaps but this is not about a man murdering people.”

            “No, it’s about a woman being angry that her husband left her for a black woman.”

            “Does the black have any significance?” Penelope says, leaning forward. She speaks with her quiet, delicate voice that can barely be heard.

            Lydia shrugs and smiles. “It just came to mind.”

            “Could you chop it?” Alastair offers, looking over his copy.

            “Perhaps,” Lydia replies after she gulps.

            “You’ve written a lot, Al,” Matthew says, “what else you got?”

            Alastair bits his lip but speaks. “It looks a lot but it’s just little things. I’m a madman with a pen.” Alastair chuckles to himself.

            “Like what?” Matthew asks.

            Alastair grips his pen. “Um...in some areas there’s some failed metaphors.”

            “Failed is a bit strong,” Erica blurts out.

            “Right, not failed just...they don’t come across as strong as you would want.”

            Lydia nods and makes a note.

            “What about you, Marcia? You’ve been very quiet.”

            “Sorry.” Marcia looks up and removes her glasses. Her copy is also full of notes. “I was just re-reading. I think there’s a lot of stuff going on in this piece.” She looks at Lydia, right in the eye. Directly. “I just think...I don’t know...erm...in places it lacks what you’re trying to say. Like, I understand you are writing in first person – really getting under the character’s skin – but you don’t do as accurately as you want.”

            Lydia’s shoulder rolls. She smiles. “Could you explain a bit more, please?”

            “Um...well on the third page she’s talking about how they both met and she fell in love but she says she didn’t love him entirely. By the end she says she loved him forever and her words, the way she talks in this piece she sounds quiet weak.”

            “Maybe love has made her weak,” says Jamie, his eyes rolling as he goes for the flask again.

            “Perhaps but I don’t think she’d react like that.”

            “I disagree.” Ben leans forward. “She is a strong woman but she seems to have been damaged by love –”

            “I also disagree. I don’t see how someone that strong could change so drastically. Love doesn’t do that, surely. Well,” she laughs, “it hasn’t to me.”

            Lydia shares the laugh, politely. “Sometimes it’s different.”

            Marcia touches Matthew’s hand under the table.

           

Ben comes forward in his chair and looks at Lydia. “I think you need to go through it and consider who your audience is.”

            “Audience?” she says.

            “Yeah, like what are you trying to say.”

            “I thought that was obvious,” Lydia responds, “she is angry her husband left her.”

            “Yeah but some of the stuff she comes out with –”

            “Like what?”

            “Like...” He finds the page. “...I gave myself to him and he tore me a part. We don’t hear his side of the story –”

            “It’s not a court of law, mate,” Jamie mumbles, the vodka evidently hitting him. “She’s pissed that her husband left her.”

            “Yes but she’s going a tad too far with her anger, don’t you think?”

            “No,” Lydia says, laughing again, “that’s what people do.”

            “Crazy people,” Ben says. He makes a wheezing sound and looks in Alastair’s direction. The wheeze is more of a giggle.

            “And what does that mean?” Lydia’s voice cuts through the room.

            Silence.

            Eyes glare at one another.

           

“From my experience,” intervenes Matthew, “I would say this needs another draft as it doesn’t really tell you completely what she wants because I think the writer doesn’t know completely what to say –”

            “It means,” Ben says, “that there’s a lot of bitter ‘I hate love’ stuff coming out of people these days.”

            Lydia shrugs. “That’s life.”

“What do you mean ‘your experience’?” Alastair snarls.

            Matthew turns. “What?”

            “You said ‘from your experience’. What do you mean? You have never work-shopped anything.”

            “Maybe not but I write.”

            “Exactly. But you can’t understand what it’s like to have your stuff looked at by everyone.”

            “Writers need thick skin,” Matthew says, shrugging.

           

“People do hate love now,” barks Lydia, “that is the way of life; you can’t always have a happy ending.”

            “I know that,” replies Ben. “Alastair never writes happy endings but there’s happy and depressing. That’s the line.”

“Alastair’s right. You’ve never work-shopped anything.” Marcia speaks with a frown. “I haven’t read anything of yours. Why have I never noticed this before?”

            “I don’t like sharing it,” Matthew says, simply.

            “But I’m your girlfriend.”

            “Most people write the truth in their stories,” suggests Penelope, out of nowhere. All eyes swirl to the quiet girl in the corner.

            “Do you write stuff you don’t want me to read?” asks Marcia.

            “No.”

            Alastair’s eyes widen with disbelief.

            “I write some weird stuff in my stories,” Jamie says.

            “We know,” snaps Ben, “we have to listen to it.”

            “Don’t get pissy at him,” Lydia says, “we hear your attempts at novels every week.”

“Do you write stuff about us?” Marcia lets go off his hand.

            “No. No.”

            “I saw you begin writing something about love. Was it about your unhappiness or something?”

            “Of course not.”

            Alastair leans forward. “Lots of writers write about their lives in their fiction.”

            Matthew spins around to face him. “Shut your mouth, Alastair!”

“My attempts at novels? What does that even mean?”

            “Attempts,” Lydia snaps, “you never actually succeed.”

            “None of us have! We’re students you fool!”

            “Yes, but –”

            “What? I haven’t written snippets of things for a year, is that what you mean?”

            “Snippets?”

            “Yeah. It’s harder to write something complete than a big moan that lasts ten pages!”

“I’m just saying,” Alastair says, “you’re evidently shy about your writing because it’s personal.”

            “Oh and you would know all about personal?”

“A moan? You said it was good before!”

            “I never said it was good,” Ben snaps.

“What does that even mean?”

            “It means,” says Matthew, “your stories are more fucked up than Jamie’s.”

            “Who said my name?” Jamie says.

            Matthew’s lip curls. “Are you drunk?”

“So you disliked it,” Lydia says. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

            “Politeness. We all do it. We all say it’s good when it’s not.”

“I can’t believe you write about me,” Marcia growls. “Is it bad stuff?”

            Matthew looks at her.

“Why are you drunk?” Penelope speaks, softly.

            Jamie shrugs. “Problems, ini?”

            “That makes no sense.”

“So why exactly was it not good?”

            “It was a moan!” Ben shouts. “It wasn’t even well written!”

“For your information Matthew,” Alastair says, “fucked up stuff works.”

            “But if it doesn’t...you’re just fucked up and nobody pays you for it.”

            “What is your problem?” Alastair spits.

            “I don’t know. What’s yours?”

“My problem is we’re not as perfect as I once thought,” Marcia says out of nowhere.

            Matthew looks at her again. “Marcia –”

“Not well written? That is rich coming from you –”

“- It’s just private, that’s all –”

            “Private, yeah right –”

            “- It is! I –”

“Rich coming from me? Give me an examp –”

“You’re a very cold person, you know that, Matthew?”

            “Look what you’ve done now, Alastair!”

            “I’ve done? I don’t see how this is my –”

“I can give you a ton of examples. That opening chapter about the man and the dog –”

“Of course it’s your fault –”

“Jamie, you have a problem. Why would you get pissed in a class? It’s –”

“That was well received by Erica. She said you understand the man and the –”

“It’s not my fault. Just share your shitty writing with your girlfriend –”

Suddenly the bell rings and the lesson is over. The teacher has stopped speaking. The room falls to silence and everyone’s eyes drop to the ground.