Critique (standard:Satire, 1497 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Mar 10 2005	Views/Reads: 4273/2477	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A man, a gun, a class room full of hostages - we've seen it all before.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“Roger is right, Budgie.  Why don't you calm down and let us go. 
Please, I've...we've never done anything to hurt you.”  Madeline - 
short, fat, hippy-chick who wrote crap poetry and thought she was 
everyone's mother. 

Budgie got up.  “You've never done anything to hurt me?  You've never
done anything to hurt me?” he mocked in falsetto.  “That's a joke, 
Maddy.  You've hurt me more than anyone - with your critiques.  Your 
little comments on work you don't even understand.” 

She flinched, looked aghast.  “That's not true.  I always try to be
positive.  I'm never critical.” 

“Don't you see, Maddy.  That's the problem.  You never give unfair
criticism, but you never give accurate criticism either.  Every story 
you read, every poem, every essay – it's the same thing,” he imitated 
her once again, “'Great work!  Wow, I really loved this! You're a 
fucking genius!'  -  Just how do you suppose that's making me a better 
writer, Maddy?  How exactly is that helping?”  He shouted, “Answer me 
that one!” the knife blade struck the desk and stood upright in the 
wood, quivering. 

She sobbed quietly into her chest, “It's not true.  It's just not true.”


MacLellan stirred, “It is true Madeline.  He's mad, but that's true. 
You even said you liked Tom's poem.  The one about the snail.” 

Budgie laughed.  “Ah, yes.  What was it called again Tom?  I forget.” 

Tom sat with his head bowed.  A skinny bespecled man who would never
look you in the eye, always looking at his watch or playing with his 
mobile; anything but look at your face.  “It was called ‘Shell I tell 
you a story?'”, he whispered.  “I thought it was rather good.” 

“Yeah?  Well it wasn't Tom.  It stunk the place out.”  He pulled up
another chair and straddled it, backwards, like he had seen the cops do 
on TV.  “What about you Linda?  Did you like Tom's poem, or wasn't 
there enough death in it for you?” 

Linda drew him daggers with her eyes.  She was a chubby teenage Goth
with a serious death fixation.  Everything she wrote was about ‘the 
end', or ‘eternal sleep'.  “At least what I write is honest.  At least 
it's what I really feel,” she said.  “I welcome the end when it comes.  
It will be a release.” 

“Jesus, Linda.  Stop quoting from your own work. - You serious?  You
really think life is so worthless?” 

She swallowed hard, “Y-Yes.” 

Budgie reached over and picked up the revolver from the desk.  It was
warm and heavy, and comforting in his hand.  “I think you're bluffing 
Linda.  I think you want life just as much as the next person.  I'll 
tell you what.  I'll make you a deal.  If you admit to me that  you 
want to live I'll let you go.  I'll kill every one else except you.  
How about that?” 

She looked at him petulantly, disbelieving. 

“I'm serious you know.  Just say the word,” he cocked the hammer and
Madeline screamed, Matt blubbed some more. 

“IwanttoliveIwanttoliveOhJesusIwanttolive”, Linda shouted, her round
shoulders heaving, black mascara running down her face. 

Budgie got up from his seat.  “That's what I thought,” he said.  “I knew
you were bluffing, but then it takes one to know one.  I'm not letting 
you go.” 

He ignored the lamentations and angry protests and went back to the
window.  The dog was gone.  An old couple tottered across the street, 
oblivious to the drama that was unfolding.  He saw them reach the 
sidewalk and stop, staring towards the end of the block.  Sirens!  He 
could hear them getting closer.  Hundreds of them. 

He came away from the window, “It looks as though we're almost out of
time folks.  The cops are on their way.” 

“Good,” said MacLellan.  “They'll lock you up in the nut farm. 
You...You, head-case!  I hope you like rubber rooms.” 

Budgie sighed dramatically.  “That really hurts Rodge.  Coming from
(sniff) someone I admire so much,” he brushed a non-existent tear.  
“Now, shut the fuck up, I'm trying to concentrate.” 

But MacLellan wasn't in the mood to stop.  He was full of bravado, the
nearness of death acting like a stimulant, cranking him up.  “You're 
going to kill us all, and I don't care.  I'll say what I damn well 
please and by God you're going to listen. – You're so good at slating 
other people, well listen to what I think...You...You...Shit!” 

Budgie sat back down and forced himself to uncock the gun.  “Go ahead
then, oh, great author.” 

MacLellan seemed to compose himself.  His face began to lose the
alarming crimson colour, the ugly, throbbing vein in his temple 
subsided slightly.  “You know what your problem is, Budgie?” he said.  
“What's wrong with your work, your life...everything you've ever 
written?” 

Budgie shook his head.  He felt rapt, MacLellan's words cutting through
the angry buzz in his brain. 

“I'll tell you.  – It's a cliché.  Every story you churn out, every
book, novel and short story - one big fucking cliché!  Even this, just 
now, with the gun.  It's a cliché too.  You see it on the news every 
night, read about it in the papers.”  He threw back his shoulders, a 
gesture of defiance, “You're the pathetic one Budgie.” 

There was silence in the room.  They all stared at Budgie, waiting for
his reaction; the eruption.  He pondered.  The silence stretched.  The 
ticking of the clock marking time.  The muffled screech of car tires 
outside.  Of doors slamming.  Of sirens wailing. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he got to his feet.  “You
know something,” he said.  “I think you've got a point.”  He reached 
for the switchblade again. 

“Time to do something...Original,” he said, and began to cut. 

THE END. 


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