Last Chance Saloon
Entry by: Sirona
25th November 2015
You don’t know it, but this is the Last Chance Saloon.
You see only the surface, the lobby of an exclusive hotel. I can see from your expression, your demeanour that you believe you are being feted. Your eyes shine with narcissistic glee as you imagine yourself native to this five star lifestyle; it is what you have always aspired to. It is the birthright of your imagination.
It’s a game, but you don’t know the rules. You don’t even know you’re playing. Gamesmanship is your skill, not mine. The only way I can even the odds is sleight of hand; keep all the cards up my sleeve and see how they fall.
You are lulled by the opulent surroundings, unaware that you have just taken a seat at the gaming table. Stakes are high. Place your bets.
I glance at the clock: it is noon. Time to don our hats, mine white, yours black and have ourselves a showdown.
Anticipating the death of hope, I feel only clarity. Today will be exquisite, final. Liberating.
‘Hello, Dad.’
My first and last attempt to control the conversation. I need to know what you really think, and the only way I will find that out is to let you speak. Word by word, all unknowing, you will reveal yourself. The truth won’t be found in your words, but in the spaces in between. It will be discovered in unasked questions and awkward silences.
And so it is, word by word, pause by pause. Through disapproving glances and that laugh which wounds, sharper than a surgeon’s blade.
You gleam with anticipation as you throw out a piercing barb: I smile. Anger rushes to your brow like an oncoming storm, heavy and threatening. You are the choreographer and I have mis-stepped. You sense the trap, but without pause I continue the dance. My soothing compliments reassure you that this supporting character knows her part.
We played a game, and you lost. You lost me.
Just one word would have saved you, one mention of his name; one moment of empathy, one attempt to connect.
Having a narcissistic parent is worse than having no parent. They are emotionally absent, but physically present like a ghost of what could have been. I refuse to be haunted.
It was a game, but you didn’t know the rules. You didn’t even know you were playing.
You didn’t know it, but this was your Last Chance Saloon.
‘Goodbye, Dad.’
You see only the surface, the lobby of an exclusive hotel. I can see from your expression, your demeanour that you believe you are being feted. Your eyes shine with narcissistic glee as you imagine yourself native to this five star lifestyle; it is what you have always aspired to. It is the birthright of your imagination.
It’s a game, but you don’t know the rules. You don’t even know you’re playing. Gamesmanship is your skill, not mine. The only way I can even the odds is sleight of hand; keep all the cards up my sleeve and see how they fall.
You are lulled by the opulent surroundings, unaware that you have just taken a seat at the gaming table. Stakes are high. Place your bets.
I glance at the clock: it is noon. Time to don our hats, mine white, yours black and have ourselves a showdown.
Anticipating the death of hope, I feel only clarity. Today will be exquisite, final. Liberating.
‘Hello, Dad.’
My first and last attempt to control the conversation. I need to know what you really think, and the only way I will find that out is to let you speak. Word by word, all unknowing, you will reveal yourself. The truth won’t be found in your words, but in the spaces in between. It will be discovered in unasked questions and awkward silences.
And so it is, word by word, pause by pause. Through disapproving glances and that laugh which wounds, sharper than a surgeon’s blade.
You gleam with anticipation as you throw out a piercing barb: I smile. Anger rushes to your brow like an oncoming storm, heavy and threatening. You are the choreographer and I have mis-stepped. You sense the trap, but without pause I continue the dance. My soothing compliments reassure you that this supporting character knows her part.
We played a game, and you lost. You lost me.
Just one word would have saved you, one mention of his name; one moment of empathy, one attempt to connect.
Having a narcissistic parent is worse than having no parent. They are emotionally absent, but physically present like a ghost of what could have been. I refuse to be haunted.
It was a game, but you didn’t know the rules. You didn’t even know you were playing.
You didn’t know it, but this was your Last Chance Saloon.
‘Goodbye, Dad.’
Feedback: Average score: 342 (68%)
Marker comments:
Marker 1
- What I liked about this piece: Simple idea and I liked the style of describing rather than showing the conversation.
- Favourite sentence: "My first and last attempt to control the conversation."
- Feedback: This was a cool idea and played out really well. The language was a bit overdone and clouded the description in places. Less metaphor and more description of the encounter would have helped. But I was only after less, not none at all, a lot of it still worked very well. I just needed a little more mundane detail.
Otherwise, nicely put together and concise. I also liked how the dad doesn't really get much of a chance, making me wonder more about the truth of the relationship.
Marker 2
- What I liked about this piece: The lulling in of the father, unaware that their future relationship is on the line here.
- Favourite sentence: like a ghost of what could have been
- Feedback: Like a spider drawing him in, the narrator carefully sets the trap. His chances were always slim I think. Would like to have just a little more. I'm not sure what the father could have said to redeem himself... 'one mention of his name' Whose?
Marker 3
- What I liked about this piece: The pacing and mysteriousness of the slow-to-emerge nature of the game have great allure.
- Favourite sentence: My first and last attempt to control the conversation.
- Feedback: The partitioning into three sections works very well and makes sense to the reader. The consistent use of the "you" and how it accretes meaning and spirit enhance the piece.
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