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Monkey Bottom

WriterJohnB

WriterJohnB

Member
Here's a couple of opening scenes from a story I'm working on. Since I freely criticize other writers, it's only fair that they have a chance to critique my works. So fire away.
(I'm posting in two parts, due to length)

Monkey Bottom

1.​


"Why don't you do a story about Monkey Bottom?" asked Miriam, the attractive, thirty-some brunette I was trying to pick up. If only I'd known how this innocuous question would alter my life, I would have ended the conversation right there.

She hadn't had _that_ much to drink, as far as I knew. I tried to read her expression. I wasn't looking for a long-term relationship, but I wasn't even up for a one-night stand if this babe--and babe she was--turned out to have a couple of screws loose.

"I write about local history," I reminded her. "I don't think a piece about a monkey's rear end would be qualify."

Being a writer, even a part-time one, didn't hurt when I was looking for female companionship, I had found. I'd sit near a target and start up a conversation with the bartender or a barmaid, asking them if they knew of any local history I ought to be aware of. I happened to mention, of course, that I wrote historical articles for Hampton Roads Magazine. Whether the barkeep came up with anything or not, I'd then turn to the nearby lady and say, "What about you? You from around here?" Since I was bringing her into an ongoing discussion, a wary woman would often react more favorably than if I'd tried to strike up a direct conversation.

Quite often, that was all it took. I'm not a bad-looking guy: blue-eyed, brown-haired, with chiseled features, if I were to turn my authorial skills loose on myself. Closing in on the mid-forties didn't hurt either, as long as I went for women not too much younger than myself. Three years ago, I had retired from the navy and my wife had decided she didn't like having me around full time. As a matter of fact, she didn't like having me around at all.

"No, not a monkey's bottom," said Miriam. "Monkey Bottom."

"I'll bite," I said, instantly regretting my choice of words. "What's a monkey bottom?"

"It's a bottom-land--a tidal area." She paused and sipped at her straw. "Monkey Bottom's right near her, at the base of Willoughby Bay, between here and the naval base. I don't know a lot about it, but I think I heard there's a curse or something."

I looked around the bar, one of those with neon advertising signs on the mirrors. This particular joint, The Thirsty Camel, happened to be on Willoughby Spit--a "spit" is a long, narrow peninsula--on the edge of the Chesapeake Bay, in Norfolk, Virginia. Norfolk is the home of the largest navy base in the world, sitting just across from the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel, which goes right by the spit. I ought to explain that the "roads" in Hampton Roads--it's an old English word for an anchorage. End of geography lesson.

"I've heard of bottoms," I said. "But why the monkey part?"

"From what I remember, two families lived there way back when, off by themselves. Now I don't know why, but they kept monkeys and other jungle animals, and wouldn't have nothin' to do with other folks. There were so many monkeys, and they were so loud, that neighbors far and wide could hear them howl and chatter. After a few years, the families disappeared, but locals would still hear monkeys howlin'. They started calling it Monkey Bottom and the name stuck."

She giggled, so I signaled the bartender to bring us another round.

"That's not much to build a story on," I said. I'd caught her slight emphasis on the word, "disappeared," but I didn't want to spoil the telling of it. "What happened to the monkeys?"

Looking at me oddly, she said. "Who said somethin' happened to them?"

"_Something_ must have happened," I answered. "Or they'd still be there, and I'd have heard about them. Like I said, not much to write about."

She made a "shoo" motion with her free hand while she took another sip. "Of course not, silly. But like I said, Monkey Bottom is suppo. . . supposed to be cursed."

The bartender put down two more drinks.

"In what way?" I asked.

Taking a sip of her fresh cocktail, she looked around conspiratorially. Then she leaned toward me. "Ssshhomething," she said with a slur, "ate the monkeys. And shailors would find their heads, floating around the bay."

"Really?" I said, looking down the front of her shirt. "Maybe we should go somewhere and talk more about this."

Miriam was agreeable and we went back to my apartment. Somehow, Monkey Bottom never came up again that evening.
 
2.​
I kept thinking about Miriam's story, however, because my editor wanted more articles without a military slant. Seems like almost all local history had gone on during the revolutionary and civil wars, with not much happening in between.

I guess I should admit, right here and now, that my writing was strictly a hobby. I didn't want to write the great American novel or get published in Playboy. But I loved researching history, especially the odd stuff, and free-lancing articles gave me the excuse to indulge myself--I'd always had a strong work ethic, and it didn't seem right to do something purely for pleasure. Except women, of course--that was a fish of another kettle.

Why in the world, I wondered, would people keep exotic animals in a place like Willoughby Spit? Especially on low ground. The spit, with a foundation of nothing but sand, was like a house made of cards. The whole thing could disappear in the wind.

I went first to City Hall. I found two records of transfer that matched Monkey Bottom. Someone named Branamir Stabros had purchased five acres--"at the mouth of the Elizabeth River, adjacent to Willoughby Bay"-- in 1902. A year later, Stanislav Morejka had bought up the rest of the bottomland. Old maps of the area clearly showed the "the bottom," as it was then known.

It was time to take a trip to the "scene of the crime," as I had melodramatically begun to think of it, although I knew of no crime, as yet. What was left of the bottom sat between a navy housing development and Interstate 64, the principal regional roadway. To my surprise, the Norfolk Visitors Center had been built right smack on the edge of Monkey Bottom, which I could only consider serendipitous. I pulled into the parking lot, just off Fourth View Street.

It was a cold November day with gray clouds and a feel of imminent rain. The center was a fairly-new wooden building with sharp angles, somewhat reminiscent of a warship, situated atop a wooden deck. Bench seats beneath flower arbors were situated about and two pedestal-mounted binoculars made it easy to observe the nearby Navy Base and the aircraft carriers at their piers.

Acres of marshland sat behind the tourist center, on the other side of a six-foot chain link fence. To my right, at the edge of the lot, a double gate provided access to the wetlands--or would have, if the gate hadn't been padlocked. On the other side of the gate was a boardwalk, leading off through the high grasses. On the fence was a sign.
I got out of my car and walked closer. This particular sign said:

Monkey Bottom Wetland Walkway
The name for this walkway, Monkey Bottom, comes from local lore about two families who lived in the area and owned pet monkeys, along with other exotic animals. Prior to dredging by the U.S. Navy in 1940-41, this was a low-lying area of land, which was once referred to as the bottom, on Willoughby Bay. It is said that many used to go and listen to the "monkeys holler." This evolved into Monkey Hollow, and eventually Monkey Bottom in the 1920's.​


There was more, but it didn't apply to my research. I turned around, went up some steps and into the visitors center. There wasn't much to it. On one side of the room was a counter with a cash register, along with sundry souvenirs for sale. Behind it ran a long desk with a couple of computer stations. A gray-haired lady sat at one. The remainder of the room contained racks, filled with tourist information pamphlets.

"May I help you?" asked the woman at the PC. Her badge identified her as Florence.

I smiled, probably not as wide as the average visitor from Bumfuk, Canada, Eh?, but I wasn't feeling up to displays of conviviality now that I'd found out Monkey Bottom had gone to the tourists. Along with my chances of a decent article, probably.

"Yes," I said. "I'd like to learn more about Monkey Bottom." I explained I might like to do a piece for a magazine.

"Not much to tell," said Florence. "There's a sign out on the fence. . ."

"I've seen it."

"Then that's the story, far as I know."

"Why is the boardwalk closed?" I asked. "Not enough tourists in November?"

"No. It's locked because kids are always tearing it up."

"How so?"

"Every couple of months," Florence said, "we find the railings
ripped right off the deck. Even locking it up doesn't help. It has to be hooligans from the housing, and they must do it at night. I've ever seen any of them out there during the day, though; they seem to avoid it like the plague."

"Was the fence put up to keep the kids out?"

Florence looked puzzled. "I don't know. It's been here for as long as I've worked here."

"Is Monkey Bottom part of the base?"

"I don't think so." Florence shrugged. "But why else would someone put up a fence?"

I wondered if I should get a job in the visitor center. I qualified, because the main job requirement seemed to be not knowing anything. Maybe I could rattle her chain. "Someone," I said, leaning over the counter, "told me there was a curse."

Amazingly, it got a reaction. Florence's face brightened.
"You know, I did hear something about that." She turned called back through an open door. "Betty Jean, didn't you find something about a curse or a legend or something a few months back?"

Betty Jean appeared. "A Monkey Bottom curse? Yes, I did hear something." She turned to me. "Hello. I've been listening from back there. We don't get many visitors this time of year."

My ears had pricked up now. I reached across the counter and shook her hand. "Hello, Betty Jean. I'm David Kramer."

She was an attractive redhead, about my age, but I noticed a wedding ring. Too bad.

"Now who told me?" she wondered. "Or was it something I found on the internet?"

I shook my head. "Not the internet. I've googled Monkey Bottom, Norfolk, Ocean View, curse, legend, you name it."

"Wasn't it that girl with the funny name?" asked Florence. "You know, the volunteer from last year. The crazy gypsy?"

Betty Jean popped her finger in front of her like a cowgirl shooting a six-gun at Florence. "Come to think of it, you're right. Olenka. The witch."
 
Friggin eh , WriterJohn. Friggin eh! That´s some quality writin´ right there dude. As you can see my reviews ain´t even in the same ballpark as your professional comments.

"Ssshhomething," she said with a slur, "ate the monkeys. And shailors would find their heads, floating around the bay."

And then the ending...Class dude! Class!

Friggin loved it WriterJohn, friggin loved it!
 
Not really my cup of tea. Personally I don't revel first person narratives where the narrator addresses the reader directly (particularly to unload a bit of exposition) - but preferences vary.

Out of curiousity is this a deliberate stylistic choice?

I could have done without some of the trivial pursuit factoids. Is the definition of spit and road necessary to your story?

But other than that, and the somewhat melodramatic tone it was pleasant enough.
 
Pip,

Ordinarily, I agree with you and shun 1st person narratives. This piece however, is in the Lovecraftian tradition and I'm trying to adhere the style, as well as the intimate, yet detached narrator. The narrator will be faced with a decision at the end of the story. He won't decide "en camera," so the reader will need info about his quirks to guess which way he'll go, after the story is concluded. Also, I'm trying to invoke the Cthulu mythos without ever mentioning it, something of a personal writing experiment.

As far as the trivia, many of my stories are based on real locales in this area with odd histories and interesting names, i.e. Monkey Bottom, False Cape, The Great Dismal Swamp, etc., and I'm hoping to tie all of them together in a local anthology at some future date.

Thanks for your input. I've been working on this story for weeks and it still needs work.

JohnB
 
It means that I won't post an entire story because then I can't sell it. So I rarely post my work. But even though I won't post whole stories, I don't want people to think I only criticize and don't post. So I put up a partial. That's all.

Take care,

JohnB
 
When you anounced your intentions at the beggining of the first post, you made it seem as if this was the first time you'd posted your work. But this isn't a gesture long overdue, right?
 
I don't know why you are questioning my intentions, but my last post of original work was over a year ago. And that was an excerpt from a book already published, just to introduce myself.

As I stated, I criticize harshly at times and feel that I should show the level of my competence in the craft so those I critique can see where I'm coming from. Almost all my work, before being submitted to my agent or to magazine editors, goes thru a crit. group with 2 published Eng. Lit professors, a former editor, and an English teacher all who are published writers. I certainly take any advice I receive on forums into account, though, when I post work such as the story on this thread, which has not been thru my crit. group and thus reflects the quality of my writing in its original form.

JohnB
 
WriterJohnB said:
I don't know why you are questioning my intentions, but my last post of original work was over a year ago. And that was an excerpt from a book already published, just to introduce myself.

As I stated, I criticize harshly at times and feel that I should show the level of my competence in the craft so those I critique can see where I'm coming from. Almost all my work, before being submitted to my agent or to magazine editors, goes thru a crit. group with 2 published Eng. Lit professors, a former editor, and an English teacher all who are published writers. I certainly take any advice I receive on forums into account, though, when I post work such as the story on this thread, which has not been thru my crit. group and thus reflects the quality of my writing in its original form.

JohnB
Click to expand...

You say it's only fair that you post your work since your criticize, but it's been a year since an earlier posting of your original work. It may have shown even greater intentions to have posted partials more often.
 
WriterJohnB said:
I don't know why you are questioning my intentions, but my last post of original work was over a year ago. And that was an excerpt from a book already published, just to introduce myself.

As I stated, I criticize harshly at times and feel that I should show the level of my competence in the craft so those I critique can see where I'm coming from. Almost all my work, before being submitted to my agent or to magazine editors, goes thru a crit. group with 2 published Eng. Lit professors, a former editor, and an English teacher all who are published writers. I certainly take any advice I receive on forums into account, though, when I post work such as the story on this thread, which has not been thru my crit. group and thus reflects the quality of my writing in its original form.

JohnB
Click to expand...

I think I speak for everyone when I congradulate you for demonstrating your level of competence by posting your story. It wasn't so evident in your critiques, for although they may be intended harshly, they are in no way stunning reviews.
 
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