Short Story: "The Ceiling"

I was driving tonight as a storm was rolling in with some venom, and there was this moment where the sky seemed to be slowly pressing down. I may be reading too much into the metaphor, given my current state of mind, but when I took this photo, I was reminded of a truly marvelous short story: "The Ceiling," by Kevin Brockmeier. It was originally published in McSweeney's and then anthologized in Prize Stories: The O. Henry Awards in 2002, which is where I read it. It is also published in its entirety here, but I can't recommend reading a short story on the internet in a skinny column in Times New Roman when you could have a musty library book or a crinkly magazine instead. It is, nonetheless, worth your 20 minutes.

It also reminded me that, though I like to keep the 4th wall intact and not discuss my blog on my blog, I had been meaning to start a regular -- maybe weekly? -- review of a short story, mostly to remind myself that I once went to college, and because the short story remains my favorite form. If this seems dubious and boring, well, I won't pretend to understand, but I will forgive you, my legion of fan, if you opt to skip them.

My goal is to discuss why something is awesome without revealing anything that would spoil it; that may or may not end up being unbearably pretentious. We'll see.

"The Ceiling" begins, like so many great ones before it, with a tranquil scene of domestic pleasure; a group of family and friends enjoying a backyard birthday party. But it only takes until the second paragraph to introduce, ever so subtly, the first inkling of dread. Dread, and the disruption of pleasantness, are the makings of the best short stories for me. I don't mean postmodern existential angst or full-blown tragedy, but I look for a shivery moment of knowing that something is coming, and it will be unsettling and profound without pedantry or sensationalism.

He writes in simple, tight prose, and his story is quiet and slow, which is perfectly appropriate and mimics the pace of the omnipresent titular "ceiling." In true contemporary fashion, the domestic happiness is quickly turned on its head, but Brockmeier manages to give both its undoing and the "ceiling" equal and appropriate weight without settling for melodrama. In this way, it possess another of my favorite fictional approaches: real, prosaic happenstance co-mingled with hyper-realistic elements.

In this way, hyper-realism in fiction is not unlike what I appreciate about abstract art. I wrote last year about something the abstract painter Barnett Newman said about his particular style of work, controversial in a world of still-lifes and portraits, and it bears repeating: ". . .the feeling is that you're here and out there is chaos, so that what you have is a sense of yourself. The feeling is instantaneous, complete, and you can't ever wipe it out of your mind."

I think the best short stories possess a hearty helping of chaos, and yet it remains tightly controlled within their walls. "The Ceiling" is based around a conceit that will ultimately affect every character both named and unnamed in the story, and its conclusion will leave you chilled and horrified, but deeply satisfied.