|
|
1981
bettie_x's birthday. Spoil her.
|
|
|
|
|
Currently no members online:)
You are an anonymous user. You can register for free by clicking here |
We have 18 guests online !
|
|
|
 |
 |
| Fiction: Midnight... |
Posted by
Squire-of-Gothos on Tuesday, December 09, 2003 - 12:06 AM PST
Samuel sat on the brushed steel stool, sipping his coffee, when it hit him. He was alone now for the first time ever. It started to feel like he was an element of the chair then, all stiff and dull and cold, and took another drink of coffee to try and make it all go away. He couldn’t help thinking about all the things he’d done wrong and they seemed so far away. They felt like they never even happened if truth be told, just a dream from some past point in time. But that scared him, because now he had nothing. No more past and, really, no more future.
The door sprung open with a nasty clang and he didn’t move. He just sat and drank his coffee. As he set his cup down, he lifted the spoon to stir it, and with a tiny almost imperceptible glance, used it look behind him at the person entering the diner. Through streams of brown liquid and a bad polish job, he saw a leather clad figure, probably his same height, wearing a black bandana and a five-o-clock shadow. Slowly with a discrete and casual air, he sat next to Sam at the counter.
He hadn’t really noticed it before, but now Sam had an excuse to look up from his coffee and see that the diner was a chrome and steel 50’s mock up, most definitely designed after the era, for it held with it the insipid feeling of forced cliché’ and boldness. He hated diners like this, so trite and sad, grasping at some bygone time and style just to seem interesting and appeal to a mass audience of tasteless youths and over-nostalgic jerks. But then again, everyone needed a safe place, or at least a re-creation of what people think is a secure place or time.
“You come ere’ off ten, comrade?” The dark fellow belted, bathed in a very real Russian accent.
“When it suits me.”
Friendly perhaps, Sam though. Maybe he’s just friendly. But Sam had seen many men that looked like him, and they never played friendly. Mostly they played the quite, concerned type, which is what Sam was playing right now. No, this man had an agenda. Or he was drunk.
“’When eet suits me’ I like dat! You know, I haff bean ere’ for quite some time, and I haff never seen you ere’”
“’Quite some time’ eh? You only just got here.”
His tone began to change, and so did his face. Maybe he didn’t like to be quoted.
“Yayss, but I have bean cominck to dis ess-tab-bleesh-ment for some time, and you have never bean here.”
At this point Sam didn’t feel like playing this game any longer. Though he did stink faintly of Vodka, this man wasn’t drunk: He wanted something; time, money, information, and maybe even Sam’s life. In fact, they may already be looking for him. If they where, it was wise not to be just sitting here, sipping bad coffee and getting accosted by some Russian, who most likely works for them.
“I’d love to stay and chat, but unless you need something, I’ve got to be….” He took Sam by the arm, and calmly, but holding back extreme force, set him down on the stool.
“No, no, comrade, seet, seet.” Sam was beginning to turn over ways to escape, but all of them where quite foul, and slim chances. At the sign of some type of duress, the solitary waitress slinked toward the two of them.
“Can umm, I get you anything?”
“My friend ere’ weel ave more coffee, eh. I weel have coffee as well.”
I guess you didn’t hear me, comrade. I have to go. Afraid I’ve got some things to attend too.”
The waitress watched uneasily and poured.
“I, as well, ave theengs to attend to.”
The waitress stopped pouring. Sam took his cup.
“I’ll let you go then.”
Sam wrenched the cup towards the Russian. The steaming liquid launched into his face, and he clutched at Sam as if he was falling from a cliff. With his free hand Sam grabbed the Jericho .40 S&W from his shoulder holster, and as the dark one regained a footing, he too went for a gun concealed in his jacket. But Sam was ready first, and pumped the last three rounds he had in his into the Russian. Blazing cracks of thunder roared over the screams of the waitress, now planted securely behind the chromed oven.
Suddenly, all those past events, all those seedy dealings, they didn’t seem quite so far away. In fact, Sam felt so different that all his fear, all his worry, evaporated like thin streams of spilled coffee. He was the old Sam now; callous and alert. He knelt down to the dead Russian, picked up the heavy Colt .45, saw that it was suitable, and put it in his pants pocket.
“Please, don’t kill me!” The waitress, he had forgotten her! It wasn’t as if he wasn’t in trouble to begin with; trouble even worse than the police. But the less heat on his ass, the better.
“Why would I kill you? I wasn’t even here. I did see a fat spick in this seat here though, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, su, some big guy.”
“A big Puerto Rican.”
“Yeah, a really big Puerto Rican.”
“It’s a shame that they had that argument over some ex-girlfriend. I’ll take this.”
Sam picked up the Russian’s coffee, took a sip of the thick black fluid, and set the cup down.
“You better call the police. Damn Puerto Ricans.”
When he left, he knew it would take at least a half and hour for that girl to finally gather the strength to leave the safety of that oven. He would be gone by then, but hopefully he would leave enough fear in that waitress to get her to tell his version of the truth. It didn’t matter, because the cops would be all over the missing gun in no time, and Sam had more to worry about than a few boys in blue. They wouldn’t exactly be busting their balls over some dead Russian in the middle of Chicago, especially with all the other stuff that was giving them hell. Of course Sam was part of that, too.
|
| |
| |
|
|
Average Rating : 3.4
Total ratings : 5
|
|
|
|
|
|
| Midnight... | Login/Create an account | 3 Comments |
|
| | Comments are owned by the poster. We aren't responsible for their content. |
Re: Midnight...
by Britva (britva1066@yahoo.com)
on Dec 10, 2003 - 12:40 AM
(User info | Send a Message)
|
Ok, I'm going to post a fairly extended critique of this story, not because I think it's bad, but because I think it has real potential, and with a little tweaking it could be, if not great literature, at least a great little adrenaline shot.
Also, I don't claim to be any kind of authority on writing, but I have studied with some great writers, and I think I've learned a little bit about how to make things work, even if my stories aren't always perfect examples of this. I'll let my opinions stand on their own. If you think some of my suggestions would make your story better feel free to use them. If you think some of them are off base, feel free to ignore them.
So without further ado....
The first thing you have to think about here is the central tension in your story. Right now it's essentially a double. For the first half, the tension is "Who is this Russian guy and what does he want?" for second half it's "How is Sam going to get away from this guy?" I would argue that the first conflict is much more interesting than the second one. In a story this length, it's going to be very difficult to make a reader identify with Sam enough to care whether or not he gets out of this situation. So, your best bet is to stick with the mysterious Russian, and keep him mysterious. As it is, you blow your wad a little to early with:
"In fact, they may already be looking for him. If they where, it was wise not to be just sitting here, sipping bad coffee and getting accosted by some Russian, who most likely works for them."
Right there, you've essentially told us what's happening, who the main character is, and who this Russian is, and from there we can take a good guess at the end of the story.
Instead, imagine the story written this way. Sam, feeling lonely and introspective sits in the diner. This big, drunk acting Russian walks in and sits down next to him, starting up a conversation. The Russian is loud and crude, and Sam, not feeling like company, tries to give him the polite brush off. Slowly the conversation begins to develop an undertone of menace. The words are still perfectly nice, but little things start to betray an underlying hostility. At one point Sam tries to leave, but the Russian grabs him by the arm and pulls him back into his chair. His words are friendly enough, but his grip is like iron. Finally Sam, for a reason that might seem small to someone else, decides he's in danger and goes for his gun (this is where you reveal that he's on the run and fears people might be after him). The Rusiian responds, but too slowly. Sam heads back out into the cold again after an all too brief reprieve, and the kicker is that Sam isn't even sure that the Russian was after him, but in his business, if you want to stay alive, sometimes you have to kill someone you're only 70% sure about.
If you wanted to get really ambitious, maybe you plant some seeds of doubt. Maybe Sam is just a paranoid schizophrenic and sees danger everywhere. Maybe he actually works at Sac-N-Save, but has convinced himself that that job is just "cover." Ok... that was all just a thought... and probably not what you want to do with this story... thinking out loud.
Basically, what you want to do is preserve the confusion, the not-knowing-what-the-fuck-is going-on as long as possible. That's the interesting part of this story.
Now for a few style tips. None of these things are a huge deal on their own, but the cumulative effect can derail a story, and they should all be pretty simple to fix.
Using "for" instead of "because" is a mistake. "[it was] most definitely designed after the era, for it held with it the insipid feeling of forced cliché’ and boldness." I'm guessing you probably don't use "for" this way when you're talking to your friends, and if you do, you shouldn't use it in your writing. It sound
Read the rest of this comment...
|
Re: Midnight...
by BoundByMisery (randomthoughtspr@aol.com)
on Dec 12, 2003 - 05:09 PM
(User info | Send a Message)
|
Why does it always gotta be teh puerto ricans?!
hehe j/k..jus thought i'd jus thought i'd defend my people...woot woot! boricua morena!
|
|
|
