I've just started writing a piece of fiction with a view to turn it into a short novel, whether it be of good, bad or indifferent quality. I have a plot lined out, and thought that I might start a thread like the original songwriters one, but for anyone who writes absolutely anything else, be it poetry, a short story, a novel, etc etc. It's my first attempt, so be kind, but I thought it would be a good idea for anyone to guage how they're getting on and any constructive criticism will be welcome.
The "Original Writer's" Thread
- Thread starter nemanja nemagic
- Start date
Chapter 1 - Present. Ned.
In a tight fitting blazer, a sex pistols t-shirt, and reedy pipe jeans, I, the slight figure with the shoulder length hair sitting in the corner - looked dressed to go to a gig, not to sup coffee. I had always enjoyed and immersed myself in this sense of alienation, the sense that I did not belong in my current surroundings. I sat staring sullenly at the placard advertising the new brand of coffee. It was almost as sterile as the gloop I was drinking. This, the bland colouring of the wallpaper, and the trademark image of the coffee shop smattered with scant regard across every surface in the establishment contributed to my disdain. I sighed. I had always held a pompous, cynical snobbery in relation to anything generic, but it seemed to have been sharpened by the marijuana abuse of my earlier days. Marijuana. The central factor. The precious commodity that drew us all together. I snorted at the thought just as the door was almost wrenched off its hinges, meaning only one thing, Miles had arrived. He stood, the doorway framed by his burly and overbearing presence, before striding over to the dingy corner in which I lounged. It suddenly occurred to me that the man really hadn’t changed throughout his life, his towering stature, misshapen nose, and crushing embrace gave away his sustained love affair with rugby. The growing waistband indicated that this affair hadn’t been rekindled for a short while, however. His eyes still took on that ever so vacant tinge that I had always associated with Miles’ more limited intellect.
“How are you Neddy?” Miles half-whispered in his gruff, baritone voice
“Not too shabby Miles, thank you for the concern”
“Where the feck is he?”
“Who?”
“c’mon…him”
“Ahhhh, him. Well Miles, what you need to realize is that questions such as “where the feck is he?” hold no contextual weight in Mr. I’s mind, at least they haven’t done for a good number of years, ever since the fateful day in which he had that first toke. The questions in his submerged consciousness that take precedence now are “when am I next picking up?” and “how much can I flog this new gear for?” “
After the consequent chuckles between Miles and I subsided, we settled into a coffee draining routine that we had become so accustomed to in this very place over the years. Miles sat, lapsing into his typically unthinking manner, but the short conversation caused me to reflect. Although outwardly Mr. I’s condition was always a source of humour, whenever I mused upon the subject inwardly I always felt an inherent melancholy. After all, out of all the people in my tight knit group of friends, I had always shared the strongest bond of friendship with Mr. I, yet I was certainly in part accountable for Mr. I’s descent. These thoughts were dissolved however by the entrance of the next member of our merry marijuana band.
Throughout our junior years, I had recognized that I was one of the few that was unaffected by Katie’s feminine wiles. I appreciated why many of my friends were drawn in by her appearance, the translucent wavy-coiffed, honey-blond hair, the dimpled olive cheeks and the delicate high aquiline curve of her nose. They were attracted to her like flies to the gleaming mane of a chestnut horse in the summertime. It was just that I had never been one of those mindless flies. And therein lay the reason for my immunity in the face of Katie’s physical charms. Mindless. The ambivalence of a chestnut horse’s mane applied to Katie also. Although the horse’s mane in the summer gleamed, in the winter it dulled. The juxtaposed effect of summer and winter upon a horse’s mane was much like Katie’s physical and mental visage. Physically she shone with resonance, mentally, it was a different story. She approached the counter.
“One Decaf please” Her ambient voice shimmered across the room toward myself and Miles.
“That will be £3.95”
As if contemplating the complex enormity of the universe, she began taking coins out of her purse at a leaden pace, her mouth completely ajar with intense concentration.
“There you are!”
“…miss…you’ve given me £1.50 extra, here you are” I buried my face in my hands in exasperation.
“Whoops” Katie tittered.
All this considered, I still couldn’t help but admire her graceful movement, gliding over the intervening space between us, traversing it with such poise. She planted a firm kiss upon a blushing Miles before warmly embracing me and perching herself on a chair.
“You’re getting plumper everyday Miles, you really should give Atkins a try, it’s done wonders for me!” she exclaimed, pointing to his prominent paunch.
“It’s muscle Katie, I do play rugby you know, and of course I’m a builder”
“A big stwong buiwder with big stwong muscles!” I accentuated Katie’s implicit feminine lisp and high octave vocals, prodding Miles’ belly causing it to ripple. Katie’s cascading tinkle of laughter blended in harmoniously with mine and Miles’.
“Alright, alright, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t let myself go, I just haven’t had the time for rugby recently, and money’s been tight so I’ve had to take more and more jobs on to support the kids.”
“All you have to do is ask you know Miles” Katie simpered.
“We’ve been through this Katie. I can’t.”
I looked on with certain sadness. The ditzy heiress with her unearned millions was always so willing to give some out to poor Miles. Poor, proud Miles. She sits on unlimited funds, gormless without employment, disposing of lovers month by month, whereas Miles menially works his fingers to the bone. Yet his great affection for Katie, his pride, and his unbridled idiocy synthesized together to culminate in a perpetual spurning of Katie’s money. Two imbecilic peas in an imbecilic pod. Marijuana abuse really was fascinating. Its abuse had diminished both of his friends’ intelligence, but fostered differing ways of life in each of them. It usurped Katie’s drive and ambition, whilst simultaneously encouraging Miles to compensate for his forever lost education by working and working and working. I and Liam really were the lucky ones, to come out of the other side intellectually unscathed. I sighed.
“Why so glum Dr Ned?” Katie chimed.
“Katie, we’ve known each other for over a decade, why do you keep forgetting that I’m a journalist, not a doctor?” I questioned with a forgiving smile.
“Silly me!” Katie’s whimsical giggle echoed around the coffee shop, a giggle that was cut short when the door opened once more.
In swaggered Liam, the self assured half-Jewish businessman. Liam was always particularly distant from the more orthodox leanings of his religion, his mother having been cast out by her hard-line Jewish parents for marrying an atheist. But his Jewish surname of Feldmann meant that however hard he fled from his past, it always caught up with him. His sleek briefcase and suit threw his cold, calculating disposition, chalky complexion and the steely glint in his eyes into an exaggerated light. Liam’s emancipated form and his fragile, shrill bursts of speech belied his gangly frame. The cordial atmosphere evaporated. Although I had privately acknowledged my own part in Mr. I’s downfall, everyone knew that it had been Liam who pushed him over the edge, pushed him over that point of no return. Infinitely worse was that the part he played in Mr. I’s destruction was intentional. Frosty handshakes were doled out to Miles and I, as an attempt at a casual nod from Liam was met by a withering glare from Katie. He carefully avoided her gaze as much as possible. She became pale and wan, contrasting starkly with her olive tinted skin as she fell silent, boring into Liam’s face. Liam’s tangents began.
“Haven’t you always found it ironic Ned?”
“Hmmm?”
“The enterprise in which we place ourselves for these meetings…erm…namely the coffee industry, is a legalized and booming industry worth over 80 million dollars annually – “
“What’s ironic Liam?” Miles interjected
“Well, if you allow me to get to – “
“No, what does ironic mean?”
“Oh, you wish for instruction upon the appliance of the term “irony”, do you Miles?”
“er…….s’pose so” Miles murmured after a few seconds, seconds used to absorb Liam’s complex speech I assumed. I concealed a small smile.
“Well I’d be more than happy to delve into that topic for you” Liam answered with a toothy grin.
I sunk further into my chair with another small sigh. Yet again I was bearing witness to Liam’s favourite game, the bamboozlement of Miles. The traps and pitfalls set by Liam were amateurish, the slow and deep intonation set upon the more difficult words he used never failed to capture Miles. I allowed my mind to wander as Liam subsequently made his dialogue more and more complex, dizzying Miles in the process to such a point where Liam playfully ridiculed and chided him. However, although the mantra of Liam’s ridicule always maintained a playful and trivial tone, the glee spread over Liam’s face as he delivered it always revealed to me the sadistic fulfillment Liam gleaned from the game. I always felt overriding sympathy for Miles in these moments, but the pleasure that Liam took from the game was hardly surprising, given the relationship between the two men in the past. This was the same sadistic enjoyment that had been present on Liam’s face all those years ago, when I was repulsed by Liam’s ultimate act of betrayal. My nose wrinkled in disgust.
In a tight fitting blazer, a sex pistols t-shirt, and reedy pipe jeans, I, the slight figure with the shoulder length hair sitting in the corner - looked dressed to go to a gig, not to sup coffee. I had always enjoyed and immersed myself in this sense of alienation, the sense that I did not belong in my current surroundings. I sat staring sullenly at the placard advertising the new brand of coffee. It was almost as sterile as the gloop I was drinking. This, the bland colouring of the wallpaper, and the trademark image of the coffee shop smattered with scant regard across every surface in the establishment contributed to my disdain. I sighed. I had always held a pompous, cynical snobbery in relation to anything generic, but it seemed to have been sharpened by the marijuana abuse of my earlier days. Marijuana. The central factor. The precious commodity that drew us all together. I snorted at the thought just as the door was almost wrenched off its hinges, meaning only one thing, Miles had arrived. He stood, the doorway framed by his burly and overbearing presence, before striding over to the dingy corner in which I lounged. It suddenly occurred to me that the man really hadn’t changed throughout his life, his towering stature, misshapen nose, and crushing embrace gave away his sustained love affair with rugby. The growing waistband indicated that this affair hadn’t been rekindled for a short while, however. His eyes still took on that ever so vacant tinge that I had always associated with Miles’ more limited intellect.
“How are you Neddy?” Miles half-whispered in his gruff, baritone voice
“Not too shabby Miles, thank you for the concern”
“Where the feck is he?”
“Who?”
“c’mon…him”
“Ahhhh, him. Well Miles, what you need to realize is that questions such as “where the feck is he?” hold no contextual weight in Mr. I’s mind, at least they haven’t done for a good number of years, ever since the fateful day in which he had that first toke. The questions in his submerged consciousness that take precedence now are “when am I next picking up?” and “how much can I flog this new gear for?” “
After the consequent chuckles between Miles and I subsided, we settled into a coffee draining routine that we had become so accustomed to in this very place over the years. Miles sat, lapsing into his typically unthinking manner, but the short conversation caused me to reflect. Although outwardly Mr. I’s condition was always a source of humour, whenever I mused upon the subject inwardly I always felt an inherent melancholy. After all, out of all the people in my tight knit group of friends, I had always shared the strongest bond of friendship with Mr. I, yet I was certainly in part accountable for Mr. I’s descent. These thoughts were dissolved however by the entrance of the next member of our merry marijuana band.
Throughout our junior years, I had recognized that I was one of the few that was unaffected by Katie’s feminine wiles. I appreciated why many of my friends were drawn in by her appearance, the translucent wavy-coiffed, honey-blond hair, the dimpled olive cheeks and the delicate high aquiline curve of her nose. They were attracted to her like flies to the gleaming mane of a chestnut horse in the summertime. It was just that I had never been one of those mindless flies. And therein lay the reason for my immunity in the face of Katie’s physical charms. Mindless. The ambivalence of a chestnut horse’s mane applied to Katie also. Although the horse’s mane in the summer gleamed, in the winter it dulled. The juxtaposed effect of summer and winter upon a horse’s mane was much like Katie’s physical and mental visage. Physically she shone with resonance, mentally, it was a different story. She approached the counter.
“One Decaf please” Her ambient voice shimmered across the room toward myself and Miles.
“That will be £3.95”
As if contemplating the complex enormity of the universe, she began taking coins out of her purse at a leaden pace, her mouth completely ajar with intense concentration.
“There you are!”
“…miss…you’ve given me £1.50 extra, here you are” I buried my face in my hands in exasperation.
“Whoops” Katie tittered.
All this considered, I still couldn’t help but admire her graceful movement, gliding over the intervening space between us, traversing it with such poise. She planted a firm kiss upon a blushing Miles before warmly embracing me and perching herself on a chair.
“You’re getting plumper everyday Miles, you really should give Atkins a try, it’s done wonders for me!” she exclaimed, pointing to his prominent paunch.
“It’s muscle Katie, I do play rugby you know, and of course I’m a builder”
“A big stwong buiwder with big stwong muscles!” I accentuated Katie’s implicit feminine lisp and high octave vocals, prodding Miles’ belly causing it to ripple. Katie’s cascading tinkle of laughter blended in harmoniously with mine and Miles’.
“Alright, alright, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t let myself go, I just haven’t had the time for rugby recently, and money’s been tight so I’ve had to take more and more jobs on to support the kids.”
“All you have to do is ask you know Miles” Katie simpered.
“We’ve been through this Katie. I can’t.”
I looked on with certain sadness. The ditzy heiress with her unearned millions was always so willing to give some out to poor Miles. Poor, proud Miles. She sits on unlimited funds, gormless without employment, disposing of lovers month by month, whereas Miles menially works his fingers to the bone. Yet his great affection for Katie, his pride, and his unbridled idiocy synthesized together to culminate in a perpetual spurning of Katie’s money. Two imbecilic peas in an imbecilic pod. Marijuana abuse really was fascinating. Its abuse had diminished both of his friends’ intelligence, but fostered differing ways of life in each of them. It usurped Katie’s drive and ambition, whilst simultaneously encouraging Miles to compensate for his forever lost education by working and working and working. I and Liam really were the lucky ones, to come out of the other side intellectually unscathed. I sighed.
“Why so glum Dr Ned?” Katie chimed.
“Katie, we’ve known each other for over a decade, why do you keep forgetting that I’m a journalist, not a doctor?” I questioned with a forgiving smile.
“Silly me!” Katie’s whimsical giggle echoed around the coffee shop, a giggle that was cut short when the door opened once more.
In swaggered Liam, the self assured half-Jewish businessman. Liam was always particularly distant from the more orthodox leanings of his religion, his mother having been cast out by her hard-line Jewish parents for marrying an atheist. But his Jewish surname of Feldmann meant that however hard he fled from his past, it always caught up with him. His sleek briefcase and suit threw his cold, calculating disposition, chalky complexion and the steely glint in his eyes into an exaggerated light. Liam’s emancipated form and his fragile, shrill bursts of speech belied his gangly frame. The cordial atmosphere evaporated. Although I had privately acknowledged my own part in Mr. I’s downfall, everyone knew that it had been Liam who pushed him over the edge, pushed him over that point of no return. Infinitely worse was that the part he played in Mr. I’s destruction was intentional. Frosty handshakes were doled out to Miles and I, as an attempt at a casual nod from Liam was met by a withering glare from Katie. He carefully avoided her gaze as much as possible. She became pale and wan, contrasting starkly with her olive tinted skin as she fell silent, boring into Liam’s face. Liam’s tangents began.
“Haven’t you always found it ironic Ned?”
“Hmmm?”
“The enterprise in which we place ourselves for these meetings…erm…namely the coffee industry, is a legalized and booming industry worth over 80 million dollars annually – “
“What’s ironic Liam?” Miles interjected
“Well, if you allow me to get to – “
“No, what does ironic mean?”
“Oh, you wish for instruction upon the appliance of the term “irony”, do you Miles?”
“er…….s’pose so” Miles murmured after a few seconds, seconds used to absorb Liam’s complex speech I assumed. I concealed a small smile.
“Well I’d be more than happy to delve into that topic for you” Liam answered with a toothy grin.
I sunk further into my chair with another small sigh. Yet again I was bearing witness to Liam’s favourite game, the bamboozlement of Miles. The traps and pitfalls set by Liam were amateurish, the slow and deep intonation set upon the more difficult words he used never failed to capture Miles. I allowed my mind to wander as Liam subsequently made his dialogue more and more complex, dizzying Miles in the process to such a point where Liam playfully ridiculed and chided him. However, although the mantra of Liam’s ridicule always maintained a playful and trivial tone, the glee spread over Liam’s face as he delivered it always revealed to me the sadistic fulfillment Liam gleaned from the game. I always felt overriding sympathy for Miles in these moments, but the pleasure that Liam took from the game was hardly surprising, given the relationship between the two men in the past. This was the same sadistic enjoyment that had been present on Liam’s face all those years ago, when I was repulsed by Liam’s ultimate act of betrayal. My nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Why is the fact that we’re sitting here drinking coffee ironic, Liam?” I queried, to break the game.
As if being lifted from a dreamy reverie, Liam continued;
“Well, er… the coffee industry, legal as it is, is worth over 80 million dollars a year. The lucrative business’s legality…means that society holds it in higher regard, than say, other even more lucrative businesses that have the…affliction of being illegal. We sit here drinking the stuff once every month. The reason? Because of our childhood affairs with weed, that’s what brings us here…together every month. Isn’t it ironic then…that the marijuana industry, the illegal industry, that is worth billions annually, never mind millions, is directly responsible for us…putting money into the coffers of the legal industry that is coffee? Something that the government brands as illegal and illicit as a business in turn causes us to help a legal and respectable business to grow.”
“That’s very insightful Liam”
“I knew you’d see it my way Ned; and moreover…”
Liam’s ramblings were beginning to bore me.
“That will do Liam.” I emitted this in a sinister tone.
The scarlet, coalescent blotch that blew up rather than rose up onto Liam’s pasty face lengthened an already uncomfortable silence, a silence punctured only by Katie’s muffled, vindictive laughter. He suddenly became extremely fascinated by the passing traffic.
“I…think that’s him” Miles stated in a breezy yet tentative manner. That particular tension passed, making way for a new one.
He skulked disconsolately amongst suburban shoppers, the head was bowed, the hood drawn close to the frail frame, a stature even more rake-like than that of Liam’s or mine. The Fred Perry shirt was tattered, the Nike trainer’s were anemic, the reflection of the fake-gold chain onto which the neck hung seemed like the only organic feature of this being. We stared at this deteriorating figure with rapt attention. He lumbered through the entrance, the long spindly fingers drew back his hood. The fading chiseled features amplified the sunken, sallow, skin, and it seemed to me that new pockmarks etched new crevices on the face. The razor sharp haircut displayed just how far the pockmarks encroached. The gratuitous bruises were new too. A twitch in one eye. The cordial atmosphere that has been lost with the entrance of Liam was plunged deeper into the past. It was a somber moment. A plant brushed his face.
“What the feck! Get off me you fecking nut!” he cried in a halting, gravelly voice, swatting at the plant. As his barraging attack on the plant grew and grew, intricate tendril coils encased him in their grasp more and more, to the point where he fell limp against them. The plant had sapped his strength.
I noticed the few other customers in the shop glancing up from their papers, and the staff had frozen in their tracks. It was a depressing inditement into what he had become, and even though I had witnessed several events over the last few years that revealed this same, ever-engulfing paranoia, it had never extended this far. I dislike the emotion of pity, but could not help but feel it then. A pin could be heard to drop, and an ambulance siren in the distance betrayed the undercurrent of uneasiness that had the coffee shop in a thrall. Hushed, derivative laughter escaped from Liam’s mouth, and before he could do anything to stop it - I quite forcibly clipped him about the ear. Without taking her eyes off Mr. I, Katie’s face flushed with anger at Liam’s laughter, before renewing the pained look it had assumed when Mr. I. had entered. I rushed over to free the now static figure from his bounds, and guide him over to our table. He breathed his thanks.
“Where did you get those bruises Mr. I?” Katie’s voice caught, it vibrated with concern.
He slowly reached up to gently caress the purple invaders of the white, as if buying time to to recall the memory of how exactly he sustained the injuries.
“It’s nothing Kate, ‘just slipped is all”
“I’m not a fool Mr. I –
“Many would beg to differ” interjected Liam cruelly.
“Shut up Liam” I felt the need to answer him with condescending disdain.
Mr. I looked up. I recognized that the piercing quality of his grey clad eyes was not wholly extinguished as they bit into Liam’s face. Liam shrank from the stare. There was life in the wilting beast yet I thought, with some satisfaction. As if taking strength in facing down Liam, his voice became that of an animated growl, before tapering off into whispers once more.
“If you all must know...from them guys I was tellin’ yous about”
The ambulance siren pounded ever closer.
“We told you to get out of that!” I and Miles crowed in anxious unison.
“I never thought they would hurt you! I knew I should have given you the money!” Katie bleated in a despairing voice. Liam delved further into the indent upon his soft chair in sweltering silence. I scowled at him. He hastened forward.
“Erm…yeah, Mr. I, didn’t we tell you?!”
Incredulous, I hit him. He gave me a reproachful look before retreating back in his chair once more, his face half concealed in shadow. I was sure he was hiding a curled lip, a smug demeanor. I stored that in my mind for later.
“Look it ain’t easy getting out of this game, you can’t just snap your fingers n hey presto! Your contacts, people who know you, you can’t just disappear from them, and they will be around every corner if I try to get out. Look at me for feck’s sake. I haven’t got a life outside what I’ve been tied in for these years, who’d employ me?!” he lamented, shrugging.
Each of us slinked back into our chairs. The ambulance siren screeched to a halt in close proximity to the coffee shop. Mr. I’s next utterance filled me with dread.
“There’s a hit on me…”
Everyone around the table unanimously sat bolt upright.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
I could taste the heady gaze of every customer directed at our table. There was an increasing commotion outside, several barrel-chested men dashed by the window with an imperative urgency. More audibly now:
“There’s a hit on me”
Smash.
Balaclava and guns.
As if being lifted from a dreamy reverie, Liam continued;
“Well, er… the coffee industry, legal as it is, is worth over 80 million dollars a year. The lucrative business’s legality…means that society holds it in higher regard, than say, other even more lucrative businesses that have the…affliction of being illegal. We sit here drinking the stuff once every month. The reason? Because of our childhood affairs with weed, that’s what brings us here…together every month. Isn’t it ironic then…that the marijuana industry, the illegal industry, that is worth billions annually, never mind millions, is directly responsible for us…putting money into the coffers of the legal industry that is coffee? Something that the government brands as illegal and illicit as a business in turn causes us to help a legal and respectable business to grow.”
“That’s very insightful Liam”
“I knew you’d see it my way Ned; and moreover…”
Liam’s ramblings were beginning to bore me.
“That will do Liam.” I emitted this in a sinister tone.
The scarlet, coalescent blotch that blew up rather than rose up onto Liam’s pasty face lengthened an already uncomfortable silence, a silence punctured only by Katie’s muffled, vindictive laughter. He suddenly became extremely fascinated by the passing traffic.
“I…think that’s him” Miles stated in a breezy yet tentative manner. That particular tension passed, making way for a new one.
He skulked disconsolately amongst suburban shoppers, the head was bowed, the hood drawn close to the frail frame, a stature even more rake-like than that of Liam’s or mine. The Fred Perry shirt was tattered, the Nike trainer’s were anemic, the reflection of the fake-gold chain onto which the neck hung seemed like the only organic feature of this being. We stared at this deteriorating figure with rapt attention. He lumbered through the entrance, the long spindly fingers drew back his hood. The fading chiseled features amplified the sunken, sallow, skin, and it seemed to me that new pockmarks etched new crevices on the face. The razor sharp haircut displayed just how far the pockmarks encroached. The gratuitous bruises were new too. A twitch in one eye. The cordial atmosphere that has been lost with the entrance of Liam was plunged deeper into the past. It was a somber moment. A plant brushed his face.
“What the feck! Get off me you fecking nut!” he cried in a halting, gravelly voice, swatting at the plant. As his barraging attack on the plant grew and grew, intricate tendril coils encased him in their grasp more and more, to the point where he fell limp against them. The plant had sapped his strength.
I noticed the few other customers in the shop glancing up from their papers, and the staff had frozen in their tracks. It was a depressing inditement into what he had become, and even though I had witnessed several events over the last few years that revealed this same, ever-engulfing paranoia, it had never extended this far. I dislike the emotion of pity, but could not help but feel it then. A pin could be heard to drop, and an ambulance siren in the distance betrayed the undercurrent of uneasiness that had the coffee shop in a thrall. Hushed, derivative laughter escaped from Liam’s mouth, and before he could do anything to stop it - I quite forcibly clipped him about the ear. Without taking her eyes off Mr. I, Katie’s face flushed with anger at Liam’s laughter, before renewing the pained look it had assumed when Mr. I. had entered. I rushed over to free the now static figure from his bounds, and guide him over to our table. He breathed his thanks.
“Where did you get those bruises Mr. I?” Katie’s voice caught, it vibrated with concern.
He slowly reached up to gently caress the purple invaders of the white, as if buying time to to recall the memory of how exactly he sustained the injuries.
“It’s nothing Kate, ‘just slipped is all”
“I’m not a fool Mr. I –
“Many would beg to differ” interjected Liam cruelly.
“Shut up Liam” I felt the need to answer him with condescending disdain.
Mr. I looked up. I recognized that the piercing quality of his grey clad eyes was not wholly extinguished as they bit into Liam’s face. Liam shrank from the stare. There was life in the wilting beast yet I thought, with some satisfaction. As if taking strength in facing down Liam, his voice became that of an animated growl, before tapering off into whispers once more.
“If you all must know...from them guys I was tellin’ yous about”
The ambulance siren pounded ever closer.
“We told you to get out of that!” I and Miles crowed in anxious unison.
“I never thought they would hurt you! I knew I should have given you the money!” Katie bleated in a despairing voice. Liam delved further into the indent upon his soft chair in sweltering silence. I scowled at him. He hastened forward.
“Erm…yeah, Mr. I, didn’t we tell you?!”
Incredulous, I hit him. He gave me a reproachful look before retreating back in his chair once more, his face half concealed in shadow. I was sure he was hiding a curled lip, a smug demeanor. I stored that in my mind for later.
“Look it ain’t easy getting out of this game, you can’t just snap your fingers n hey presto! Your contacts, people who know you, you can’t just disappear from them, and they will be around every corner if I try to get out. Look at me for feck’s sake. I haven’t got a life outside what I’ve been tied in for these years, who’d employ me?!” he lamented, shrugging.
Each of us slinked back into our chairs. The ambulance siren screeched to a halt in close proximity to the coffee shop. Mr. I’s next utterance filled me with dread.
“There’s a hit on me…”
Everyone around the table unanimously sat bolt upright.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
I could taste the heady gaze of every customer directed at our table. There was an increasing commotion outside, several barrel-chested men dashed by the window with an imperative urgency. More audibly now:
“There’s a hit on me”
Smash.
Balaclava and guns.
I enjoyed that very much Nemanja. Very well written and overall was like reading a Tarantino screenplay.
It's good. Here's my horrible criticism though. First sentence, confusing and long, too many, commas - I reckon. Secondly, and more importantly, I hope you have a good explanation for how all these characters met because at first glance they seem unrealistic. Why would an heiress be mates with a thick builder? Minor quibble, the Jewish guy has a Jewish surname and yet his dad isn't Jewish? I dunno. Anyway, I won't doubt you until you write a bit more. Final quibble, I have never seen anaemic written "anemic" before. Is it an Americanism? If so, since the guy plays rugby I'm guessing it's based in England? Obviously that really isn't important I'm just a pedant.
Thanks man, that's pretty high praise
1. Taken on board
2. Trust me I believe I have a very good explanation for that
3. That is a bit of a problem now I recognise it, cheers for spotting it, I'll get on that asap
4. Yeah, my american version of word is being a tit, I wasn't sure of the spelling and it told me that was the right one.
5. It is therefore in England, yes.
Thanks for the input samabachan, good constructive criticism
Whether it be good, bad or shite at least I enjoy it. Will keep on at it and be back in this thread with more in the next few weeks
Not a problem. I'm good at criticizing.
Having finished the seventh book last night and realised it wasn't all that, and looking at the success of Twilight currently, I've decided I'm going to write the new Harry Potter and become a millionaire.
How hard can it be?
How hard can it be?
I hate novels, all full of descriptive fluff. You could write exactly the same thing with 10% of the words.
It's called a film script.
or a John Grisham novel
He doesn't write his own books though, does he?
Who's books does he write?
Other people write them and he puts his name on them. That may be another crime/thriller writer though.
Edit: I'm thinking of James Patterson.