Srilettin Registered User
Posts: 293
(5/10/03 8:00 pm)
The bottle in front of me
Hey guys, I just started writing something a few nights ago, and I thought this was as agood a place as any I know for getting feedback on it. So, here goes
I am.
I am awake.
I have suddenly regained consciousness, somewhere in a parking lot. The feel of the warm asphalt against my night, when coupled with the cold September air, makes me feel as if I’m being pulled in too many directions. I find myself unable to stand up. Like Samson, I have been sapped of my strength. I lie here chained to the parking lot, and as I struggle, I manage to face upwards. What greets my vision is not the most inspiring of panoramas. A cloudy night sky, occluding all but the nearest planets, the copper Mars, the wine dark Venus, all reduced to a steady stream of light. Minutes pass, and eventually I regain my equilibrium. Over the false horizon of the lot wall (for I realize now, my presence was requested on this 3rd story parking garage) I see the dawning of a thousand halogen suns. The powerful glare of street signs lit long after there are patrons who desire their services.
Fumbling through the jacket, some odd 80's colored monstrosity, lying on the ground next to me, I find a slip of paper, like something torn out of an old phonebook. Scrawled on it in a thick red line (sharpie, or maybe lipstick? There’s not enough light) are six numbers. At least, I assume it’s six, because the last three all run together. All I can make out in my fuddled haze is 441 and then something that looks like a triangle with legs growing out of it. I pocket it, and begin to walk towards the edge. The first step I manage to shuffle through sends a hot river of pain rushing through my leg. As I start to fall, the pain washes over my head, and things go black again.
I am awake.
Things this time are a little more coherent, but I wish they weren’t. I’m still on top of a parking garage, and I’m still weak and possibly inebriated. Since the last time I passed into lucidity I’m now acutely aware of the crippling pain in my right leg, and a warm thread of blood running out of the majority of openings on my head. A quick check reveals that thankfully, I’ve not developed any new ones in my latest escapade. I half crawl, half lurch my way over to the edge of the garage floor and collapse onto the ledge. Under the orange glow of the light, I do a more thorough search. I discover that I have a two and a half inch knife blade broken off and lodged a few inches below the knee of my right leg. Nothing I can see makes any sense, so I do what any sane person would, I try to piece together the last things I can remember. I think back, but all I can recall are fuzzy images at a party, followed by some sort of argument. I remember storming off, but I don’t remember where, or why. Realizing that I can’t spend the night (or perhaps another, who knows) on top of this garage, and so I begin my long trek down. Several times during the journey I come close to slipping away again, but I manage to hold on, and eventually I reach the ground floor.
I lie down on a bench, and ponder over my choices for getting home. Clearly I’m in no condition to walk, and I imagine there aren’t many taxi drivers who would give a lift to a guy with no cash, who doesn’t really remember much of anything. My train of thought is interrupted by someone standing in my light, casting a dark shadow. I look up and manage to make out the silhouette of a police officer – a rent-a-cop probably. He prods me with his walkie-talkie and says, “Hey, you’re gonna have to move on, you can’t sleep…” He drops off abruptly as I turn around and look him in the face. “Oh, its you. I’m…sorry I bothered you” he mutters, and hurriedly walks away. As I’m puzzling over that strange encounter, another shadow falls across my eyes. All I manage to make out this time is a smaller figure, reaching towards me, before I black out again.
*Edit* Gave it a name, although its rather ephemeral
Edited by: Srilettin at: 7/21/03 6:00 pm
Srilettin Registered User
Posts: 299
(5/12/03 4:19 pm)
Re: Start of a new work
I am getting tired of waking up in strange places
Thankfully that’s not the case, and as my eyes adjust they are welcomed by the sight of my disheveled apartment. A little light filters in through the closed blinds, enough to gain my bearings as I wake up. I go through my daily regiment of cracking my joints, until I reach my right knee. Touching it, I draw back quickly. “@#%$”. Moving with speed I never thought possible, I turn on the light and prop my leg up on the end table. “Oh @#%$”, I mutter as I look at my knee. Even though the knife blade has been mysteriously removed, the wound looks like hell. Bright red rivulets run away from the poorly stitched up wound. Who ever kindly took care of me last night did a real bang up job. I’ve got to get to a doctor, so I swing out of bed, and try putting pressure on my leg. No dice – I just come close to blacking out like the last time. I can’t even bend it this time, the infection is so bad. I grope for the phone cable, and drag the whole system, answering machine and all, over to my bed. There’s a message on the machine, and for a few seconds, it takes priority in the strange list of tasks running through my head.
“Hi, Robert, this is Mr. Schreib”
@#%$, it’s my boss.
“Listen, you’ve been acting rather erratically at work lately, and I think its about time you and I had a little talk together. Come Monday, I want to see you in my office at nine o’clock. Thanks, enjoy your weekend”
Enjoy my weekend. Fat chance. I’ve got an infected knife wound, a pounding headache, and about three novels worth of mysteries standing between me and enjoying my weekend. First things first though, I’ll call the hospital, get them to send an ambulance around to pick me up.
I am in a great deal of pain
There’s really nothing quite like the rigors of hospital testing to make you want to accept whatever news they’re going to tell you, just to get the hell out of there. The battery of poking and prodding, and “Does this hurt?” did result in one positive outcome, however: I’ve got a spiffy new wheel chair to roll around in. The docs gave me a positive outlook on my recovery, but I don’t think they were amused when I claimed to be attacked by Crocodile Dundee. Bunch of humorless quacks. By this time it’s about 3 o’clock, so I cart my gimp ass over to the nearest bar and grille, some Friday’s knock off like a dozen others. While I’m waiting for my food to arrive, in between ogling the attractive waitresses, I start making notes on a napkin, putting things in order as much as possible. Here’s what I have so far:
-Knife wound (I got to keep the part that was stuck in me)
-Parking garage (what part of town?)
-Mysterious figure (w/ black out…)
-Cop knows me?
-6-digit number, written in red
-Hideous sport jacket
That’s right! I had forgotten all about the jacket and the number. They might be at home right now. Then again, they might also be in the possession of my mysterious benefactor from last night. Hell, they could be framed as art in the lost city of Atlantis – anything’s possible at this point
Still looking for any feedback from you guys Edited by: Srilettin at: 5/12/03 4:21:47 pm
I like your story. The plot is intriguing and it is moved along quickly. In the beginning of the story I learned about the items Robert had: leather jacket, knife in leg, and paper with red ink. If these items are explained well, I think that this could be an enjoyable read.
Most of what was written is clear. I was not confused. The summary of items at the end of the second post is good. In addition, the way that you divide the paragraphs with the "I am . . . " sentences helps.
I like most of the descriptions that were used: the use of light and shadow to reveal the characters, the use of Samson, the use of the phrase "false horizon," the use of a desolate garage, and the use of slang.
Most of the things that I saw wrong with this story are small. The explanations of why they should be changed is, however, longer. I hope that you are not offended, if you are, view me as a troll who has an opinion that you do not have to listen to.
Throughout your story, some of the phrases used are reptitive. Instead of writing stand up, write stand. Instead of writing roll around in, write roll in. Instead of writing wake up, write wake. Instead or writing ponder over my choices, write ponder my choices.
Take out some the adverbs, especially the intensifiers. Instead of saying I had suddenly regained consciousness, say I regained consiossness. Instead of writing so bad, write bad.
In the first paragraph I wondered how the asphalt of the parking garage is warm. At night things cool. In addition, you say that Venus, Mars, and the moon gave off visible light. You describe the light; however, planets don't give off light that can be seen. Only the moon does.
In the second paragraph possibly name the color of the jacket. Next, in the first paragraph, you said that you could see the lights of the city. This means that Robert is already looking over the wall at the city. In the second paragraph, you say that he walks to the edge of parking structure. He was already at the edge of it when the story began. In additon you say that Robert had to search to find the knife in his leg. If a knife is in a persons leg, won't that person feel pain and know it is there already? Finally, you state that the knife is two and a half inches long. How does Robert know the length of the blade when it is buried in his leg. If this was a third person story, then it could be said that the blade was two and a half inches long. It was written in the first person, so Robert can only know what Robert experiences through his senses. He could, however, guess that the blade was two and a half inches long, but it can't be stated as fact until Robert knows it is a fact.
In the third paragraph you wrote that Robert Passes into lucidy. This phrase is not clear. Lucid means clear. Finally, Robert, again, lurches back to the edge of the parking structure. When he passed out a second time, did someone drag him away from it?
In the fourth paragraph use a comma before the ending quotation mark whem the quote is followed by a dialog tag. After the fourth paragraph, there is a line of dialog that does not express who is talking. Is Robert saying, "Noone could stop him . . ." or is the small figure saying it?
In the fifth paragraph, which was the first paragraph of you second post, the first sentence sounds awkward. Possibly split it into two sentences. When you say that Robert moved with speed that wasn't humanely possible, tell the reader why he moved with this speed. It's written in the first person, the reader should be inside Robert's head, and know why he did it. When you use an expletive, write out the word. Don't use @#$%. If Robert would say, "@#%$, @#%$, @#%$, @#%$, bitch, ass . . . " have him say it. This includes racial words--any word.
In the sixth paragraph, first-things-first is a cliche. It is also winded and long. Write only first. Also, when you write that Robert's leg had been infected it gives the reader the impression that Robert was on top of the parking structure for a long time. If this was your intention it is OK; however, a cut usually takes time to get infected.
Srilettin Registered User
Posts: 302
(5/19/03 4:12 pm)
Re: Critique
Thanks for responding. I appreciate any comments whatsoever, as i want to make this a good work. I agree with what you said, that the passage of time and Robert's location can be confusing and contradictory. Some of that is intentional, and some of it I intend to change. Also, the quote at the bottom is in my sig, that I didnt think about. its not actually part of the story
Thanks
Srilettin Registered User
Posts: 315
(5/25/03 12:43 pm)
More More More
*edit* for those confused, I changed the wheelchair to crutches*
There’s no point in hurrying home (I lack even cable since those morons down there don’t know how to cash a check properly) so I eat my sandwich in peace, when out of the corner of my eye, I see a man walk in, and start to chat up one of the waitresses. Slung over his shoulder is a vomit green sport coat.
Chapter 2
Jay glanced at his watch as he threw himself onto his due-for-retirement sofa. The springs creaked loudly, for a moment drowning out the omnipresent gruff of Sergeant Friday.
“Just the facts, ma’am”
He said along with the television. It was another typical Friday evening for Jay. His humdrum workweek in a cubicle at the claims department was over, and he could finally kick back and solve crimes with the best of them. He was just about settled in for the long haul when two harsh raps came at his door. Now, Jay had seen enough police shows (okay, Jay had seen way too many police shows, but that’s beside the point) to know that there was a cop at his door. Throwing on a clean T-shirt and flicking on the lights, Jay went to answer it. A short, muscular, Hispanic looking cop answered.
“Mr. Jay Petruchio?”
“That’s me” Jay responded, his eyes still adjusting to the sudden influx of light
“My name is Officer Guzman. I need to ask you a few questions about your next door neighbor, one Robert Travis”
“Well, umm, Robert’s a good guy. He and I don’t talk a whole lot, but he seems pretty normal. He has a very strange sense of humor, which comes with the territory, working as network technician down at some corporation. Why are you asking about him?” Jay said, blurring most of the words together. It was, after all the first time he’d spoken to an honest to goodness cop.
“We have some questions for him concerning his whereabouts last night. We have a witness who spotted him in the same area as a suspected arson.” Officer Guzman seemed rather distracted from his job, as if he had more pressing concerns, and was only asking as a matter of regulations.
“That doesn’t really sound like something he would be involved with. Are you sure you have the right Robert?”
“Positive. Thank you for your time.”
And with that, the officer turned and walked brusquely down the hall. “How very strange,” Jay thought, but then forgot all about it, and went back to his ratty couch, and his dependable TV. As Jay began to slip into slumber, his eyelids like sandbags, and the television show a faint memory, he heard two hushed voices out in the hall. He groggily got up and went to the peephole. Unfortunately, the superintendent of Jay’s apartment was on permanent sabatical, so the hallway light was out. Jay could just barely make out a diminuitive woman, and an only slightly larger man, whispering to each other. As the woman walked down the hall in a hurry, the man pulled something out of his coat and stuck it into the door across the way – Robert’s door.
Thoroughly awakened by the strange series of events before him, Jay waited until the pair was completely out of sight before he opened his door. Stuck, about 2/3rds of the way up in his neighbor’s door was a knife, securing a hastily scrawled note. To be honest it was only most of a knife, a good two inches of it had been broken off before its use as a thumbtack. On the note were two sentences. Two short sentences:
I am getting way too caught up in this whole cloak and dagger thing
I guess it’s to be expected though, since that’s the course my life has taken this past 24 hours. In my attempt to stay invisible while tailing my conspicuously jacketed mark, he gave me the slip, and left me high and dry in some foreign quarter of the town that I'm not familiar with. I guess I just couldn’t keep up with him using my crutches, and my right leg was currently telling me it was a bad mistake to try. I found a curbside to sit on, and popped a few of the painkillers the doc prescribed me. God bless ‘em, what would I do without the pharmaceutical industry?
I’m feeling rather uncomfortable sitting here, lost, in the middle of the city, but there’s no chance of me walking back just yet. Even if I knew the way, I’m exhausted and in pain. Lucky for me, I’m open to new cultures, so I find the closest place resembling a bar, and go to have a stiff drink or three. As I’m knocking back my third gin and tonic, I notice one of the other patrons absconding with my crutches. I try to get off my stool and stop him, but the floor in this crazy place doesn’t seem to want to stay still. It sways to the left, and then to the right, and then it jumps up and hits me right in the chin.
I am dangerously close to blacking out again
But I hold my own. There’s too much of importance happening right now to sleep through it. For instance, the crutch thief is now kneeling over me, shaking his head – I think. It could just be the fact that he’s holding up my glass and waggling his finger at me that confusing me. I think he’s trying to tell me that I shouldn’t drink so much, but his message is lost among the three or four instances of him that I can see telling me the same thing. The ground pulled another one of its disappearing acts, as I am carted into a back room. Horrible little half-thoughts muddle about in my head. The choppy waters of my thoughts were then torn up by a stream of rapid, foreign gibberish. “Wha…huh…? I can’t…” is all I get out, before I pass into oblivion.
When I wake up, my memory is surprisingly clear, even though my head is throbbing like a kettledrum. I see a sweet young girl, she looks Polish, I think, standing over me, giving me a glass of water.
“You shouldn’t drink so much, you get tipsy.”
Definitely not Polish. Russian, maybe.
“Here, have some water, you’re dehydrated.”
Sure thing. I down the water, and grunt in satisfaction as I sit up slowly. I notice through the open door that it’s getting dark outside. I have to hurry home, I’ve got work tomorrow. I have to see Mr. Schreib tomorrow.
“Can you tell me how to get back to Fulson Street?”
“Yah…”
She gives me directions, and I realize I’m surprisingly close to where I need to go. I thank her, although more gruffly than I should have, grab my crutches (I guess they weren’t stolen after all) and begin to walk home. As I walk along the back alleys and side roads, I’m reminded of the night that started all of this mess. It’s hard to believe it was less than 24 hours ago. I reach in my pocket and take out the napkin from the restaurant. I add ‘jacketed man’ to the end of it, and underline the word “jacket”. The trip home is uneventful (it’s about time something in my life is) and as I hobble up my stairs to my darkened hallway I am actually looking forward to a normal week of work. Perhaps I can even put this whole thing behind me. I pull out my keys and fumble for the lock, when I’m grabbed from behind and dragged into a darkened room. The door shuts after me, and I’m surrounded by darkness.
Re: More More More
Very nicely done, you set the hook well. I hope you finish this.
"Our constitution was made only for a wholly religious and moral people." - John Adams, Founding Father
Srilettin Registered User
Posts: 366
(7/5/03 6:49 pm)
Re: More More More
Ok, sorry for the long break, but I've been rediculously busy.
To make up for it, here's chapters 3 and 4 (they are a little short, I promise I will add more to them eventually)
(oh, and I'm just testing out the 3rd person perspective. I may change that, but keep the material the same. it is, after all, only a work in progress)
Chapter 3
Jay wrestled Robert down onto his couch, and turned on the nearest light. Both men recoiled from its sudden brightness.
"Agh! Jay, what the hell do you think you're doing??"
"You're in serious trouble, Robert. You're not safe in your apartment"
"That's because I've got a neighbor who's batshit insane"
"I'm serious, you're life is in danger"
Jay picked up the knife and the note off of his coffee table and handed them to Robert. Robert looked at him like he a three year old in a calculus class. It all clicked, however, when he saw the broken tip of the knife. Judging by the size of the scars, this was definitely the knife that had once been plunged into his leg. In fact, simply thinking about the knife wound made Robert's knee flare into pain. He popped a couple of pain killers, and lay back across the couch.
"Well, Jay, it seems I'm in this, whatever this may be, deeper than I imagined. What do you propose we, or at least I, should do?"
"Clearly it's only a matter of time until whoever left this decides they want you bad enough to come get you. Until then, I guess we just lay low."
"Lay Low?!! Lay FREAKING Low?? My life is in danger here, and you just wanna hang around until they pay me another visit. Screw that."
I dash out of Jay's room, briefly running my fingers over the knife whole in my door before opening it. God, this is @#%$ up. All I need is a good nights sleep, and I'm sure all of this will have sorted itself out in the morning - I hope. God, I always figured Jay was an ineffectual, lonely man, but I never realized to what extent. Here I am, clearly in grave danger (I don't need a reminder from Columbo over there to figure that out) and he treats it like some garden variety tv detective show. Dammit if he's not right though. It's not safe for me to stay here tonight, and even though it's only slightly safer in his room,
I go to grab all of my personal belongings, or at least the important ones: a change of clothes, a baseball bat and my bathroom kitbag. I'm about to run back out the door, when I remember something. The Jacket! @#%$, it could be anywhere. I can practically hear my mother nagging at me for not keeping a cleaner apartment, as I through clothes, newspapers, and bedsheets around, looking for a jacket that, on any other day, would stand out like a sore thumb. It's not here. Who ever dropped me off last night must have taken it with them. I throw open my closet in desperation, and whadya know. Its there, sitting on a coat hanger. Imagine that, something hung up, in my apartment. No time for insightful witticisms, I grab it and my other belongings and run out my door.
Jay is out there, waiting for me. He jingles his car keys at me and we head down stairs. Parked across the street, bathed in the glow of a fast food sign like a burger under a heat lamp, is Jay’s car. It’s a mid-80’s civic hatchback, the car for the poor and very poor alike. I get in the front seat, Jay coerces the engine into starting, and we head off
Chapter 4 (The Exodus)
Jay tells me that he has a grandmother who lives about forty miles away, and that we could stay there for a little while. Under normal circumstances, we should have been able to make it there in an hour or so, but neither of us was planning on having to get the hell out of Dodge in the middle of the night. So, we stop for gas, for cash, for a bite to eat (god bless late night pizzerias) and for some miracle drugs to alleviate this horrible recurring headache.
“Lemme tell ya,” I say to Jay, “I’m never drinking in a strange part of town until I pass out again.”
“Sounds like a plan”
“At least, not in the afternoon”
Finally underway, I begin to feel pretty damned beat up. It’s been a long twenty four hours for me, and it doesn’t take long before the passing streetlights all merge into a steady river of light and the purr of the engine lulls me to sleep
Lucid dreaming is a load of crap.
I’m dreaming. I know I’m dreaming. But I can’t do a damned thing about it. I see myself, in sort of a stilted third person view, standing on top of an all to familiar parking garage. But this time, I’m not alone. Three figures (one of whom is a woman, the others are indistinct) form a triangle around me. I can feel myself getting angry, arguing, but the words coming out of my mouth seem to trail off before they reach my ears, like a water gun fired from a moving car. The three people surrounding me start to move in closer, and even though I’m only partially involved with what’s going on, some siren deep inside me is screaming ‘WARNING! WARNING.’ Something flashes in the night, and I start to run, only sluggishly. I make it to the ramp leading to the second level of the garage, but merely stop, slam into someone standing resolutely before me, and fall over. The three from before drag me away, across the warm concrete by my elbows. I look up to see a policeman standing over me, a smug grin on his face, like a person who’s seen a horror movie before and knows exactly when the monster is going to leap out of the woods. The woman’s face appears before me again, and I struggle against my captors. Again, I see something flash in the night - a knife! – and then blackness
My body spasms as Jay grabs my shoulder, pointing at an apartment building that I can only barely make out.
“We’re here”
Srilettin Registered User
Posts: 392
(7/21/03 8:06 am)
Re: More More More
Thankfully, the apartment we were going to was only on the second story, perfectly manageable, even for a cripple who's half asleep. The door to Jay's grandmother's apartment was already open, and a little light leaked out into the hallway from a bedroom lamp. The door creaked loudly, and we stepped inside
Jay's grandmother was in her 80's, had curly gray hair, used a walker to get around and didn't get out much anymore. That much I was able to glean from the pictures she had, and the slightly disheveled condition she kept her apartment in: stacks of newspapers from previous weeks, bulk packages of chicken noodle soup, and the like. Whatever else Jay's grandmother was, she certainly wasn't here.
Something is totally wrong. This is all screwed up.
Calm down, Jay, it's only like...oh crap, its 3 in the morning, you're right.
But Jay hadn't stayed around to hear the time. The apartment door slammed shut as Jay bolted through. Hobbling over, I was able to see him race down the hall.
Well, I mutter to myself, sitting down in a lounge chair that had seen better days, I'm not gonna be a whole of help to him, so I guess I'll just chill here until he gets back
Thirty minutes pass, and I fully realize what a boring apartment this is. There's no cable, no sodas, let alone beer, in the fridge
And so I wait, hopeful, intent on Jay's return. I watch some tv show thats more static than show. I light a cigarette...two...and decide that if Jay takes any longer I'm going to have to make a run for more.
I lave Jay a note on some of his grandmothers dainty "praying for you" stationary and head out the door. Halfway down the stairs I get a pang from my guilty conscience
"What if someone robs the place?" I think, but then I remember that it had been unlocked when we got there, and she didnt exactly own anything to make a catburglar salivate over.
The nearest 7-11 is only about a 10 minute walk away (20 or so on crutches, but still, isn't this a great city?) but at half past 3 in the morning, and with a lovely chorus of street races and domestic violence as background music it can last a lifetime. The guy behind the counter in the corner store gives me a look as he lifts his head off of his hands like this shift is the longest he's ever gone without coffee. Me personally, I never touch the stuff. Shoots your nerves all to hell. It does for mine at least. Anyways, I tend to stick to the more old fashioned vices, the wondertwins of alcohol and nicotine. I grab a single serving of each and go to check out. Unfortunately the beer is out of my reach, as I have left my license in my house, or maybe in Jay's car, and the punk-ass check out kid could lose his job or whatever. I just get the cigs and a new zippo from the impulse aisle.
Walking out of the parking lot my attention is caught by an old maroon caddy parking haphasardously across about 3 spots. I have enough sense to make myself scarce as the driver gets out, sporting a ski mask and a handgun. Far from doing my civic duty, I cower amongst the bushes and cardboard boxes that fringe the store. Years pass between breaths, and then everything stops. The explosive sound of a 9mm round rocketing down a barrel seems to rip a whole in reality. Complete panic grips me, and distorts reality like nothing I've ever known. My vision narrows as all I can see becomes one static image, rushing at me like a bad 3-D movie in the heyday of Saturday afternoon matinees.
Then, with another sharp bang it all snaps back together. All the pieces - the maroon Cadillac, the gunman (who was now running out of the store on an injured left leg) - and me, cowering in the dirt besides the 7-11 - fly back into place, snapping together like pieces of a grisly erector set. The next few minutes pass by like a badly spliced filmstrip where all but a couple of frames had been removed.
*Frame*
7-11 doors swinging open before me
*Frame*
A bit of the clerks head showing on the ground next to his counter
*Frame*
More bits of it splattered across an add for Mountain Dew and another for Budweiser
*Frame Frame Frame*
Red and blue lights; Sitting in the back of a cop car; Standing in front of Jay's grandmother's apartment, cold cup full of coffee in my hand.
Even after waking up with no memory and a knife wound in my right leg my life has gone downhill. Of course, I find it hard to believe that the robbery I was a witness to last night had anything at all to do with my current plight, but it will certainly add to my psychiatrist bills, or maybe my stay in the local Arkham asylum if it gets much worse. Even after all was said and done and I was back in the relative comfort of the apartment last night, my memories are rather hazy, as if I'm viewing them through frosted glass. I know I stumbled into the apartment at about Four, and I remember both Jay and his grandmother being there. They must have said something to me, probably a barage of questions that I was unready, unwilling, and unable to answer at the time. I must have crashed on this couch and gone to sleep
To sleep, perchance to dream. Shakespear never knew how right he was comparing death to a final slumber, and after my latest waltzes with slumber, I almost welcome death, as a calming respite. My latest foray into the twisted subconscious of Robert Travis, while lacking any sort of coherency, disturbed me nonetheless. It was kind of like the dream I had had on the way over here, but much more twisted.
Once again I found myself on that rooftop, surrounded by three seedy characters. Only this time, they were wearing ski masks and leveling pistols at me. The person farthest away from me pointed his (hers?) at the other two, and consecutively shot them in their heads. However, instead of dying, as one would expect, they stood unmoving, faces torn inside out by the force of the bullets at point blank range. I tried to run, but was slowed down as if running through a wind tunnel. When I finally made it to the cop I ran after before, I saw him wearing that hideous green jacket now emblazoned with heiroglyphics. And in the place of his head, was an arm, from elbow down. He bent it and pointed a finger at me. Then his other hands grabbed me, and brought me closer...closer...as his outstretched finger began to go straight into my eye. Rupturing the ball as if it were a thin water baloon. He released me and I fell to the floor. Then suddenly the floor shifted 90 degrees, and I was on my feet again, with a gun in my hands pointed at one of the people with the inverted heads. I felt the firing pin click as I squeezed the trigger. And then it was over.
No time for self reflected reveries, the family Jay is back, and I've got the business end of a cane jabbing my ribcage.
"You lazy heathan! You'll be lucky to wind up in purgatory the way your headed. With your booze, and loose morals, a church service might do you good. Its probably too late to help you anyway."
I stare aghast at the old woman leaving the room. She reminds me of the reason I left the church in the first place. Sister Parsons and that god damned ruler of hers. That, and all the times that I lost my voice from saying hailmarys.
"I'm sorry about that, Robert. Ever since my grandpa died, religion is all she really lives for. I swear theres a softer woman underneath all of that hard front"
'I'd like to give that softer woman a good swift kick, if I ever find her', I think, although I know I wouldn't really do it. I really abhor violence. I fill Jay in on my whirlwind cigarrette run last night, and we talk a little bit about what our plans are for the near future. I tell Jay that I absolutely have to be in for work tomorrow, or my boss will kill me. Jay nods, absentmindedly. He seems to have a thought chewing on him like a dog on a thick piece of gristle. It stops short of actually accomplishing anything, but its doing some damage, and it's all he can focus on. I reluctantly decide to relieve him of his burden.
"Whats up, Jay?"
He stutters and stammers, and finally passes over a piece of cardstock paper.
"Mm-mm-aaa. C-c-c-c-ar. O-o-o-on"
Written on the page is this cheery message: "Why do they always run?" Underneath it is, "We Can Wait." I flip the page over and realize that its the front page of the Raymond Chandler novel "The Big Sleep"
"Hey Jay, this seems like a book you'd enjoy. You ever read it before?"
"That's my book"
"What?'
"That's my book. T-t-they got it out of my apartment. They followed us here, Robert, and they know where I live! What the hell are we gonna do?"
"I heard that! You oughta be ashamed of yourself, going straight to hell with language like that" comes a shrill voice out of the kitchen.
I decide to take a walk. Luckily for me my knee was healing quite a bit, and I hardly needed the crutches at all, still, I thought, it wouldnt be a bad idea to bring something along. So I grab one of Charlotte's (it turns out that that shrill voice had a name attatched to it) canes and head out the door. Not surprisingly, the neighborhood was a completely different place Sunday morning, than it was late Saturday night. In an alley, kids played hopscotch, or jumped rope, or whatever. A few guys were fixing a beat up old chevy in a driveway. One of them, a guy with a shirt on that had stains that could probably have fueled a small diesel generator, if they were so inclined, gives me and my cane a funny look. I don't give him another glance, as I'm too focused on the upcoming week. Amusingly enough, my mundane problems with my job and my boss worry me more than the fact that me and my new best friend are now on the run from someone who idolizes the Russian Mafia, and has way too much time on their hands. Speaking of time, I've got a good deal of it until we go back tonight. To kill it, and cool my heels, I stop into a used book store.
The place has Americana in spades, and its surprisingly busy for a Sunday afternoon. Two white suburbanites marvel at the treasure troves of first editions, while a little boy with a lazy eye thumbs through the time-life photos of a century book. The proprietor dozes behind the counter half reading Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency. I personally identify more with Dirk's complete lack of foresight (if not his fantastic luck) than I do with Chandler's hero Philip Marlowe's cunning insights. I grab a book off of the pulp fiction shelf and take a seat on the wicker-three legs and one broom stick-chair. The novel is heavy handed like most, and filled with enough cliches to drown the most battleworn reader. But its those kind of things that make reading this trash (which most of it is) such an entertaining way to pass the time.
On an impulse, and because the chair is slowly gnawing away at my ass, I buy the book, and ask the guy behind the counter if theres a pool hall nearby. Wonder of all wonders there is one, about 5 blocks away. I could use the exercise anyway, and nothing says inner city like a seedy pool hall. The inside of the place is, of course, like the inside of all pool halls, smokey, and drowned in the sounds of a dozen tvs hanging around the place. Led Zeppelin's Rambling On is playing over the PA. I light up a ciggarette and go to pay for a table. It's been a while since I've played - not that I was any good anyway. I get by, but it's a nice thing to do when you've got a lot on your mind. I find the clack of a solid shot, and the dull thud of a ball against the rail to be relaxing. It's 3:34 which means that the establishment can't sell me beer for another half hour or so. I take a few more shots, including one that skipped the cue ball off of the table and onto the floor with a noisy clatter. Bending down to pick it up, I see her. Shes wearing a skirt which, although the word now pales in comparison, is tight. Tight like the way a flat tire grips the hot concrete. Tight like an experienced poets grasp of the english language. Tight unlike the hold I have on the cue ball, which I drop yet again. It rolls into a resting position against her low cut sneakers.
"It's not often we have the patronage of someone so obviously...skilled with a cue"
She had a voice like sheer black silk being drawn across a 40 watt lightbulb. She bends over to pick up the ball and tosses it to me with a gentle arc.
Re: More More More
Keep it coming, keep it coming, you've got fans yet :)
Counters = teh win !!!
Srilettin Registered User
Posts: 433
(8/14/03 8:55 pm)
Re: More More More
Thanks Kambic, good to know. This next chapter will be a challenge though. I've got a whole new character to establish from the ground floor, wish me luck.
Edit: Its coming, its coming, be patient =) Edited by: Srilettin at: 8/26/03 8:18 pm
Nimmbull Registered User
Posts: 1694
(8/31/03 11:38 am)
Re: More More More
Very good story!
But is it wrong of me to think of the title like this: It's better to have a bottle in front of me....than to have a frontal labotomy. 8)
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