Hi Kid,
Thanks for the kind words. Your comment on Bill is accurate but I do want him to come off a little more sympathetic, still an ass in the end. This is only a first draft and only a few days old.
Short Story / Neon Fire
It had been raining all morning. Water fell down the sand-blasted brick facades and burst from the tops of clogged copper downspouts. It pooled where masons had misplaced their levels, rushed in rapids toward heavy, cast iron grates. The rain was washing the city clean of winter.
They had gone shopping down along Newberry Street for things to furnish the apartment. People had on Patagonia parkas with their hoods pulled over and others walked under huge umbrellas, red and green against the white painted fronts of the little shops. Bill was tall and the umbrellas hit him at eye level. After getting hit a third time he resorted to knocking them down with his forearm. The people with the umbrellas acted surprised; the people wearing Patagonia parkas frowned under their hoods. It was raining and his girlfriend was running ahead and holding her face to the sky. She had been trying to get Bill to run as well. She skipped and ran and held up her hands. Sometimes people thought they recognized her and Bill would watch as they looked around for the cameras.
It was spring but Bill did not feel like spring, he felt more like the fall. The rain poured heavy and cold, like rain out on the ocean. It had already soaked through his leather jacket. It dripped from his beard. The Starbuck’s he’d bought had dwindled from hot to warm to same as the rain. At first he thought it was cute, his girlfriend being so happy, dancing along and smiling at strangers, but then things felt as they always did, was she merely playing the part.
They passed café’s and restaurants full of couples holding up glasses and loaves of bread. The people would watch them walk by in the rain, always too fast to be sure, Bill would see them suddenly reach out to get the others attention. They were both fast walkers. His girlfriend stopped by one of the faux green, cast iron street lamps to catch her breath. She hung from the lamp, looking up at the sky and waiting for him. Water dripped from the corners of her eyes. _Desperately happy_, he remembered reading somewhere. He was cold now, and hungry. It was fine to run through the rain and be in love, but Bill would have preferred the temperature to be more like eighty, not sixty.
“Someone forgot to cue the heat lamps,” he muttered, walking up to where she was swinging with wild abandon.
“I love the rain. Don’t you love the rain?”
“I’d rather watch.”
His girlfriend frowned and batted her eyes. Water dripped from her perfect lashes. She held out her hand and they entered a small shop called "Cindy's". Out of the rain now she opened her jacket, running her French cut nails back through her thick, dark hair. Her wet t-shirt stretched tight to her stomach and curves. Water dripped down passed her mouth, her famous mouth.
“We need some candles,” she said. She said they needed candles the way most women said _we need a condom_. She also knew exactly where someone’s personal space began and would hover just at the edge, giving even a stranger the sense they had been intimate. For Bill, this meant riding up on her tip-toes and placing a hand on his chest, whispering into his shoulder. She stayed there, up on her toes, leaning against him.
“And a towel,” Bill said.
“Don’t be a fuddy-duddy, help me pick some.” she said and rocked back down on her heels, leading him now toward a wall full of colored wax. Bill knew the candles weren’t real wax, they were wax compounds, blended somewhere in a sterile factory along the Pacific Rim where he imagined they also made medical stoppers and sealants. There, inside the warm and dry shop, with its rough pine shelves and pot belly stove he could almost believe the candles were made by kind old women and fairies. There were candles in jars and candles tied with plaid ribbons. A line of gilded blue tins held long wood matches; some of the candles were lit to show off their fragrance. Jars of pot-pourie stacked up on top of the stove, a neon fire lit behind its glass door. Outside it was raining. The rain ran down the paint crusted window panes, dripping off painted wood sills and blurring the people hurrying by. Bill studied the technique the painters had used to make the brand new windows look one hundred years old. He studied the gray light outside in the city. A puddle of water had formed by his feet.
“Smell this one.” his girlfriend said.
He turned up his nose.
“Then this one, vanilla?”
He noticed the girl at the counter, watching. She watched the way that a man might watch. She smiled, touching a delicate gold chain at her neck.
“Let’s go,” Bill said.
“Not yet,” his girlfriend scolded.
She picked up another candle, blue with a white top. The sales-girl came out from behind the counter. She had on low-cut tight jeans and bright red open shoes with flat heels. Bill could picture her slipping them on when she first got to work. Somewhere behind the counter a pair of soggy sneakers slowly dried, stinking and damp.
“Can I help?”
The sound of her voice was soft, like the candles and soaps and unlit matches inside the warm shop with the rain outside. Not quite as soft and full of confidence as his girlfriend, but the two voices held much in common. The difference was that his girlfriend’s voice was the goal, and the sales-girl, no matter how hard she tried, would never quite attain that goal.
“Do you have anything peppermint?” his girlfriend asked.
“Not right now. Only at Christmas.”
“Anything left in back?”
“This is all we have.”
She was holding her own. Bill enjoyed how people approached his girlfriend. Now she was holding a thick yellow candle, bringing it close to her face, rolling it lightly against her cheek. Her dark, wet hair fell down across her perfectly tanned forearm. She let the yellow wax glance her red lips.
“Lemon,” she whispered.
The sales-girl leaned back against the glass counter, crossing her legs with elbows bent, resting her arms on the glass.
“We have cinnamon,” she said.
Another couple looking at soaps called her over. They were standing near a pyramid of glycerin wrapped in plain brown paper with plain brown print. The font hinted at days gone by. The man and the woman had on their parkas, pale blue, that bright sky color like mountain streams near the tree line bursting from out of a snow bank. The woman was blonde; the man more sandy brown. Bill could tell they were still without children. He couldn’t quite decide if they were 325i or Subaru Outback. Children would bring on the Volvo. He watched the sales-girl walk down the aisle; she knew how to wear her jeans. His girlfriend put down the yellow candle and picked up another deep burgundy, taller and twisted like taffy.
“We have cinnamon,” she said in a mock sexy voice, holding the burgundy candle as she had the other. The yellow sat on the shelf just behind.
“Just ‘cause you can doesn’t mean you should,” Bill said.
“I’m sorry, you don’t look happy. I want you to be happy. I want this to be our happiest weekend ever.”
“I’m cold and I’m hungry.”
“We’ll go home,” she said, setting the burgundy candle back on the shelf. She leaned in to kiss him.
He barely kissed her back.
“I’ll take this one,” she said, pulling back, announcing to no one in particular they were ready to leave. Bill saw the sales-girl excuse herself from the other couple. He smiled to both of them apologetically. The couple smiled as well. They understood. He noticed how the blonde woman was now standing close to her husband, touching his arm, leaning in to speak in a low voice instead of standing apart and wandering the store like most women did. That always happened. Whenever they entered a room the couples drew closer and all of the singles began talking louder.
“We’ll need matches,” Bill said, grabbing a blue and gold tin from the shelf. The gold turned out to be vines of ivy winding up to the top where the word VERMONT had been stamped. He kept waiting to hear someone shout Cut. Whenever they went out in public it felt that way. He wanted to hear the director yell Cut so he could start breathing again. He wanted to be back outside in the rain. He was glad they were going straight back to the apartment. Eating at restaurants was never much fun; he was sure people watched how he chewed.
”Get two,” she said from the register. The sales-girl wrapped the big yellow candle in paper and put it into a pale, yellow box. Bill walked up with the tins full of matches. She put them into a tall shiny bag and placed the box in beside them.
“Lemon,” Bill said the girl. She blushed and could not look up at either of them.
“Thank you for shopping with us,” she said, stealing a glance at Bill.
“It’s a great little shop,” his girlfriend said, “I’ll be sure to tell all my friends.”
“Thanks, I’ll let Cindy know.”
As they turned to leave Bill noticed the girl slump back against the rear counter, running a hand through her hair. She took in a deep breath and looked about as if she misplaced something.
Outside in the rain they hailed a cab. The rain hadn’t stopped but he no longer cared. Back at her apartment they could make coffee and sit on the coach and look at the harbor. She had a fireplace. He could use one of matches inside of the tin. They stood in the rain and Bill felt the cool wet covering his shoulders and drip down the small of his back. It was fine for the moment. The warmth of the little shop was still there. He tried to remember the sales-girl walking. A cab pulled up, careful to slow down and not splash the puddles. Inside it was damp and musty. The rubber floor was soaking wet.
“Where to?” the man turned to ask. He had one of those south Boston accents and needed a shave. Tobacco stained the corner of his mouth. Bill laughed to himself. Casting should know by now that most cab-drivers in Boston were Muslim.
“East India Row,” his girlfriend said.
Now the man turned full to look.
“Aren’t you…?”
“Please, just drive.”
She leaned back in the seat and snuggled against him, looking up to be kissed.
“I don’t like when you do that,” Bill said.
“Sometimes I just need my space.”
“No, I mean back at the shop.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“When did you learn you could?”
“Could what,”
“Own the room. When did you learn how stunning you are?”
She leaned in closer, her famous lips just by his ear, using the voice one critic had said was sex itself. “It’s spring time in Boston and we’re in love, remember?”
He managed to smile.
“Aren’t we in love? Or am I just one of your stories.”
“Probably just a vignette,” Bill said, not even thinking.
She pushed back, sliding across to the other side of the car. The rain came down the back window, turning it into antique glass. The world rippled and blurred. The rain thumped like so many nervous fingers above on the roof. The big, heavy wipers slapped back and forth and the cabbie glanced up to his mirror.
“What day is today?” she asked.
Bill remained silent.
“It’s Thursday,” the cabbie offered.
“What date?”
“May 7th,” he said, adjusting himself and grabbing the wheel with both if his hands.
She stared across the backseat at Bill.
“At least I’ll remember the day I learned how ugly someone can be.”
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squarehopper reviewed Version 1 -
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Yes, there are a lot of simple technical errors in this piece just like Burn pointed out. I know you can fix those on your own and will do so. So I am not going to pound any of that. Besides, I am sure DC will be willing to do that for you.
You ask help with character and exposition.
So here I go:
Exposition first -
Overall it held my interest and, I admit, was fascinated by the wordcrafting which created images easily and quickly for me. But I do have a couple of issues -
I didn’t know where you took me. Somehow I felt I needed to know that early in the game. Where is Newberry Street? I donno. Also, it is raining and in early spring – ok… but why not play with that more? Make it a symbol of Bill’s mood or feelings or the ending? Be tactile with it. Be sensory with it. I get its cold – but how does Bill feel that coldness? I get that is bothersome – but how does that connect with Bill’s mood? Maybe people can be compared to the rain somehow?
The shop – I want more sensory description of it. Otherwise I feel left out.
Somehow I wasn’t dragged into the story as much as I wanted to be. I felt a little like a peeping tom and not a welcomed one at that. Perhaps that is what you intended as it is how Bill feels about the public in regards to his girlfriend? Even so, I didn’t like the feeling. It was almost as though you really didn’t want me to read the story because it was a terrible ugly little secret. Maybe you can reach me a little more and invite me in a little with the characters.
Characters:
Bring up Bill is an author earlier on some how. And then use it to show the uniqueness of his worldview and thinking process. Delve deeper into his personality and thoughts. Don’t hand them to us, but bring out little things. His reactions to the rain. His analysis of the counter girl. His slight attraction to her. His self-indulging belief she is interested in him and not his girlfriend. His vanity that he is an attractive man and can turn heads himself and it is not his trophy girlfriend acting as the magnet. I want to see his darker side more. I want more than just annoyance. I want an explanation for it. I want to know he is jealous or he is competing, or he is afraid of the attention but I want to know it through actions and reactions, not told it.
The counter girl. I want more of her. I want her trying to flirt with Bill – at least to his eye she is – I want to feel her nervousness or so he perceives a little more. I want for Bill to realize he wants the countergirl to be nervous because she is attracted to him but then it becomes obvious that the attention she is giving him is all because of the girlfriend. I want him to show his anger about that.
The girlfriend:
I know you want her to be mysterious and leave us guessing who she may be. But… Why not give us a little more on her through Bill’s eyes? Make her reachable a little more. Have him remember their first meeting and how he ignored his uncomfortableness with her fame at first. Develop how that uneasiness became a problem for him. Make her more than just a puppet to be admired. I feel you need to do this based on the ending. If her statement is to have the punch it needs, then the reader should empathize with her more and feel more connected with her.
I hope this helps you.
Josh
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KidTruth reviewed Version 2 -
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You’re a good writer. I like this and it’s the most impressive thing that I’ve read in my time on this website.
I dig your style – I like the short, heavily punctuated phrases. Very punchy, kinda minimalist. This is going on my ‘favorites’ list.
Anyway I’d love to read more. I’d critique – I usually do – but this is pretty good all around and you must know it. I guess it could be a little more three-dimensional, Bill sounds like a kind of generic jackass. Maybe that’s the point though.
Platytee reviewed Version 2 -
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So you’ve made some changes. Not sure if all that I’m noticing are the changes. Maybe some of it are items I missed the first go-round. Liked the bit about old women and fairies. Also the part about kissing a yacht. Again, very descriptive without many words.
The temperature issue isn’t an issue if the setting is right. In Seattle, WA, sixty isn’t cold, it’s normal. In Orlando, FL, sixty is freezing. For the broader audience it probably was a good idea to drop it to fifty.
This part here: “Lemon,” she whispered. Gives the insight that there’s something going on deeper in her head. That she really isn’t as flamboyant and out there as first assumed.
Another part: ”I want to be someone else and I want you to be madly in love with me.” How did I miss that before. My God. That’s a serious cry for him to love her and he just simply brushes it aside.
After reading it a second time I find myself loving it even more. The characters are just so real. Her wanting to be normal, trying to act normal yet knowing she’s not and sometimes using her fame. Him so selfish and so caught up in peoples’ reactions to his girl then to the fact that she is madly in love with him and that’s all that really matters. Really good job.
burnvictim reviewed Version 1 -
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Excellent opening. Completely professional. Esp. loved the masons part.
“down along”
on?
“Bill was tall and the umbrellas hit him at eye level.”
It is unclear how many umbrellas, and also that you mean he was physically poked in the eye.
“Bill did not feel like spring”
Not really clear what this means. It didn’t feel like spring to Bill? That makes more sense.
“like rain out on the ocean”
This sounds salty to me… don’t know what it means.
“was she merely playing the part.”
You need to do something with the punctuation. It definitely needs a question mark, because its a question. But this needs to be offset by something like an em-dash.
“faux green”
How can green be false?
“not sixty”
It’s 60 and people are bundled up in Parkas?
Anyway, there are too many technical errors for me to point them all out. You’ll need to do serious work on that on your own. I recommend “Elements of Style” by Strunk and White. However, the story elements are fantastic. Esp. the characterization of Bill and his attitude toward his girlfriend. I think the ending could a better closer, but the point is excellent. It is very easy to not adore a partner who is all too practiced at being adored.
Platytee reviewed Version 1 -
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Wonderful story.
The two main characters dialogue followed their personality and mood very well.
The descriptions were superb. Loved the part about the personal space and also about how couples and singles reacted when in the same room. Those were great descriptions and gave a ton of insight with just a few words.
I generally am not a huge fan of stories with little dialogue but this one set the mood of Bill with it’s lack of dialogue. Really let the reader know that Bill was very inwardly focused and a bit selfish.
Nice job.
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