Journalism / A Night on The Town.
It was one of those nights in Manhattan. Right around mid August, where you could swear that the heat rising above you, and the exhaust fumes of passing vehicles rushing by you, couldn’t have made any living creature that depended on water to survive, feel more dried up than ever. Though, through the dank and stagnate summer air of discomfort, New York is a brilliant city, and laid before me was a magnificence that only New York could have offered me that evening.
A gentle breeze blew down west 12th and 6th avenue, and if it where not for the tree next to me for which I grabbed with the needy grip of a new born child, I think I might have fallen over. Yet, it was that knocked out prize fighter jolt before the fall that I exhibited, that made my friend Jack put his arms around me and say “Wow, time for another killer.” I gazed up at him with a sort of glazed over expression and said, “Fuck you Jack.” “I wish.” He smiled. “I don’t.” I laughed. I was drunk off scotch and high on pills. Nothing too serious, just your everyday common varieties of Vikatin and codeine pharmaceutical conduits that I used to self diagnose my states of depression. Jack was a famous artist, and he reminded me of my Father, and that is really funny because I hated my Father. An almost augur looking man, bald, by choice mind you, and with a horrible posture. You would never match the face with the lifestyle.
Jack was gay, but he kept it simple, that is; for a gay man living in Manhattan. He always wore pajama shirts, and ridiculously colored pants, and of course they were all of the pastel varieties, meanwhile, the millions in his bank accounts could have him wrapped in Arabian fabric from head to toe.
Giggling in a raspy, almost organ grinder sort of way, and leaning against a wall as well was Veralyn, my beloved cousin. She was the type of person who would always make you smile, but than shortly after make you realize how stupid you were for doing it. She is a writer, not famous, but she could be. She is also so fucking smart it makes you sick. Something to say about everything, and will correct anything you describe incorrectly. Sometimes you just wanted to scream until your lungs exploded out of your chest, “Shut the fuck up.” Only, she had these amazing glacier blue eyes, and a Dean Martin sort of charm that also made you want to give her your complete and utter attention.
“We better get you home.” Her breath rotting with the remnants of whiskey and wine she turned to Jack who was smoking a joint that’s smoke was emitting this comforting smell, sort of like your grandfathers after-shave. They wanted to take care of me because they were my friends and they loved me, but I was feeling so lonely that night I whispered under my breath, “will it ever be enough.”
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I’m not sure if this is journalisum. Journalisum is a report or an essay of a current affairs event. To me this reads more like the start of a short story.
It needs work however, the dialogue is good but it needs to be put on seperate lines. Also be wary of using past and present tense, throughout the story you use both past and present tense when it should be one or the other.
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Not sure this would be journalism, but was a fun read. Perhaps there could be more added to this.
Keep a journal. Sounds like a lot of crazy.
Journalism and journalizing are not the same thing. Read the story on my profile page if you want to know why. Try posting this under short stories or non fiction.
Some advice:
Indent the first paragraph. Type your work in Word and use spellcheck before you copy and post.
Sometimes less is more. Your reader can get distracted by too many clauses and unneccesary words.
Try tightening up the sentences, for example, “Mid-August feels more dried up than ever. You could swear no living creature could survive the heat and the exhaust fumes of passing vehicles.”
I realize that you’re just sharing a journal entry. But, you tell a good story that could be even better with a little basic grammer.
I hope you keep working on this. I’d like to read the next draft.
You describe things very well, from characters to smells, everything you write of has a sense of reality. I’m not sure what kind of critiques you want or are supposed to give to journalism… so i’ll just critique it as a short story… because it pretty much is.
“It was one of those nights in Manhattan. Right around mid August, where you could swear that the heat rising above you, and the exhaust fumes of passing vehicles rushing by you, couldn’t have made any living creature that depended on water to survive, feel more dried up than ever.”
I think this first line runs on a little long. Maybe something like:
“It was one of those mid-August nights in Manhattan. where the heat rising above you mixes with exhaust fumes of passing vehicles, making you and every other water dependant creature on earth feel more dried up than ever. “
Overall though great job… i wish you would have taken it further… i was into it.
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