[Story] On the Corner (4000) an introduction of sorts
MJ
the stories and critiques I'm confident that there are talented people here
willing to work at their writing. I've been impressed with the
professionalism of some of the critiques and the courtesy shown around the
writing related topics. I'd like to add my experience and some of my
fiction to the community.
And so, let me start off by introducing myself. I'm a writer with a second
job and a family of my own. I've been apart from writing for some time, and
have just recently been able to spare the time to work at my one true
passion. I've been at it for a year or so now and although with not much to
show for it, I've improved greatly. I hope to improve even more so here.
I'm a literary writer with aspirations of making St. Jude pay off. Not
really in money, but more or less acclaim. I guess I want want everybody
wants: validation.
About the peice: this I wrote a year ago initially. The ending is still
weak, but I'm not quite sure it can be longer. I'd really hate to goto
novella length, or worse yet, something in between. It would be hard to
place in a good magazine, although I think it has the potential to be an
important work.
To be honest, I was reading through some of the Feb. challenges and this
peice popped back into my head. Thanks to all the great Feb submissions by
the way. I'm working through them and will have comments and crits for most
of you soon.
On The Corner
by Marcus Janssen
"One more day," he said, rolling over. "Just one more day." The day
before was a haze in his mind that would not lift, just like always. It had
been pushed aside by too many moments. Good, bad, they were all a torture.
He squinted, pushing himself up as he dug out his pipe clenching it in his
fist so hard that pain sprang around it.
He pushed the newspaper off the top of his body and hugged himself for
warmth. The chill of the autumn air fogged his breath, and stung his
fingers and toes. Denver was no place for decent people, he thought as he
pushed himself up from the scraps of print and odd bits of trash. The
blackened industrial grime from the floor clung to his clothes like ash, and
he patted at it.
The warehouse was devoid of people, but not their marks. Scribbles in
spray-paint eagerly applied marked the brick and mortar walls. The doors
hung lazily on old, abused hinges. The floor pockmarked by years of
accumulated trash, old refrigerators, freezers, an antique washing machine
in the corner, various metal office furniture, and hundreds of rusted out
chairs that would have looked at home in a lecture hall of the 1940's.
He fumbled in his pockets, adding another layer of time-eaten gloves to his
hands. He pulled a half-eaten donut from his breast pocket, and unwrapped
it carefully, taking one bite. The dirt on his face, the un-kept beard, the
etched lines of age, at once disappeared as he chewed slowly. He smiled,
although for a moment it was hard to tell what his expression was, behind
the dirt. The moment gone, he wrapped the donut and put it back into his
pocket with exacting care, like the caress of a lover. He pushed his hands
into his pockets, and like a turtle, tried to force his neck down into the
wraps of his jacket. He often thought he looked a laughable figure in the
winter. He must have looked to others like the Michelin Man, clothed in
road grime. He smiled at the thought, and tried not to think of the
contrary image that arose.
The door squeaked softly, it's posted sign, "No Trespassing" comically
hanging from one corner glared through the dust, and from somewhere above
him a pigeon took flight, it's wings flapping loudly, echoing against the
solidarity of the gutted factory. "Hmm." he smiled, talking upward, towards
the bird. "I'd run too."
"Joey!" called a short round woman clothed in so many layers of dirt and
thrift store apparel that it was hard to tell that she was a woman, except
for the long mane of faithfully combed, rust-brown hair. It gleamed in the
morning sunlight, as it did every morning. Joe smiled, and waved to her as
she came up to him, trailing a man that looked half as old as she. He was
small, slim and the type of guy people thought of when they talked about
amphetamine addicts. In between his fine blue eyes was a spike, pierced
through the bridge of his nose that he probably thought made him look mean.
Joe simply thought it made him look foolish. It made the boy stand out,
like a duck on the first day of the season. He might as well have been
squawking, "Shoot me!" to the hunter's decoy call.
"Hey Sara. They come yet?" he asked, his breath pluming outward in clouds
of white steam.
Sara smiled at him, her warm gray eyes set around the fine lines of ripe
womanhood taking him in. Joe liked her, if for nothing else but that look.
It was one of the reasons he'd stuck around: that look. She had a way of
greeting you as if she'd never met you before. Always warmly, with a smile,
like you mattered. Like you were someone important to be admired. She
looked at everyone the way, and sometimes Joe wondered how she had the
energy to expend so much on people that didn't matter at all. "Not yet,
Joe. Flake says they're not coming today. He says it's Thanksgiving, and
nobody works on Thanksgiving. But I told him," she grinned. "Why two years
ago today I stood in this very spot and got ten hours in at that new Hotel
in Lakewood."
Joe laughed quietly while Nose-ring lit a cigarette and puffed at it
spitefully, like he resented the taste of the smoke. They were Marlboros,
Joe noticed. Nose-ring was new to the street, or just plain stupid. Joe's
money was on stupid. Joe knew how long Sara had been on this corner,
waiting for the trucks to come pick the few who'd get a job that day. He's
spent most of them with her, right here in this very spot. Some days he'd
get chosen, some days she'd get chosen. But most days neither of them did.
People would drift in and out of their little corner every month or so.
They'd shove at them with the point of their elbows and shoes once they ran
out of money. People like Nose-ring. Kids really, most no older than
seventeen, and all of them surly, selfish, and stoned on one thing or
another. "There was only one truck last year though. And they only took
four guys. All sturdy, too."
Sara waved his jest off. "You. If it was noon, you'd say the day was
half-over." She turned to Nose-ring with a smile that said more about Sara
than it did about their relationship. "Don't listen to him sugar, he's just
a sour-puss. Nobody goes hungry on Thanksgiving."
"You're right there, Sara." Joe remarked, almost salivating while he
thought back. He couldn't quite remember what a Marlboro tasted like. It'd
been so long since he'd had one. He dug out his billiard pipe and lit it.
The putrid smell of stale cigarette crackling out of his mouth as he puffed
it a few times, then held his thumb over the bowl to extinguish it
efficiently. "If you don't pick up anything here," he said, "swing down by
16th Street Mall. There are usually at least one group of God-mongers there
who'll feed you."
"Yeah. Sara said so," the young man said, his voice shaking in a way that
concerned Joe. He could see it. One pupil was dilated--the other eye
half-closed--and both clouded with an apathy that wasn't too uncommon on
this corner, but stark enough against what Joe would have bet was this
young-man's white-bread world. He wondered if Sara saw it too. Joe was
almost sure she did. Sara didn't miss much.
Sara giggled, patting Joe's sleeve. "We're on our way there. Roy here
doesn't feel like working today, and I'm happy just to have some new
company. I've heard all your old stories, Joe. It's nice to hear some new
ones." Joe smiled as Sara looped her arm underneath the boy's. He didn't
really look that young, Joe thought as he saw the two of them standing next
to each other arm in arm. It was just that ring through the bridge of his
nose that made him look the image of a foolhardy teenager. "You coming
with, Joe?"
Joe smiled and shook his head. "You know me, Sara. I can't stomach their
talk. It sours the food."
The boy, Roy, smiled, and Sara just laughed and shook her head. "That's
Joe for you," Sara said to Roy. "He'd rather starve than listen to the
Word."
The two of them walked off and he waved to them, and Joe thought of the
warm turkey and the lukewarm mashed potatoes, and the Marlboro cigarettes.
He hoped Nose-ring would stay and get his shit together with those louts.
They were good at giving sympathy, which is what Joe thought the boy needed,
even if it did come at a price. But either way, Joe thought, he was with
the right person. Sara wouldn't let him come to any trouble.
Joe picked up the cigarette butt that Roy had stubbed out with his foot on
the ground and worked the tobacco out of the paper into the ebony bowl of
his pipe then puffed once or twice and put it out in his customary way.
Only one person in the queue watched him as he did it. Joe didn't even
bother to shrug.
The truck came and went, and picked up five of the strongest and youngest.
Joe wasn't one of them. He considered shaving his beard for a moment, and
scratched at it. Then he remembered he didn't have a razor. He shrugged
and went on his way. They didn't come like they used to at the corner. It
used to be that any man could pick up a day's worth of work if he waited
long enough. Trucks would stop at the corner and yell out for men with two
more waiting behind them. But times weren't as wealthy as they used to be.
And it was uncommon for more than two trucks to stop at the corner in a day.
Joe thought for a moment about a different life. He could still remember
what it was like. No cold night could take that away.
Joe found himself, as he usually did, sitting outside the Library. It was
closed, but that didn't matter. He liked to be close to the racks. It was
the only place that he felt he belonged. The books had always made him feel
tensely aware of the brevity of life.
The chill of the air wasn't so bad when sheltered by the large brick
building, and the dumpster, although bare most of the time sometimes had a
book or two he could pick through lazily as he gnawed around the bad teeth
in his mouth at his pipe. There was the usual pile of bad science fiction
that was dumped every month to be looted by people looking for something to
start a fire. But underneath one of the paper-backs was a hardcover copy of
a memory. It was a fine, leather-bound copy of The Razor's Edge, by
Somerset Maughum. Joe frowned, and dusted it off, pulling a half-eaten
Twinkie off the face of it. Some people, Joe thought. They've got no
respect for a master dramatist.
He stuffed the book in his pocket and went his way, around the building and
over to the fountain, which was his favorite place to read. The flowing of
the water, even this late in Autumn, still operating, made his mind flow
languidly through the pages to other times. Or at least, so Joe liked to
believe.
He read until noon, and smoked at his pipe some. Then ate at his donut,
now half gone, and mostly messy glaze and sweetened paper. The sugary
coating made his throat itch, and the smoke from the pipe that he puffed at
to savor the mingling flavors of tobacco and richly sweet pastry made it
dry. He fished in his pocket and came to his savings. An old, crumpled
dollar and ninety-four cents. He looked from his hand to the fountain, then
grimaced. He could afford a cup of coffee, he thought, if that was his
option.
A convenience store three blocks away, just past the adult store and it's
XXX windows was open. The coffee was bad, old, and strong, but warmly
soothing on his throat; worth the dollar-nine and sour looks he'd paid. He
sipped at it with book in hand walking back to the library where he could
sit with silent friends and read in quiet companionship.
The car came quickly and silently, as all the new ones do these days. Joe
never knew what hit him. His pipe went flying. What was left of the donut
in his breast pocket was as smashed as his leg was, broken and twisted
beneath him. He could see his pipe. It sat there in the middle of the
street while his body buzzed; his head drifted from side to side. It didn't
hurt really. All he felt was the book in his hand beneath his body,
pressing against him and his leg shifting around, strangely unattached to
his body.
Joe woke up cold, laying on white sheets. The haze in his mind had settled
into a fog that he couldn't seem to drag his way through to awareness.
People in blue scrubs drifted by, and the toxic smell of cleansers pushed at
him. For a moment he thought he was dead, but Joe knew he wasn't that
lucky. It took him a while to come to the conclusion that he was in an
emergency room of a hospital, his leg was broken, and his two coats and book
were in a pile on the floor.
He reached for the book, sliding half-way out of the bed before he could
scrape one dirty finger against the cover. Joe sighed, then gritted what
was left of his teeth and pushed the rest of the way toward it. He fell
softly to one hand, the floor was cold--sticky to the touch--and grabbed at
his possessions with the other. He wrenched himself upright. He almost
made it. He hit the floor hard. Pain shot up from his leg, paralyzing him
on the floor in agony.
A nurse swarmed at him, lifting him upwards as he clutched at his
belongings. He held them to his chest like they were his child. She
grunted, and with what seemed an amazing amount of strength to Joe, hefted
him into the bed. He finally saw her when she let go of him. Her brown
eyes were rigid, set around a pug nose and a mouth that would have looked
more at home on a young boy. It was devoid of any color, simply flesh. It
was so small and thin that he absently wondered if some accident had
befallen her. Her dark hair was tied back, leaving only strands of earthy
brown bangs to grapple at her forehead, just above her blocky eyebrows.
Even her shoulders were too wide to belong to a woman. She looked more like
a wrestler than a nurse. But her voice was certain, calm, and sure of it's
femininity. "I want you to stay in this bed." she said simply, as if it
were beyond any mortal man to disobey.
Joe nodded, looking sheepish and feeling like a grade-schooler caught
writing on the face of his desk. "Yes, Ma'am."
She seemed satisfied, but wary, and turned to leave. "Ma'am?" Joe said,
calling after her quietly. She turned. "When can I leave?"
She looked stern, and Joe settled back into the bed, but kept his eyes on
her as she seemed to think about what he'd said. "You're leg's broken. You
have to wait for the Doctor put your cast on."
Joe nodded and grimaced, looking into the bundle of clothes in his lap.
"Would you happen to know if I had a pipe when they brought me in? An ebony
billiard pipe?" He looked up to her with a hope in his eyes that was almost
indescribable, like a boy on Christmas morning, praying to God that Santa
brought him what he wanted.
Her face was passive and cold. "You had what you have in your lap." she
said, motioning to the pile he clutched. "You don't need a pipe."
He sighed and nodded, and she left. They made him wait. Uncomfortable,
with his foot so icily cold, his toes bare, and his calf in a metal splint
while he thumbed through the pages. Isabel was in Paris when the intern
came to take an X-ray. She and Grey were busted when the intern came to put
on the cast. The two had returned to Paris when the Doctor greeted him with
what Joe considered the smile of a thousand lies.
He had the calculating eyes of a man that has seen too much to take
anyone's word for anything. They were oddly cold, like large brown orbs,
all of one dark shade that didn't readily show a pupil. It made Joe
uncomfortable to look at him, and even more so when he heard the man's
voice. "How are you feeling, Mr. Moorehead?"
"Like I've been run over by a truck, Doctor." Joe stated simply, but with a
whimsical smile that was calculated to unnerve the man in white.
The Doctor chuckled softly, and drug a chair to the bedside to sit beside
Joe. He sat like a man used to stools, but not sleep, with his hands
clutching a clipboard in his lap, and arms pushing against his thighs to
keep his muscles balanced as he kept himself upright. "I'm glad to hear it.
So, you remember the accident?"
Joe raised an eyebrow, "Yes. Yes, I do, Doctor..." He let the word hang
in the air, waiting.
The man scribbled something on his clipboard with a pen that Joe thought
had cost him more than he'd paid for his coffee that same day. "Hmm?
Daniels. That's good to hear, Mr. Moorehead. Considering that it was an
auto accident, you're very lucky you don't have a concussion."
Joe looked away while the Doctor finished writing whatever he was doodling.
"The nurse." Doctor Daniels began, to catch Joe's attention. "The nurse
said you were asking about a pipe?"
Joe sighed and told himself to remain calm. He'd been waiting for this.
"Yes, it was a gift to me from a very close friend. I'd hate to lose it."
Joe refused to look at the man.
"And you smoke tobacco?"
Joe wished his eyes were daggers. "Yes. What else would I smoke?"
The Doctor grinned, and again wrote something on his pad. "Yes, quite
right. What else?
"We usually keep cases like yours here for a day or so, just to make sure
you don't show any signs of a concussion, but I feel confident in releasing
you. "
Joe smirked.
"I've went ahead and written a prescription for you, in case you are
uncomfortable. You can get it filled in the drugstore upstairs if you like.
The elevator to the left as you go out the ER will take you there. The
second floor."
The nurse, looking stern and self-possessed came up behind the Doctor as he
finished, holding a pair of crutches. They were old, wooden, and worn.
"Mrs. Ridge will help you with your things."
Joe looked at his foot, his bare toes sticking up straight into the air
surrounded by the new, white plaster of the cast, imagining the cold night
ahead of him. How much change did he have left, he thought, and shook his
head. "Doctor. Mr. Daniels." he said.
The Doctor turned. "Yes?" His face was open, and Joe couldn't guess what
that meant.
He grimaced, looked at his foot, and thought about how much even a sock
would cost, then shook his head. "Thank you, Doctor."
Daniels smiled and pulled the clipboard to his chest. "Your welcome."
With that he left.
Nurse Ridge had been very gentle in guiding him out of his bed, and helping
him into his clothes and his crutches. It was very kind of her, Joe
thought, and he found himself oddly attracted to her. She had a kind of
stout, stately beauty that couldn't be soiled by the dirt that oozed about
him, he fancied. As she helped him to the front desk, depositing him there
to sign the paperwork and get his release papers finalized, he thanked her
warmly with a short smile and nod. She smiled back to him and he felt
warmed by the touch of her eyes. They were really very attractive lips
after all.
The crutches were hard to manage outside, and he had to stop to wrap two
gloves about his dangling toes. The chill was already setting into them.
The were frozen by the time he reached the corner.
Sara was there with Roy, laughing and playing at each other gaily. Dick
was there, angrily chanting and bouncing his back against the wall as he
always did. And Marcy, by the oil drum, where they'd lit a small fire to
keep the group warm. And Jake, and Tod--an investment banker who'd lost
everything and never missed an opportunity to snub the 'bums' around
him--and Mark, and Cathy, who were bible-bangers from way back, and were out
here to save souls. Even the gang of four had come out on Thanksgiving--the
two young couples who lived beneath the overpass and came out only when
their drug supply was running short. Sara was the first to mention his
crutches, and probably the only one to notice, Joe thought. She hugged him
and chided him, and pleaded with him not to die. Joe laughed.
"I just need to learn to jump faster is all." he joked, and let it go at
that. But Sara wouldn't have it, and Mark and Cathy had joined in. Before
too long, everyone wanted to know what had happened. To them Joe was the
celebrated rooster who had taunted the fox.
"Joe, you'll be the death of me, I swear it! Going off and getting
yourself run over!" Sara said, leaning her head jovially against his arm.
"They give you something for the pain?" Roy asked.
"No, really. And yes." Joe laughed. "The worst part of it all was that I
lost my pipe." he smiled.
Kathy chuckled and Dick shook his head and threw his hands up in the air,
then went back to mumbling and kicking the brick wall. "Your pipe?" Sara
said. "You mean that black pipe you're always sucking on?"
"So what'd they give you?" Nose-ring asked.
Joe grimaced. "Yeah." He recovered quickly. "But it's no great loss. I
can get another pipe."
"But you're daughter gave you that pipe. You told me about it once. I
remember." she said. Her face had fallen, and no one spoke.
Joe fidgeted, then dug into his pocket and took out a small sheet of paper.
"Percasomething." He crumpled the paper in his hand, glaring at Roy.
You should know better, Sara, Joe thought. Talk of family with Joe was
discouraged. Talk of family with anyone nearly forbidden on the corner. It
wasn't a rule, as is jaywalking, or not drinking to drunkenness in the
street was a rule. It simply wasn't done, and no one ever went against it.
Joe looked about the gathering, his eyes taking in the faces that were lit
by the fire. Under the cold glow of the street-lamp they were pasty white,
as if they glowed in the dark. Each of them were thinking about the ones
who weren't there. The ones who lost or, the ones who won.
"It's no big deal, Sara. I can get another one." Joe said, but it didn't
help. He might have said that he could live without them. But everyone
knew it was a lie. "But how was the Thanksgiving lunch? What did they have
this year?"
For a moment, Sara didn't hear him. Her eyes were caught by the fire, and
she looked so small that it almost broke Joe to shake her up a bit. "What
was the sermon this year?"
She looked at him blankly, then her eyes grew as she gathered up Roy and
the rest in a glance. "Nobody's told you yet! Some preacher was out there
screaming and pounding on the table while we were eating." she said,
starting to laugh. "Like anyone would have noticed, right? Him standing
there shouting out with all of us stuffing our faces as fast as we could, it
was the funniest thing I ever saw in my life!"
A slow chuckle moved through the crowd, and Marcy, her dyed black hair and
silver railroad of earrings sparkled. "Yeah, it's the last time they feed
us before they try to preach to us I'll bet!"
"Hey!" shouted Kathy, looking abused. "Some of us were listening! You
really should have been there, Joe. It was a good sermon Pastor Greg gave
about the Golden Rule. You all would have benefited by at least listening."
Joe chuckled and said he was sure that he would have. And that was the way
the night went, for the most part. And Joe felt comforted, even if his leg
hurt badly, and his frozen toes tingled as if they'd fallen asleep. For a
few moments, he was happy. He wasn't alone on Thanksgiving.
Joe went to his warehouse that night, as he did each night, and crawled
beneath his newspaper blanket. His hand drifted to an empty pocket. The
scraps of tobacco, only splinters now, made his eyes begin to itch. It wasn
't all that important, he thought. It wasn't anything at all.
Sara found him when she brought him his new pipe. He was beaten and bloody.
A crutch, covered with ooze lay to the side of his battered head. He still
clutched in his hand the shredded corner of a prescription, and the book
that he enjoyed in his last day on earth.
Sara goes to the corner and smokes the pipe she bought that day now and
then. An ebony billiard. But it's different now. She never saw Roy again.
And Kathy and Mark, they finally gave up trying to save her soul, or anyone
else's. She hears from Marcy every once in a while, and stays in Tod's
apartment when she doesn't feel like sleeping out of doors.
Wind River
Welcome to AFO. This sounds like a place for you. It's a good group to
work with on your writing skills. I started critiquing your story last
night, but I'm only half-way finished. Just wanted to let you know I'm
enjoying it and will get back to you.
-Sue
MJ
Thank you for the kind welcome. I do feel quite at home here so far. I'm
glad you're enjoying the story. It's not quite finished yet though not bad
for a first draft, I think. Let me know if you need anything.
Wind River <wind...@voyager.net> wrote in message
news:3E53BA80...@voyager.net...
> Hi Marcus,
<snip>
Wind River
I commented as I read. I realized part way through that this was still
in the draft stage, so a lot of my grammar corrections may not be too
important. You do a very good job building sympathy for your characters.
I enjoyed reading it and want to know what happens in the final version.
Anyway, there are a lot of comments in the text which I hope will be helpful.
-Sue
MJ wrote:
>
> On The Corner
> by Marcus Janssen
>
> "One more day," he said, rolling over. "Just one more day." The day
> before was a haze in his mind that would not lift, just like always. It had
> been pushed aside by too many moments. Good, bad, they were all a torture.
> He squinted, pushing himself up as he dug out his pipe clenching it in his
> fist so hard that pain sprang around it.
Good first paragraph. It leads the reader right into the story.
> He pushed the newspaper off the top of his body and hugged himself for
> warmth. The chill of the autumn air fogged his breath,
No comma after "breath"
> and stung his
> fingers and toes. Denver was no place for decent people, he thought as he
> pushed himself up from the scraps of print and odd bits of trash. The
> blackened industrial grime from the floor clung to his clothes like ash, and
> he patted at it.
He's already pushed himself up in the first paragraph, so maybe you
could have him sit or stand up with the scraps clinging to him or something.
I like the grime and odd bits of trash. Little descriptions like those
really add to the flavor of a story.
> The warehouse was devoid of people, but not their marks. Scribbles in
> spray-paint eagerly applied marked the brick and mortar walls. The doors
> hung lazily on old, abused hinges. The floor pockmarked by years of
> accumulated trash, old refrigerators, freezers, an antique washing machine
> in the corner, various metal office furniture, and hundreds of rusted out
> chairs that would have looked at home in a lecture hall of the 1940's.
Very nice description.
> He fumbled in his pockets, adding another layer of time-eaten gloves to his
> hands. He pulled a half-eaten donut from his breast pocket, and unwrapped
> it carefully, taking one bite. The dirt on his face, the un-kept beard, the
Don't think you need a hyphen in "unkept"
> etched lines of age, at once disappeared as he chewed slowly. He smiled,
> although for a moment it was hard to tell what his expression was, behind
> the dirt. The moment gone, he wrapped the donut and put it back into his
> pocket with exacting care, like the caress of a lover. He pushed his hands
> into his pockets, and like a turtle, tried to force his neck down into the
> wraps of his jacket. He often thought he looked a laughable figure in the
> winter. He must have looked to others like the Michelin Man, clothed in
> road grime. He smiled at the thought, and tried not to think of the
> contrary image that arose.
>
> The door squeaked softly, it's posted sign, "No Trespassing" comically
> hanging from one corner glared through the dust, and from somewhere above
> him a pigeon took flight, it's wings flapping loudly, echoing against the
> solidarity of the gutted factory. "Hmm." he smiled, talking upward, towards
> the bird. "I'd run too."
Lol, okay you've hooked me! I'm the one around here who always puts wild
animals in my stories, so it's nice to have someone else joining forces
with me. :)
One suggestion... what if you said, "I'd fly too" instead of "run"?
> "Joey!" called a short round woman clothed in so many layers of dirt and
> thrift store apparel that it was hard to tell that she was a woman, except
> for the long mane of faithfully combed, rust-brown hair. It gleamed in the
> morning sunlight, as it did every morning. Joe smiled,
No comma after "smiled"
> and waved to her as
> she came up to him, trailing a man that looked half as old as she. He was
> small, slim and the type of guy people thought of when they talked about
> amphetamine addicts. In between his fine blue eyes was a spike, pierced
> through the bridge of his nose that he probably thought made him look mean.
> Joe simply thought it made him look foolish. It made the boy stand out,
> like a duck on the first day of the season. He might as well have been
> squawking, "Shoot me!" to the hunter's decoy call.
>
> "Hey Sara. They come yet?" he asked, his breath pluming outward in clouds
> of white steam.
Nice tag line. I can see his breath.
> <snipped some good writing>
>
> Sara giggled, patting Joe's sleeve. "We're on our way there. Roy here
> doesn't feel like working today, and I'm happy just to have some new
> company. I've heard all your old stories, Joe. It's nice to hear some new
> ones." Joe smiled as Sara looped her arm underneath the boy's. He didn't
> really look that young, Joe thought as he saw the two of them standing next
> to each other arm in arm. It was just that ring through the bridge of his
> nose that made him look the image of a foolhardy teenager. "You coming
> with, Joe?"
with US, Joe?"
Maybe the "Sara" at the beginning of the above paragraph could be "She".
Her name is mentioned a lot, and since there's only one female, it
wouldn't be confusing. I think it would read smoother.
> Joe smiled and shook his head. "You know me, Sara. I can't stomach their
> talk. It sours the food."
>
> The boy, Roy, smiled, and Sara just laughed and shook her head. "That's
> Joe for you," Sara said to Roy. "He'd rather starve than listen to the
> Word."
>
> The two of them walked off and he waved to them, and Joe thought of the
> warm turkey and the lukewarm mashed potatoes, and the Marlboro cigarettes.
This sentence seems a bit awkward to me. I hope you don't mind it I make
a suggestion by rewriting it -- "The two of them walked off, and Joe
waved to them; then, he thought of..." Or it could become two sentences.
> He hoped Nose-ring would stay and get his shit together with those louts.
> They were good at giving sympathy, which is what Joe thought the boy needed,
> even if it did come at a price. But either way, Joe thought, he was with
> the right person. Sara wouldn't let him come to any trouble.
>
> Joe picked up the cigarette butt that Roy had stubbed out with his foot on
> the ground and worked the tobacco out of the paper into the ebony bowl of
> his pipe then puffed once or twice and put it out in his customary way.
> Only one person in the queue watched him as he did it. Joe didn't even
> bother to shrug.
>
> The truck came and went, and picked up five of the strongest and youngest.
> Joe wasn't one of them. He considered shaving his beard for a moment, and
Delete comma after "moment"
> scratched at it. Then he remembered he didn't have a razor. He shrugged
> and went on his way. They didn't come like they used to at the corner. It
> used to be that any man could pick up a day's worth of work if he waited
> long enough. Trucks would stop at the corner and yell out for men with two
> more waiting behind them. But times weren't as wealthy as they used to be.
> And it was uncommon for more than two trucks to stop at the corner in a day.
> Joe thought for a moment about a different life. He could still remember
> what it was like. No cold night could take that away.
>
> Joe found himself, as he usually did, sitting outside the Library. It was
> closed, but that didn't matter. He liked to be close to the racks. It was
> the only place that he felt he belonged. The books had always made him feel
> tensely aware of the brevity of life.
>
> The chill of the air wasn't so bad when sheltered by the large brick
> building, and the dumpster, although bare most of the time sometimes had a
> book or two he could pick through lazily as he gnawed around the bad teeth
> in his mouth at his pipe.
The above sentence has some misplaced commas and is a little awkward.
I'll try to rework it to show you what I mean... "The chill of the air
wasn't so bad when sheltered by the large brick building and the
dumpster. Although bare most of the time, sometimes the dumpster had a
book or two that he could pick through lazily as he gnawed..."
> There was the usual pile of bad science fiction
> that was dumped every month to be looted by people looking for something to
> start a fire. But underneath one of the paper-backs was a hardcover copy of
> a memory. It was a fine, leather-bound copy of The Razor's Edge, by
> Somerset Maughum. Joe frowned, and dusted it off, pulling a half-eaten
> Twinkie off the face of it. Some people, Joe thought. They've got no
> respect for a master dramatist.
>
> He stuffed the book in his pocket and went his way, around the building and
> over to the fountain, which was his favorite place to read. The flowing of
> the water, even this late in Autumn, still operating, made his mind flow
> languidly through the pages to other times. Or at least, so Joe liked to
> believe.
I don't think you need "still operating" since we know that from the
mention of flowing water. You might want to have "flowing of the water"
become "the sounds of the water" or something better (it's not great, I
admit). I say this because his mind also flows, and as well as getting
rid of some redundancy, it lets us know his attention is on the book.
Flowing to me is more visual, and a sound could become a way to keep his
mind flowing. I'm not sure if I'm making sense here. Just my opinion.
Others might see it differently.
> He read until noon, and smoked at his pipe some. Then ate at his donut,
> now half gone, and mostly messy glaze and sweetened paper.
Sentence fragments can work well in a story, but I think here it needs
to be complete. (The donut eating sentence is the one I'm talking about.)
> The sugary
> coating made his throat itch, and the smoke from the pipe that he puffed at
> to savor the mingling flavors of tobacco and richly sweet pastry made it
> dry. He fished in his pocket and came to his savings. An old, crumpled
> dollar and ninety-four cents. He looked from his hand to the fountain, then
> grimaced. He could afford a cup of coffee, he thought, if that was his
> option.
To me, "option" doesn't seem to fit the tone of the rest of the
paragraph. Perhaps, "If he wanted, he thought he could afford a cup of
coffee." Too many "he"s in my sentence, but something along those lines.
> A convenience store three blocks away, just past the adult store and it's
> XXX windows was open. The coffee was bad, old, and strong, but warmly
> soothing on his throat;
To be grammatically correct with semi-colons, there must be two complete
sentences on both sides. I'd suggest a comma or making it two sentences.
> worth the dollar-nine and sour looks he'd paid. He
> sipped at it with book in hand walking back to the library where he could
> sit with silent friends and read in quiet companionship.
>
> The car came quickly and silently, as all the new ones do these days. Joe
> never knew what hit him. His pipe went flying. What was left of the donut
> in his breast pocket was as smashed as his leg was, broken and twisted
> beneath him. He could see his pipe. It sat there in the middle of the
> street while his body buzzed; his head drifted from side to side. It didn't
> hurt really. All he felt was the book in his hand beneath his body,
> pressing against him and his leg shifting around, strangely unattached to
> his body.
So sad. You've done a great job creating a character which the reader
sympathizes with.
> Joe woke up cold, laying on white sheets. The haze in his mind had settled
Lying? I forget those lie/lay rules sometimes.
> into a fog that he couldn't seem to drag his way through to awareness.
> People in blue scrubs drifted by, and the toxic smell of cleansers pushed at
> him. For a moment he thought he was dead, but Joe knew he wasn't that
> lucky. It took him a while to come to the conclusion that he was in an
> emergency room of a hospital, his leg was broken, and his two coats and book
> were in a pile on the floor.
>
> He reached for the book, sliding half-way out of the bed before he could
> scrape one dirty finger against the cover. Joe sighed, then gritted what
> was left of his teeth and pushed the rest of the way toward it. He fell
> softly to one hand, the floor was cold--sticky to the touch--and grabbed at
> his possessions with the other. He wrenched himself upright. He almost
> made it. He hit the floor hard. Pain shot up from his leg, paralyzing him
> on the floor in agony.
>
> A nurse swarmed at him, lifting him upwards as he clutched at his
I'm not sure "swarmed" is the right word. I usually think of it as
meaning many.
> belongings. He held them to his chest like they were his child. She
> grunted, and with what seemed an amazing amount of strength to Joe, hefted
> him into the bed. He finally saw her when she let go of him. Her brown
> eyes were rigid, set around a pug nose and a mouth that would have looked
> more at home on a young boy. It was devoid of any color, simply flesh. It
> was so small and thin that he absently wondered if some accident had
> befallen her. Her dark hair was tied back, leaving only strands of earthy
> brown bangs to grapple at her forehead, just above her blocky eyebrows.
> Even her shoulders were too wide to belong to a woman. She looked more like
> a wrestler than a nurse. But her voice was certain, calm, and sure of it's
> femininity. "I want you to stay in this bed." she said simply, as if it
> were beyond any mortal man to disobey.
>
> Joe nodded, looking sheepish and feeling like a grade-schooler caught
> writing on the face of his desk. "Yes, Ma'am."
>
> She seemed satisfied, but wary, and turned to leave. "Ma'am?" Joe said,
> calling after her quietly. She turned. "When can I leave?"
>
> She looked stern, and Joe settled back into the bed, but kept his eyes on
> her as she seemed to think about what he'd said. "You're
Your
> leg's broken. You
> have to wait for the Doctor put your cast on."
>
> Joe nodded and grimaced, looking into the bundle of clothes in his lap.
> "Would you happen to know if I had a pipe when they brought me in? An ebony
> billiard pipe?" He looked up to her with a hope in his eyes that was almost
> indescribable, like a boy on Christmas morning, praying to God that Santa
> brought him what he wanted.
I think I'd delete "indescribable" because you do a great job describing
it. :)
> <snipped>
>
> The Doctor chuckled softly, and drug a chair to the bedside to sit beside
dragged a chair
> Joe. He sat like a man used to stools, but not sleep, with his hands
> clutching a clipboard in his lap,
no comma after "lap"
> and arms pushing against his thighs to
> keep his muscles balanced as he kept himself upright. "I'm glad to hear it.
> So, you remember the accident?"
>
> Joe raised an eyebrow, "Yes. Yes, I do, Doctor..." He let the word hang
> in the air, waiting.
>
> The man scribbled something on his clipboard with a pen that Joe thought
> had cost him more than he'd paid for his coffee that same day. "Hmm?
Nice observation of the pen cost comparison
> <snipped>
>
> "I've went ahead and written a prescription for you, in case you are
have written
> uncomfortable. You can get it filled in the drugstore upstairs if you like.
> The elevator to the left as you go out the ER will take you there. The
> second floor."
>
> <snipped>
> Nurse Ridge had been very gentle in guiding him out of his bed,
no comma after "bed"
> and helping
> him into his clothes and his crutches. It was very kind of her, Joe
> thought, and he found himself oddly attracted to her. She had a kind of
> stout, stately beauty that couldn't be soiled by the dirt that oozed about
> him, he fancied. As she helped him to the front desk, depositing him there
> to sign the paperwork and get his release papers finalized, he thanked her
> warmly with a short smile and nod. She smiled back to him and he felt
> warmed by the touch of her eyes. They were really very attractive lips
> after all.
>
> The crutches were hard to manage outside, and he had to stop to wrap two
> gloves about his dangling toes. The chill was already setting into them.
> The
They
> were frozen by the time he reached the corner.
>
> <snipped>
>
> Kathy chuckled and Dick shook his head and threw his hands up in the air,
> then went back to mumbling and kicking the brick wall. "Your pipe?" Sara
> said. "You mean that black pipe you're always sucking on?"
>
> "So what'd they give you?" Nose-ring asked.
Does the above sentence go after the two paragraphs below?
> Joe grimaced. "Yeah." He recovered quickly. "But it's no great loss. I
> can get another pipe."
>
> "But you're daughter gave you that pipe. You told me about it once. I
> remember." she said. Her face had fallen, and no one spoke.
>
> Joe fidgeted, then dug into his pocket and took out a small sheet of paper.
> "Percasomething." He crumpled the paper in his hand, glaring at Roy.
>
> <snipped>
>
> Joe went to his warehouse that night, as he did each night, and crawled
> beneath his newspaper blanket. His hand drifted to an empty pocket. The
> scraps of tobacco, only splinters now, made his eyes begin to itch. It wasn
> 't all that important, he thought. It wasn't anything at all.
I'd end it here until you know where you want go with the ending.
Very engaging look into the life of a street person. I'll be looking for
a revision.
MJ
this freshly again. You're right, the grammar is atrocious and rather
embarassing. I read through it this afternoon as well and caught most of
what you did plus a bit.
And you're right, I think the end either has to end there or be extended
into novella length. This will probably end up being around 30k. It will
be a tough sell, but maybe I can fit it into a collection.
Thanks again, and please let me know if there's anything I can do for you.
jpg.writer
Sue did a great job on her crit, so I've only added observations that
she didn't mention. Good story, my comments are below with snips of
copy.
Judie
>
> On The Corner
> by Marcus Janssen
>
> "One more day," he said, rolling over. "Just one more day." The day
> before was a haze in his mind that would not lift, just like always. It had
> been pushed aside by too many moments. Good, bad, they were all a torture.
> He squinted, pushing himself up as he dug out his pipe clenching it in his
> fist so hard that pain sprang around it.
The word day is used 3 times in quick succession, however I think a
rewrite on the first few lines would break the voice/visual image of
the character. Maybe start a new paragraphy with sentence 3? I think
the visual break on the page may break the "day...day...day" feel I
get now.
<snip>
> He fumbled in his pockets, adding another layer of time-eaten gloves to his
> hands. He pulled a half-eaten donut from his breast pocket, and unwrapped
> it carefully, taking one bite. The dirt on his face, the un-kept beard, the
> etched lines of age,
at once disappeared as he chewed slowly.
-this part of the sentence throws me-maybe the dirt/lines/beard become
irrelevant a he slowly chewed?
He smiled,
> although for a moment it was hard to tell what his expression was, behind
> the dirt. The moment gone, he wrapped the donut and put it back into his
> pocket with exacting care, like the caress of a lover. He pushed his hands
> into his pockets, and like a turtle, tried to force his neck down into the
> wraps of his jacket. He often thought he looked a laughable figure in the
> winter. He must have looked to others like the Michelin Man, clothed in
> road grime. He smiled at the thought, and tried not to think of the
> contrary image that arose.
This paragraph repeats some images: dirty face from
before>expression... behind dirt; he looked a laughable figure>must
have looked to others.
Suggestion to show:
...for a moment it was hard to tell what his expression was, with
grime cracking in the folds of his skin....
He often thought he looked a laughable figure in the winter, others
probably saw him as the Michelin Man clothed in road grime.
<snip>
Joe smiled, and waved to her as
> she came up to him, trailing a man that looked half as old as she. He was
> small, slim and the type of guy people thought of when they talked about
> amphetamine addicts.
Good description.... it conjured up many a rock star's face from
"Behind the Music."
<snip>
> Joe laughed quietly while Nose-ring lit a cigarette and puffed at it
> spitefully, like he resented the taste of the smoke.
I would end this sentence with "...like he resented the taste." we
already know he's smoking.
There are a few other places where a sentence squirts out a bit of
description at end; try omitting that sometimes and see how it reads.
If you think the description is important, try fitting it in another
way.
They were Marlboros,
I can't remember if I read it here or elsewhere. There was a
discusison about using brand names in fiction. Most companies don't
allow it because the story/character/theme may not portray their
product according to their marketing image. Maybe you can use just
"cigarrettes" or "smokes... those pricey--two dollar kind" in place of
the brand name.
> Joe noticed. Nose-ring was new to the street, or just plain stupid. Joe's
> money was on stupid.
I'm guessing Joe thinks the boy is stupid for spending his money on
cigarrettes instead of food?
<snip>
> The two of them walked off and he waved to them, and Joe thought of the
> warm turkey and the lukewarm mashed potatoes, and the Marlboro cigarettes.
> He hoped Nose-ring would stay and get his shit together with those louts.
> They were good at giving sympathy, which is what Joe thought the boy needed,
> even if it did come at a price. But either way, Joe thought, he was with
> the right person. Sara wouldn't let him come to any trouble.
From here out, you really start cooking. The story seems to find its
voice and the action is telling something about the characters. I
especially liked the part where Sara mentions his daughter giving him
the pipe and the reaction of the group at the mention of family.
The hospital scence was also well done. I had the misfortune of being
in an emergency room when a homeless man was brought into the next
cubicle. Joe is very dignified in contrast to the gentleman I saw.
The smell and dirt are right on target.
Good characters, I'd be interested in reading more to see what else
happens to them.
Judie
MJ
You're right, there are quite a few redundancies in this piece that need to
be removed. They slow the story down in the wrong moments. I'd like to
find another way of dragging attention to that first sentence because it is
so important, but deliberately inserting a grammatical error is just too
risky.
The 3 days are jarring, but because they need to be, although you are right,
three is too many.. And, this is only a theory of mine so be careful in
use, jarring the reader into noticing that particular word by repitition
adds evidence that I'll use later on. I think it will give the reader a
sense of 'DOH! I should have known that was coming!"
As to the cigarettes, they're such a large part of Roy's character I'd
really hate to cut the mention of the brand name. The image their
advertising conjures up fits his personality and says a lot about which part
he can be expected to play.
In general, an author can usually get away with one or two mentions as long
as that mention does not directly libel the company. Hopefull I'll be able
to use it. Although you are correct, it is an issue to be prepared for.
You had some really great comments that were really very helpful. Please
let me know if there's anything I can ever do for you.
Egad
I like the story. I do think it can be cut some. The characterization is
good. I think that you could lose a bit in the hospital though.
You manage to make us feel something for the characters, which is good. I
just hink that this read a little fat. There are many places where you
could cut from, the hospital, before the incident while he is reading the
book, some of the descriptions of incidental characters. You seem to paint
an accurate portrayal, but the reader doesn't always need such accuracy.
Just MHO of course.
Thanks for posting
Egad
"MJ" <diesp...@diespammer.com> wrote in message
news:moC4a.8834$_c6.9...@newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net...
MJ
if there's anything I can do.
Alaric
Hi, Marcus. Welcome to AFO.
"One more day," he said, rolling over. "Just one more day."
One more day to what? Good opening para.
> He pushed the newspaper off the top of his body and hugged himself for
warmth. The chill of the autumn air fogged his breath, and stung his
fingers and toes. Denver was no place for decent people, he thought as he
pushed himself up from the scraps of print and odd bits of trash. The
blackened industrial grime from the floor clung to his clothes like ash, and
he patted at it.
This para doesn't work for me. Pushed used twice, too much information
agglomerated in sentences and the paragraph. One possible way:-
He pushed the newspaper off the top of his body and hugged himself for
warmth.
The chill of the autumn air fogged his breath, stung his fingers and toes.
Denver at this time of year was no place for decent people.
He pushed himself up from the scraps of print and odd bits of trash.
The blackened industrial grime from the floor clung to his clothes like ash,
and he patted at it.
> The warehouse was devoid of people, but not their marks. Scribbles in
spray-paint eagerly applied marked the brick and mortar walls. The doors
hung lazily on old, abused hinges. The floor pockmarked by years of
accumulated trash, old refrigerators, freezers, an antique washing machine
in the corner, various metal office furniture, and hundreds of rusted out
chairs that would have looked at home in a lecture hall of the 1940's.
Excellent paragraph.
> He fumbled in his pockets, adding another layer of time-eaten gloves to
his hands.
A layer, rather than another?
> The dirt on his face, the un-kept beard
Unkempt?
> He often thought he looked a laughable figure in the winter. He must have
looked to others like the Michelin Man, clothed in road grime. He smiled at
the thought, and tried not to think of the contrary image that arose.
Like the turtle image. Too many looked's and the last sentence is overkill.
> The door squeaked softly, it's posted sign
New sentence at it's.
> In between his fine blue eyes was a spike, pierced through the bridge of
his nose that he probably thought made him look mean.
Heh. Love that.
Joe simply thought it made him look foolish. It made the boy stand out,
like a duck on the first day of the season. He might as well have been
squawking, "Shoot me!" to the hunter's decoy call.
Again overdone. The duck image is excellent, but the last sentence isn't
necessary, and it confuses.
> Joe laughed quietly while Nose-ring lit a cigarette and puffed at it
spitefully, like he resented the taste of the smoke.
Excellent.
> They were Marlboros, Joe noticed.
Seems extraneous.
> "There was only one truck last year though. And they only took four guys.
All sturdy, too."
Bit confused as to who these employers are.
> The two of them walked off and he waved to them, and Joe thought of the
Switch Joe and he.
warm turkey and the lukewarm mashed potatoes, and the Marlboro cigarettes.
He hoped Nose-ring would stay and get his shit together with those louts.
They were good at giving sympathy, which is what Joe thought the boy needed,
even if it did come at a price. But either way, Joe thought, he was with
the right person. Sara wouldn't let him come to any trouble.
> Joe picked up the cigarette butt that Roy had stubbed out with his foot
on the ground and worked the tobacco out of the paper into the ebony bowl of
his pipe then puffed once or twice and put it out in his customary way. Only
one person in the queue watched him as he did it. Joe didn't even bother to
shrug.
I'd cut the last sentence.
> Trucks would stop at the corner and yell out for men with two more
waiting behind them.
Two more trucks?
> He could afford a cup of coffee, he thought, if that was his option.
But that was his only option?
> A convenience store three blocks away, just past the adult store and it's
XXX windows was open.
A convenience store was open three blocks away, just past the adult store
and it's XXX windows.
> All he felt was the book in his hand beneath his body, pressing against
him and his leg shifting around, strangely unattached to his body.
Way too many body references.
> Joe nodded and grimaced, looking into the bundle of clothes in his lap.
"Would you happen to know if I had a pipe when they brought me in? An ebony
billiard pipe?" He looked up to her with a hope in his eyes that was almost
indescribable, like a boy on Christmas morning, praying to God that Santa
brought him what he wanted.
Good sequence this. Cut the indescribable.
> The two had returned to Paris when the Doctor greeted him with what Joe
considered the smile of a thousand lies.
Smile of a thousand lies? Que?
> Daniels smiled and pulled the clipboard to his chest. "Your welcome."
With that he left.
You're
"But you're daughter gave you that pipe.
Your
Sara found him when she brought him his new pipe. He was beaten and bloody.
A crutch, covered with ooze lay to the side of his battered head. He still
clutched in his hand the shredded corner of a prescription, and the book
that he enjoyed in his last day on earth.
And finish here. The last paragraph doesn't really follow logically.
Good story. I'd "starken" it, strip out some of the images and adverbs. But
good story.
--
"I don't have a quote to put on the end of my messages"
Alaric McDermott
MJ
Please let me know if you ever need anything.
Thanks again.