[story] 500 words
Koyunbaba
a childs voice set on a busy street just after something has happened.
Here's what I came up with. Hope it passes muster.
I remember the sirens most of all. I'd been playing hopscotch with Johnny
Davies and I was winning. I heard Ellie Baxter scream, then a thud, then a
lot of shouting in the street. Then a lot of adults were running onto the
road where a blue car was stopped. Ellie was crying and her mommy came
running out, shouting "Ellie! Ellie!" Me and Johnny walked down the street
a little bit to see what was going on which wasn't easy because of all the
parked cars, but we did manage to peek. Ellie's mommy was giving her a
special big hug and was stroking her hair back and making soft noises like
you would with a big dog that looked a bit scary. Then she picked Ellie up
and carried her into her house. In front of the blue car was a crowd of
adults, a couple were kneeling down over something and all the rest were
pushing forward but kept shouting "keep back, give him space." And "has
anybody called an ambulance" Then about five adults all pulled their mobile
phones and started dialling someone quickly and putting a finger in their
ear. Now whenever I clean my ear out my mommy tells me off. But all these
adults were doing it at the same time, and nobody said anything to them.
You can get away with anything when you're an adult. No Mommy to tell you
what to do. Anyway a man was crying and shaking and kept wanting to look
at the front of the car, but a big man who looked very serious wouldn't let
him. The big man was holding the crying man back and said. "Get a grip of
yourself." The crying man kept shouting, "He just ran out." But the big
man just held him and said, "Just tell the police that." The people with
the phones stepped away from the people who were kneeling down and then, for
a moment, I saw David Duckworth. He was lying down and his head was resting
on a jumper. He looked very pale and his arm was at a funny angle, then the
adults moved close together again. I don't think he was very well. Then
one of the adults noticed me and Johnny and came over and said, "There's
nothing to see here. Why don't you kids go and play." And just as he said
that I first heard the sirens. Then the horns started honking and people
started getting very angry. The big man who was holding the crying man
shouted at an angry man in the car behind the blue car. "There's been an
accident you prick, cool your heels." I don't think he should have used that
word, then you came and everyone got quiet. Then the ambulance arrived and
they put David on a stretcher and took him away. Apart from that I don't
remember anything officer except the sirens.
Koyunbaba
to write a mini portrait of a character. No significant plot required
instead concentrate on character and place to convey a particular mood and
state this mood as the title of your story.
I called this Bitterness.
Cyril Solnius stirred his coffee slowly. His bottom lip protruded slightly
as he deliberated the coffee cup. A packet of Gauloise sat open and a
freshly lit cigarette smouldered in the café's branded ashtray. Solnius
stopped stirring, picked up the thick black coffee and took a sip. He
parted his lips and sucked them against his yellow stained teeth. He picked
up the cigarette, took a drag then let out a long, slow stream of smoke. He
took a sidelong look at a young couple in their early twenties who were sat
a few tables away. They didn't know what it was like to have regrets he
thought. Not the real regrets, about the decisions that changed your life.
Life still tasted sweet to them he thought. Full of possibility. He took
another sip of the bitter black coffee. They would learn though, he was
sure of that. They would taste the disappointment of lost love, lost youth
and perhaps even lost dreams.
He looked out of the café onto the tree lined Parisian Rue and watched the
beautiful people move slowly through the sunlight and shadows of late
afternoon. He remembered the days when he had not even noticed the shadows,
when life bathed in the wonderful aura of success. Nothing more sobering
than a dose of failure he thought, nothing except repeated doses of failure.
He rubbed his unshaven chin, took another puff on his cigarette then
finished his coffee. Then he half turned on the plastic patio seat that
passed for a seat, and raised his arm to catch the eye of the waiter. The
waiter noticed him, but pretended he hadn't and kept talking to the man
behind the counter. Solnius simply picked up the empty coffee cup and
shouted "Garcon!" to attract his attention. The waiter glared at Solnius
then nodded to him. That was the signal. He would come, but not too
quickly thought Solnius.
He turned his attention back to the world passing the café. The people all
seemed slightly too rich, or slightly too beautiful. Even the tourists seem
slightly too happy for his liking. He shook his head slightly and looked
down at his packet of Gauloise, then pulled one out and rummaged in his
black leather jacket for his Zippo. He wouldn't leave that on the table.
There were as many thieves on the streets as in the boardroom. He lit up
and leaned back in his sticky plastic chair. The waiter arrived with the
coffee pot and refilled Solnius's cup without saying a word. Then he threw
down a couple of sachets of sugar and walked off. "Merci Garcon" whispered
to himself after the waiter had left. He picked up the sugar, tore off the
corners of the sachets and carefully poured them into the coffee. Then he
started stirring again. He wasn't sure why he even bothered with the sugar.
It was the dark bitter taste of the coffee which reassured him most.
Koyunbaba
This one has had a little re-read and some rough edges taken off.
Bitterness.
Cyril Solnius stirred his coffee slowly. His bottom lip protruded slightly
as he deliberated the coffee cup. A packet of Gauloise sat open and a
freshly lit cigarette smouldered in the café's branded ashtray. Solnius
stopped stirring, picked up the thick black coffee and took a sip. He
parted his lips and sucked them against his yellow stained teeth, picked up
the cigarette, took a deep drag and let out a long, slow stream of smoke.
He took a sidelong look at a young couple in their early twenties who were
sat a few tables away. They didn't know what it was like to have regrets he
thought. Not the real regrets, about the decisions that changed your life.
Life still tasted sweet to them he thought. Full of possibility. He took
another sip of the bitter black coffee. They would learn though, he was
sure of that. They would taste the disappointment of lost love, lost youth
and perhaps even lost dreams.
He looked out of the café onto the tree lined Parisian Rue and watched the
beautiful people move slowly through the sunlight and shadows of late
afternoon. He remembered the days when he had not even noticed the shadows,
when life bathed in the wonderful aura of success. Nothing more sobering
than a dose of failure he thought, nothing except repeated doses of failure.
He rubbed his unshaven chin, took another puff on his cigarette, finished
his coffee, then half turned on the plastic patio seat and raised his arm to
catch the eye of the waiter. The waiter noticed him, but pretended he hadn'
t and kept talking to the man behind the counter. Solnius simply picked up
the empty coffee cup and shouted "Garcon!" to attract his attention. The
waiter glared at Solnius then nodded to him. That was the signal. He would
come, but not too quickly thought Solnius.
He turned his attention back to the world passing the café. The people all
seemed slightly too rich, or slightly too beautiful, even the tourists seem
slightly too happy for his liking. He shook his head and looked down at his
packet of Gauloise, pulled one out and rummaged in his black leather jacket
for his Zippo. He wouldn't leave that on the table. There were as many
thieves on the streets as in the boardroom. He lit up and leaned back in
his sticky plastic chair. The waiter arrived with the coffee pot and
refilled Solnius's cup without saying a word. Then he threw down a couple of
sachets of sugar and walked off. "Merci Garcon" he whispered to himself
after the waiter had left. He picked up the sugar, tore off the corners of
the sachets and carefully poured them into the coffee. Then he started
stirring again. He wasn't sure why he even bothered with the sugar. It was
the dark bitter taste of the coffee that reassured him most.
Alan Hope
>Sorry about this, I posted the original in a hurry before I popped out.
>This one has had a little re-read and some rough edges taken off.
It's a big mistake to address any Parisian waiter as "garçon". They'll
take your coffee right out back and piss in it, guaranteed.
That said, your story wasn't. Nothing happened. It ran the gamut of
incident from A to A. Maybe you thought the prose was enough in
itself?
It wasn't. The prose was pisspoor. Some choice howlers:
>His bottom lip protruded slightly
>as he deliberated the coffee cup.
Okay, but so what?
>Solnius
>stopped stirring, picked up the thick black coffee and took a sip.
Coffee in Paris is not thick. Move to Turkey.
>He
>parted his lips and sucked them against his yellow stained teeth, picked up
>the cigarette, took a deep drag and let out a long, slow stream of smoke.
Okay, but so what? He smokes the way everyone else does.
> He took a sidelong look at a young couple in their early twenties who were
>sat a few tables away.
Northern English dialect phrase, I'd say. Standard English would say
"seated" or "sitting" instead of "sat".
>They didn't know what it was like to have regrets he
>thought. Not the real regrets, about the decisions that changed your life.
>Life still tasted sweet to them he thought. Full of possibility. He took
>another sip of the bitter black coffee. They would learn though, he was
>sure of that. They would taste the disappointment of lost love, lost youth
>and perhaps even lost dreams.
Goes without saying. Why is this important? I know we're supposed to
conclude he's had the bitter experience himself (it was telegraphed by
the title, after all) but aren't we supposed to learn anything about
this man in this story?
>He looked out of the café onto the tree lined Parisian Rue
Desperately illiterate. In Paris they're rues. In English they're
streets. A tree-lined street is most often an avenue, in any case.
check it out next time you're there. If you're at a junction and
you're looking for the Avenue Machin-Bidule, and there are four
possibilities, and one of them has trees, that's your avenue.
>and watched the
>beautiful people move slowly through the sunlight and shadows of late
>afternoon. He remembered the days when he had not even noticed the shadows,
>when life bathed in the wonderful aura of success. Nothing more sobering
>than a dose of failure he thought, nothing except repeated doses of failure.
If nothing is more sobering than a dose of failure, then a subsequent
dose of failure cannot be more sobering, because nothing was more
sobering, remember?
>He rubbed his unshaven chin, took another puff on his cigarette, finished
>his coffee, then half turned on the plastic patio seat and raised his arm to
>catch the eye of the waiter. The waiter noticed him, but pretended he hadn'
>t and kept talking to the man behind the counter. Solnius simply picked up
>the empty coffee cup and shouted "Garcon!" to attract his attention. The
>waiter glared at Solnius then nodded to him. That was the signal. He would
>come, but not too quickly thought Solnius.
With a cup of piss. It's really incumbent on you to get stuff right if
you choose to scatter local colour around. Why not stay in Chickpea
Ill, where at least you know what's going on?
> He turned his attention back to the world passing the café. The people all
>seemed slightly too rich, or slightly too beautiful, even the tourists seem
>slightly too happy for his liking. He shook his head and looked down at his
>packet of Gauloise, pulled one out and rummaged in his black leather jacket
>for his Zippo.
Gauloise means "female person from Gaul". They don't come in packets
of one. The cigarettes (a feminine noun) are called Gauloises. Naming
them, though, is either blatant product-placement, or the sign of
someone who knows nothing about France and the French trying to bluff.
You remind me of my wife, who once walked into a French baker's and
asked for "un pain français".
>He wouldn't leave that on the table. There were as many
>thieves on the streets as in the boardroom. He lit up and leaned back in
>his sticky plastic chair.
His chair won't be sticky if he's leaning forward. It's after he leans
back it starts to get sticky.
>The waiter arrived with the coffee pot and
>refilled Solnius's cup without saying a word.
Not in Paris he didn't. Not anywhere in Europe. This is an American
custom. The waiter will have come with a whole new cup of coffee,
saucer, sugar and creamer. In Belgium you get a little biscuit, but
not in France.
>Then he threw down a couple of
>sachets of sugar and walked off. "Merci Garcon" he whispered to himself
>after the waiter had left. He picked up the sugar, tore off the corners of
>the sachets and carefully poured them into the coffee. Then he started
>stirring again. He wasn't sure why he even bothered with the sugar. It was
>the dark bitter taste of the coffee that reassured him most.
If he takes sugar in his coffee how did it get to be bitter above?
French coffee is not espresso, and it's certainly not like Turkish
coffee, which is indeed thick and bitter, and it's supposed to be.
I think your problem is that you're doing some window-dressing here,
setting the thing in Paris, but you have no idea at all what Paris is
like. That's a fatal mistake.
You've also chosen an incident utterly devoid of action or
significance. A guy drinks coffee and feels bitter. If it's an
extract, it's far too long: it arrests the momentum. If it's a piece
in itself then it needs something interesting built around it.
Right now it makes no sense at all.
--
AH
Disregard From address, and use Reply To instead.
Koyunbaba
from it.
Yours Koy
"Alan Hope" <not.al...@mail.com> wrote in message
news:ptjvg0l7g91hjudhg...@4ax.com...
Brenda Meskunas
>from it.
>
It struck me as harsh as well, but it's obvious Alan really knows his stuff.
It's so important to "write what you know."
Brenda
Alan Hope
>>Thank you for the time & harsh but accurate criticism. I will try and learn
>>from it.
>It struck me as harsh as well, but it's obvious Alan really knows his stuff.
Okay, I said his prose was pisspoor. It wasn't quite that bad. I've
now had the chance to read something by Zen's friend Fester
Bestertester, and I've reviewed my criteria. Man, was that pisspoor.
The rest wasn't harsh at all.
>It's so important to "write what you know."
Or, failing that, don't write what you don't know. The piece contained
descriptions and details that were simply invented, and as a result
were inauthentic. They could just have been left out. There's no need
to say the coffee was thick, especially when you don't know if it is
or isn't. Even were the story to be set in Istanbul, the adjective
adds nothing to the story.
And having a client call the waiter "garçon" in a story written in
English is the worst sort of pretension: it leaps off the page to say,
"Look, I know some French"; it's a desperate device to remind the
reader we're in France, when that should have been communicated to
everyone's satisfaction already, assuming it's important; it's the
equivalent of a Jap saying Banzai or a Jerry saying Jawohl in a
war-comic for small boys; it's totally wrong -- I suspect the reason
Americans get such lousy service in Paris and come away with such a
bad impression is down to this solecism and this alone.
You don't fucking call a waiter garçon. It might have been okay for
Colette, but it's not okay any more. The correct way to apostrophe a
waiter is to call out, not too loudly, "Monsieur" or if he's a she,
"Madame". And don't snap your fingers whatever you do.
Koyunbaba
with this piece this afternoon.
It isn't really a story, this is another requirement for the course that I'm
doing. This one is
to write a mini portrait of a character. No significant plot required
instead concentrate on character and place to convey a particular mood and
state this mood as the title of your story.
Here goes nothing.
Bitterness.
Cyril Solnius stirred his black coffee as his cigarette smouldered in the
café's branded ashtray. He picked up the cup, took a sniff then, satisfied,
a sip. He sucked his lips against his yellow stained teeth, and savoured
the coffee taste sticking to his gums. With his shaking, nicotine stained
hand, he reached for the cigarette, took a pull then snapped his head back,
pursed his lips and blew a stream of smoke straight up in the air.
He snatched a sidelong glance at a young couple in their early twenties
seated a few tables away. They didn't know what it was like to have
regrets. Not the real regrets, about the decisions that changed your life.
Life still tasted sweet, full of possibility. He took another sip of the
coffee. They would learn. He was sure of that. They would taste the
disappointment of lost love, lost youth and lost dreams.
He turned his attention out of the café onto the tree lined Avenue and
watched the beautiful people move slowly through the sunlight and shadows of
late afternoon. He remembered the days when he had not even noticed the
shadows, when his life bathed in the aura of success. There was little more
sobering than a dose of failure he thought, except repeated doses.
He rubbed his unshaven chin, stubbed out his cigarette, finished his coffee,
then turned on the plastic patio seat and raised his arm to catch the eye of
the waiter. The waiter ignored him and kept talking to the man behind the
counter. Solnius simply picked up the empty coffee cup and shouted
"Coffee!" The young couple looked disapprovingly at Solnius, but he didn't
care. The waiter glared at Solnius then nodded to him. That was the signal.
He would come, but not too quickly.
He turned his attention back to the world passing the café. The people all
seemed too rich, too beautiful, and too happy for his liking. He shook his
head and looked down at the cigarettes. He leaned forward, pulled one out
and rummaged for his Zippo. He wouldn't leave that on the table. There
were as many thieves on the streets as in the boardroom. He lit up and
leaned back onto the sticky plastic chair. The waiter arrived with the
coffee pot, refilled Solnius's cup, threw down a couple of sachets of sugar
and walked off. "Thank you," he whispered to himself after the waiter had
left. His hands still trembling he opened and poured the sugar into the
coffee and started stirring again as his cigarette smouldered in the café's
branded ashtray.
Brenda Meskunas
>
>Or, failing that, don't write what you don't know.
Fantastic advice!
Sometimes I wonder if some writers choose the fantasy genre just so they won't
have do a lot of research. Nobody can question what goes on in a world that's
completely of your own invention. :-)
Regarding the harshness of your critique:
I think every point you made was dead on - but you were almost too thorough and
the overall effect had to be a bit overwhelming to the author. Honestly, if
that had been me I would have read your criticisms, concluded that my writing
was terminal, and raced to the nearest convenient store for a handful of
scratch tickets and the cheapest bottle of wine I could find. :-)
Brenda
Brenda Meskunas
>From: "Koyunbaba"
>doing. This one is
>to write a mini portrait of a character. No significant plot required
>instead concentrate on character and place to convey a particular mood and
>state this mood as the title of your story.
I'm sure others will be more thorough with their suggestions, but here are five
changes I would suggest.
1) To be perfectly honest, your first paragraph doesn't convey a lot of
bitterness. It conveys coffee and a cigarette and sleepiness. Don't begin
with description - try to weave it into the rest of your piece -and only where
you need it - once you have the reader hooked. Even if you're just sketching
a character or a scene, you have start off with a bang to keep your reader's
interest.
2)Try to say what you're saying with fewer words. For example:
-- "cafe's branded ashtray." I honestly don't need to know what kind of
ashtray it is if you aren't making me SEE it. "Branded" conveys nothing to my
mind. Either describe it in terms that appeal to my senses or leave out the
description entirely - you probably don't need it.
-- "He snatched a sidelong glance" ... just say "he glanced." Glances aren't
obvious so you really don't need "sidelong" to modify it.
-- most adverbs should bite the dust. Don't say "move slowly" ... say
"strolled" or "wandered." Don't say, "looked disapprovingly", say "scowled."
And never say "simply picked up" ... "simply" is a word that screams to be cut
from pretty much anything you'll ever want to write.
3)Watch for repeated words. You have the cigarette smouldering more than once
and, yikes, there's that branded ashtray again. Some experienced writers can
use repetition for deliberate effect, but for a class assignment you should
avoid repetition.
4) Use more dialogue to make the scene come alive. Don't tell me he's bitter
about the couple at the other table ... SHOW me he's bitter by coming up with a
way for this man to converse with these people. Maybe they're irritated by his
cigarette smoke. Maybe his chair is on her coat. Get them to speak and, for
heaven's sake, do something.
5) If your instructor takes off points for grammar and punctuation, you might
want to rethink your comma usage (my own punctuation tends to be a bit sloppy
so I always keep a good reference book around when I'm writing something that
I'll be "graded" on).
Hope this wasn't too harsh - I think, with some reworking, it has potential.
Brenda
Brenda Meskunas
>scratch tickets and the cheapest bottle of wine I could find. :-)
Ack! Obviously I meant to type "convenience."
I really should learn to proofread.
Brenda
Alan Hope
>>Subject: Re: [character portrait] 436 words
>>From: "Koyunbaba"
>>It isn't really a story, this is another requirement for the course that I'm
>>doing. This one is
>>to write a mini portrait of a character. No significant plot required
>>instead concentrate on character and place to convey a particular mood and
>>state this mood as the title of your story.
>I'm sure others will be more thorough with their suggestions, but here are five
>changes I would suggest.
These are good suggestions, so with your permission I'll piggyback
your post rather than turn to the original.
>1) To be perfectly honest, your first paragraph doesn't convey a lot of
>bitterness. It conveys coffee and a cigarette and sleepiness. Don't begin
>with description - try to weave it into the rest of your piece -and only where
>you need it - once you have the reader hooked. Even if you're just sketching
>a character or a scene, you have start off with a bang to keep your reader's
>interest.
Yes. I'm not getting the bitterness in this character. He seems to
have a bit of a hangover, a touch of misanthropy, doesn't like
lovery-dovey types much (who does?) but that's not really bitter. Then
we get to the end and we go, "I get it!" The coffee is bitter and so
is he.
Yeah, except it's a pretty lame device, on a level with "it was all a
dream". And his coffee wasn't bitter, because he put sugar in it.
I don't see any way of saving it except one: he needs to be more
bitter throughout, and he needs to put the sugar in his coffee to deal
with that. We need to understand this is a man who likes strong
coffee, but he puts sugar in it against his taste, to take away the
bitterness of something else.
But we need to see what that "something else" is.
>2)Try to say what you're saying with fewer words. For example:
>-- "cafe's branded ashtray." I honestly don't need to know what kind of
>ashtray it is if you aren't making me SEE it. "Branded" conveys nothing to my
>mind. Either describe it in terms that appeal to my senses or leave out the
>description entirely - you probably don't need it.
Ashtrays in cafes tend to be branded by whatever company provided
them. So you'll see Stella Artois ashtrays in Belgium, or Ricard in
Paris. I've never seen an ashtray with the cafe brand on it. They'd
have to pay for that themselves, when there are so many ashtrays going
free from suppliers.
>-- "He snatched a sidelong glance" ... just say "he glanced." Glances aren't
>obvious so you really don't need "sidelong" to modify it.
You also snatch a glance you don't want the people you're glancing at,
or anyone else, to see. So a wife is at a party and snatches a glance
at the man she fancies. In this situation, why would he care? In a
public place you may glance at who you wish, and indeed you're almost
bound to.
>-- most adverbs should bite the dust. Don't say "move slowly" ... say
>"strolled" or "wandered." Don't say, "looked disapprovingly", say "scowled."
>And never say "simply picked up" ... "simply" is a word that screams to be cut
>from pretty much anything you'll ever want to write.
That's always good advice. Adverbs, if they have a job at all, should
be reserved for cases where you do something unexpected: "joyfully, he
swigged back the hemlock".
>3)Watch for repeated words. You have the cigarette smouldering more than once
>and, yikes, there's that branded ashtray again. Some experienced writers can
>use repetition for deliberate effect, but for a class assignment you should
>avoid repetition.
Cigarettes these days don't smoulder. The tobacco is loaded with
saltpetre and other additives to ensure a constant burn, and the
faster it burns, the more likely you'll light up another in short
order. The OP is using his smouldering cigarette as a
smoulder-substitute for his character. It's the man who should be
smouldering. But we don't see that.
>4) Use more dialogue to make the scene come alive. Don't tell me he's bitter
>about the couple at the other table ... SHOW me he's bitter by coming up with a
>way for this man to converse with these people. Maybe they're irritated by his
>cigarette smoke. Maybe his chair is on her coat. Get them to speak and, for
>heaven's sake, do something.
Good idea. We have somehow to grasp the back-story of this fragment,
and see why he's bitter. This would be a good opportunity.
>5) If your instructor takes off points for grammar and punctuation, you might
>want to rethink your comma usage (my own punctuation tends to be a bit sloppy
>so I always keep a good reference book around when I'm writing something that
>I'll be "graded" on).
>Hope this wasn't too harsh - I think, with some reworking, it has potential.
I dunno. I think he started with a title -- Bitterness -- and thought
of bitter coffee to portray the title. But coffee is not bitter
enough, and neither is the protagonist.
Try scrapping the coffee and going for something that is bitter. C
ynar is
a sort of aperitif -- I think it derives from artichokes. It comes in
little bottles. You won't be able to try it, because it's not really
marketed much nowadays. You'd certainly find Paris cafes with Cynar
ashtrays. People drink it with soda water, normally, but the protag
could refuse, in order to intensify the bitterness.
Other bitter drinks include Suze and Fernet Branca. The latter is a
cure for a hangover, but not for sissies. Maybe you could work with
the combined idea of hangover and bitterness. The guy, with no
hangover, asks what a good cure for a hangover is. The waiter says
Fernet Branca (also Jagermeister, but less in France). He takes in the
bitterness of the drink to counter the bitterness in his soul. Think
also of homeopathy.
That's all I have to say. Hope it wasn't too harsh.
Jennifer Rasmussen
> Adverbs, if they have a job at all, should
> be reserved for cases where you do something unexpected:
"joyfully, he
> swigged back the hemlock".
I'm printing this out and taping it to my desk.
Jen