Thanks for all the input. If you don’t mind, I’d like to let you know when I post a third version so you could critique that as well. And as for the pumping, his arms were simply pumping, maybe that’s jargon from my track and field days… I’ll try to clarify that, thanks!
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Short Story / White Lie
White Lie
By Seth Harrington
Carlos and I met at a bar of all places; he was tending, and I was fulfilling the roll of lonely patron. It was a Tuesday night if I remember correctly, and I had just finished visiting an uncle on the south side of the city; other than me the bar was abandoned. So Carlos and I began to talk. Not normal conversation, he was not a normal guy; he was quirky, and reeked of personality, maybe to a fault. He had shaggy, dark hair that fell just atop his ears and bangs that jabbed and prodded at his pupils; he was constantly pushing those strands of hair off his forehead, either with tanned fingertips or a quick shake of his head. His skin was ripe with sun, and the ceiling fans in the bar weren’t enough to keep his forehead from glistening with sweat. He wore a black, V-neck t-shirt with a pink stripe down the middle.
First he asked me what my favorite candy was. I hesitated and he stared. Gobstoppers, I finally told him. Why? Because when I used to eat them as a kid, I could literally feel my teeth rotting; I knew they were doing their job and, even as a child, I appreciated something that efficient.
From there, the questions got stranger.
Had I ever thought about getting my ears pierced? No. If, right in the midst of ordering a drink, the United States switched to the metric system, would I end up ordering too much, too little, or just enough? I don’t know. That means too much, he told me. How many languages could I count to the number ten in? Four: French, English, Spanish, and Latin. Latin doesn’t count, he said, it’s dead. Tell that to the Pope, I responded, and he grinned.
The question and answer session went on for the better part of an hour, and as I finally stood up from the barstool, lifted my coat from the backrest, and turned to leave, he introduced himself. Carlos Herrera. I politely returned the favor. Kevin Grossman. And then I left – my wallet lighter to accompany my mood.
I don’t know why, but I thought about him on the way home; his hair, his smile, his voice, his charm, his eyes. Especially his eyes; if I had those eyes I’d march straight to Westlawn Cemetery, lean over a cracked, weathered headstone and raise my wife from the dead – that’s the kind of power those eyes had. It was like God plucked two rotting cherries from the Tree of Knowledge and fastened them to Carlos’s head. That may not sound appealing, but I assure you, even rotting cherries can be beautiful.
His eyes were there to tempt you, but you could never have them. They sucked you into his person; the brownish tint pulled at you and once you looked, you didn’t turn away. I mean, you couldn’t; you were too busy following the faded trails of his pupils, curious to see where they’d take you. I ran in to my share of dead ends in those eyes, but that never stopped me from looking, from believing the next path I found would take me where I wanted to go.
I never truly expected to see Carlos again; well, at least not outside the bar; and my life would be better now if that was the case; unfortunately, he found me one Sunday on the boardwalk. I was sitting on a bench, reading – Edgar Allan Poe, The Cask of Amontillado, I believe – when he cast a shadow over the page. I didn’t look up at first, hoping the shadow would move on and settle a different location. Then I heard a rattling noise from behind me. I looked up from my reading and tilted my neck backward, my gaze met the gullet of an unshaven Hispanic man; Carlos was grinning stupidly, shaking a box of Gobstoppers in his right hand. He offered me some, but I politely declined, citing too many fillings in my early years. Then I offered him a seat next to me. He sat down, popped a few candies into his mouth, and began to read over my shoulder.
Carlos sat silently for a moment before he pointed out my bookmark hanging from inside the dust cover. Clearly intrigued, he asked where I got the ticket. Bosworth’s Track I told him; even if my bets didn’t cash, I always put the stub to good use. At the mention of Bosworth’s his neck stiffened and his hazel-red eyes began to glow. His older brother trains some of the greys at Bosworth, he boasted.
***
Boom, there’s the lie. White lies are supposed to be harmless, right? That’s why they’re “white”. They’re trivial, colorless, blank. In the broad scheme of things they hold little significance. Yeah, that’s what I thought too. But then I met this bartender, Carlos. A few months after that I began to hypothesize that white lies are called such because they resemble snow. Like fresh snow falling on a deadened winter landscape, a white lie has the potential to cover a miserable situation (in this case, the emptiness of Carlos’s wallet). Yet, given the proper atmosphere both a white lie and snow can be powerful, destructive forces. White lies can snowball. A white lie could start off as nothing, atop a peak among hundreds, a cluster of snowflakes among millions. But before you know it, before you have time to get out of the way, your lie loses its footing, begins to tumble down a slope, and picks up speed. You and your lie start careening down the mountainside, plummeting at hundreds of miles per hour, destroying every little, innocent, vulnerable thing in the way. And eventually, slowly extinguished after a trail of epic destruction, your lie breaks apart; it splits into millions of fragments that you try in vain to keep track of. Even after all that there is still a small hope for reconciliation; all you have to do is pick up and piece the lie back together – that is, if you get the chance. Carlos wouldn’t.
***
Carlos lied about his brother and I, having no reason not to, believed him and made the mistake of admitting I often bet the Bosworth greys, reaping little from my endeavors. He said he could help me out; he could give me some winners, or at the very least, a dog that would show. Not even considering any repercussions I accepted his offer. Why the hell not, right? I’d be betting anyway, and I wasn’t much for predicting winners, so I could use the help. And besides, those eyes.
I was to meet him outside the track on Saturday, three o’clock sharp, and I did. It was cold outside, not frost bite cold, but see your breath cold; cold enough to feel discomfort if the person you were waiting for arrived late.
Carlos strolled up to the whitewashed, brick wall of Bosworth’s fifteen minutes after three. We shook hands for the first time; his raw, cracked hand meeting my worn leather glove. He told me he took donations. He’d give me a potential winner, if his dog won I could drop a little his way, or not; there was no commitment. I told him I’d donate what I could and he thanked me, whispered the name of the winning dog in my ear, and walked away. His head was down and his hands were in his pockets; I couldn’t help but wonder if it was an act; him at the bar, I mean. At the bar he was vivacious, charming, and attractive. Here, in the outside world, he was dull and common, remorseful almost, as if he was doing me a disservice. His body seemed to weigh him down as he crossed the street.
Walking through the poorly wired gate I placed my bet at the counter. The clerk, Raymond, knew me. We made some small talk for a few minutes, and then he questioned my winner. A good feeling, I said, I had a good feeling about this one – and I did. If the feeling was so good, Ray advised, I should bet more. Well Ray, I said, it wasn’t a great feeling.
The race started, and I couldn’t watch. I had always watched before, but that’s because I figured I’d lose, the lack of pressure eased my nerves. Before, when I walked up to Ray at the counter, I wasn’t betting; I was throwing money away, and I knew it. But now, now I was supposed to win. If I didn’t, well, luckily I didn’t have to worry about that. My dog, at 6 to 1 odds, came in first. I couldn’t believe it; and finally, as I fingered my winnings through a coarse, leather glove, I knew what gambling was. That’s the thing about gambling, you don’t know its true face until you win a little, until you get that taste in your mouth. Before, I wasn’t hooked. Betting on the dogs was like going to the movies for me; I could drop 8 bucks a week without consequences. I was paying for the entertainment. But now, now that I won, well I wanted more, and Carlos delivered.
The first month I used Carlos he gave me four winners; four weeks in a row. I paid him generously, and I tipped just as generously when I stopped by the bar. As I upped my bets, his take upped. I didn’t know how the hell he did it, even with the supposed insider information; but I really didn’t care, as long as I kept winning.
I think you know where this is going: I lost, and I lost badly. That’s part of gambling, though. A loss here and there wasn’t going to hurt me financially; I just needed to make sure I bet more winners than losers. For the next few months, this worked beautifully. I accumulated quite a significant amount of wealth, and my lifestyle dramatically improved. I’m sure your imagination can make up for my scarcity of detail. And then I hit a bad run.
Twelve weeks; twelve fucking weeks without a winner. By week four I was betting ridiculous amounts of money, positive the next dog Carlos gave me would win; but each one floundered. By week six I had to sell my car. Week eight rolled around and I had to mortgage my house. By week eleven, I had lost almost everything I owned.
You know that car insurance slogan? Life comes at you fast. The person who wrote that must have been a gambler.
Week twelve, and I was at the bar – not drinking, there was no way I could afford that – but confronting Carlos, demanding that I meet his brother, demanding that I see the dogs, demanding that he fix my life. At one point my pale, cotton like hand was latched to the pink stripe on his shirt. He hardly flinched, and, calmly put his right hand on top of mine.
His skin was moist with lotion, his fingers wrapped around my knuckles, and within seconds I was no longer in control. Carlos, I said, and then called him a motherfucker – not in an angry way, I was grinning stupidly the whole time, on the verge of laughter. I told him I needed a winner. That I was going into debt. That it was his fault. While I verbally lashed out at him his hand stayed on top of mine; but instead of trying to free my grip from his shirt, he just slid my hand down. His hand guided my fingers down his sculpted chest; his pectorals rose from his body like two plateaus, perfectly positioned to compliment each other.
He continued my hand down the pink path. His stomach felt like speed bumps against my fingers; his abdominals were rigid yet soft. Touching the cool steel of his belt buckle I jerked my hand away, confused both by his action and my original lack of a reaction.
As an awkward silence began to void the stale, jukebox music and buzzing ceiling fans, he started to talk. I couldn’t meet his brother, he explained. He and his brother had an agreement; Carlos was the only one who was supposed to use the Bosworth’s information. Well, I said, shaking off what had just happened between us, three people are involved now. And if Carlos didn’t want me running to the papers or reporting his brother, he had better arrange a meeting, and soon. Carlos protested; I wouldn’t back down. He told me it was a cold streak and we were all suffering. I told him to fuck off. I’m done, I said, I’m going to the stop this.
But instead he stopped me; he stopped me with the truth. Carlos Herrera told me he was an only child. It took a while for this to register with me, but when it did, well, sheer anger came over me. This bartender, this man I thought was my friend, had lied to me. Yeah, at the time the lie was trivial, colorless, blank. But it snowballed; that fucking white lie snowballed, rolled down the side of a mountain and came to rest on top of me. My life was ruined because of his lie. He never had any insider information; in fact, he never bet on the dogs; he just took the donations I gave him – apparently, tending a frequently patron-less bar was not enough to maintain the lifestyle Carlos desired.
I took a step backward, my head pulsating and teetering on account of my diminishing backbone. I needed to run; I could no longer stand to look at him. I’m sorry, he said. Those two words acted like a hacksaw through the jungle of my ever-growing thoughts. I couldn’t think so I acted. I grabbed an empty glass from the counter and threw it against the wall near his head.
He’s sorry? What the fuck was he thinking? But no, everything is okay now because he apologized. Acting on impulse, my left hand was once again around his scruffy, dainty throat, and my right hand was tightly clenched, ready for a punch. I scanned his face; his eyes were fixed on mine, tearing up, and for the first time I could see that Carlos was helpless. His face – cherry eyes and caramel skin – looked lonely in a world where it’s impossible to be alone. My reflection fit like a puzzle piece in between each of his pupils, and I knew what he was after; no, not me, but someone, anyone to fill the blankness in his eyes.
I lowered my fist, released my grip and dashed for the bar’s exit; I couldn’t do it, I could not combat Carlos’s stupidity with my own; that was not the solution. And I couldn’t be there; I could not compel myself to complete him, not after what he had done. As I made my way out to the sidewalk, I heard him cry my name, but I didn’t look back; if I had I would have turned into a pillar of salt, I’m sure of it. And Carlos would have scooped me up; I would have been his again.
Several weeks passed, and I couldn’t avoid thinking about him. I sometimes felt as if he was watching me, even in my newly rented apartment.
All that was left intact from my old life was my job, my meaningless existence as a gas station manager, and I had to milk the hell out of that to avoid thinking about Carlos. Most of the time that didn’t work, and I would find myself whispering his name as I wrote down license plate numbers or served customers.
And then, closing up the gas station one evening, I saw him. Through the glass panes of the station, past the gas pumps, and across the lantern-lit street, I saw him walking. He was not alone. By his side was a young woman. Out from under her fitted baseball cap flowed hair that a matador could put to good use; her clothes bent and curved to the form of her sleek body. I thought of my wife; though, she looked nothing like my wife.
Carlos’s hand was wrapped around her beltless waist as they walked by; and she played with his hair. They moved along the sidewalk as one entity, and slowly began to disappear into the shadows of dusk.
There hadn’t been a customer in half an hour and irrationally I hastened to close a bit early. As I emptied the coffee pots, turned off the lights, and locked the doors, I visually traced the path of the two lovers.
Seconds later, I grabbed my windbreaker, set the alarm, and exited out the back door. I looped around the left side of the uneven brick exterior and made my way across the parking lot. Cautiously, I followed the fading shadows of Carlos and his companion.
Their apartment complex loomed large against an otherwise uneventful suburban landscape. The dozens of lit rooms helped illuminate a sky that dusk was in the process of passing over. Patches of dying grass and horrifically planted shrubbery plagued the sides of every building. I walked awkwardly between the three blemished, stucco buildings that made up the complex, still trying to keep out of sight; sometimes my feet ventured into the faded, crushed grass; other times I would stick to the sloppy cement sidewalks.
Carlos and the woman entered the second building, but I didn’t follow; instead, I loomed in the mutual courtyard of the complexes. Like a possessed wife tracking her husband’s mistress, I peered through windows – some left open, some shrouded by drapes or curtains – knowing that, although Carlos could not be seen, he was near.
Dozens of minutes were spent looking through windows before I finally spotted Carlos. He had a second floor apartment, and a dim light radiated from his living room. He was on the phone; I could see his plump, browned lips moving effortlessly as he turned to look outside. Sometimes he would smile, sometimes he would laugh, but most often he just stared out the window. I felt as if he was staring at me, but that would have been impossible; night fell swiftly on the apartment and my shape could no longer be distinguished from the grass or the sidewalk. Nonetheless, I felt his eyes on me, so I stared back at him.
Even at a distance his eyes were captivating; I soon found myself tracing an unfamiliar path in his pupils. This path, a road I had not traveled before, showed signs of promise. Unlike the many times before, I seemed to be getting somewhere. The path eventually circled back to where it had begun; a complete circuit. It was almost as if Carlos was now complete. Could it have been possible? And I had nothing to do with it? Frustrated and confused, I ran.
I ran all the way back to the gas station. By the time I reached the gravel parking lot my arms were sore from pumping, my legs wobbled, and a small trace of blood was felt in the depths of my throat. I crawled into the front seat of my beat-up hatchback and turned the ignition key. My body was still shaking as I drove across town to my apartment. Maybe it was because I wasn’t used to running. Maybe it was because of Carlos. Maybe – no, probably – both.
Arriving home, I began to rummage through my chipped, beat-up, coffee and vodka stained desk. Several minutes and dozens of random items later my right hand clutched the dark, leather handle of my wife’s .38 Special. She had worked as a police officer. That gun had been carried almost everywhere she went, even dinner dates to fancy restaurants, or our frequent visits to the public pool. I didn’t necessarily approve, but who was I to impinge on her sense of security.
So there I stood, the rough leather handle in my hand; the glistening, stainless steel barrel pointing harmlessly at the ground. I loaded the weapon, tucked it into the pouch of my windbreaker and left my apartment. Ducking out the back entrance of my apartment complex I began to walk toward Carlos’s cross-town apartment. I couldn’t take my car; what if someone caught by license plate? Besides, my apartment complex had security cameras at the front entrance. Those cameras had recorded my car coming into the complex a half hour earlier; for all they knew, I was still at home, sleeping or something, and that would work just fine.
The trek to Carlos’s apartment took almost an hour. I’m sure I was thinking the whole time, but can’t remember about what. Probably Carlos, probably about what I would do when he opened his apartment door.
I walked along the same concrete paths as earlier. This time, however, I made my way to the entrance of Carlos’s building, where I found a scrawny, freckled, beautiful young woman leaning against the stucco, enjoying what I can assure you was not her first (nor last) cigarette of the night. Her right foot extended from her body and was jammed between the glass door and the rose colored wall. She smiled at me as a I walked past – perhaps finding me attractive, after all, the hood of my windbreaker was covering my balding, graying hair. I gave her a gentle, confident head nod, as if to tell her I belonged there, when in fact I didn’t. Thrusting open the door, I momentarily freed her foot, and then made my way up a single, newly carpeted flight of stairs. 2nd floor, 3rd room on the right; that’s where Carlos lived.
My knocking reverberated throughout the clumsily constructed door. At first I could hear only the faint sound of music, and then a man’s voice, Carlos’s voice, telling me he was coming. He opened the door gently and stiffly stood in front of me, staring, clearly perplexed by my presence. He looked me up and down, critiquing my haphazard appearance, but didn’t say one word. I broke the silence with a confident greeting, and then asked if I could come in. His right arm motioned me in and I brushed past him, his rigid body appearing to be glued to the door frame.
Carlos, I said, as we both stood in his living room, I know you must be surprised to see me. And then I told him that all was forgiven, that we would soon be even. He didn’t know what I meant, but he seemed eager to accept my forgiveness and usher me out of his apartment. I could not leave, however. I casually walked over to his stereo and turned the volume up dramatically; Carlos’s apartment floor soon shook from the bass and small ornaments began to clatter on his glass coffee table. It’s almost midnight, he complained, the noise might wake the neighbors. Oh Carlos, I said, and then told him how much I had missed him; his questions, his charm, his eyes. He once again asked me to turn the stereo down. Instead I insisted we share a hug. He hesitated at first, but saw that I would not back away from my demand. We met in the middle of the living room and embraced awkwardly, like old friends who had lost familiarity with each other’s touch.
Seconds passed and I separated myself from his arms; we were soon standing face to face, locked onto each other’s eyes. I, of course, had the better view. Slowly, my right hand crept from my side and positioned itself across the top half of Carlos’s face, covering his eyes. He did not stop me, nor did he pull away. I bent my neck forward, licked my lips, and passionately kissed his mouth. I do not know why I kissed Carlos; it just seemed like the right thing to do. His lips, genetically plush and tan, were so inviting; they provided me with an outlet for the anger and disdain I still felt toward his person.
However, even a kiss could not stop what I had set out to do; after our mouths parted I aggressively shoved him away. As he stumbled backwards I pulled the .38 Special from my pocket, fumbled with the safety anticlimactically, and shot Carlos twice in the chest. The impact drove his body into the wall of his apartment, and he gradually slid onto the floor. I did not let him beg for his life, I did not let him make amends; I just acted, and then turned the music back down.
Then I cried. It had been seven years since I last cried, when my wife passed. In seven years I hadn’t cried for her once. I hadn’t cried for myself, my situation. But I cried for Carlos. I stood over his blood stained polo and limp body and I cried. Some of my tears fell atop his cheek. At second glance, it appeared as if Carlos was also crying. He must have been crying because I was crying; that was his way of comforting me – even in death. With the sleeve of my windbreaker I wiped my tears from his moist face. Ceremoniously, I closed his eyes. Those eyes, the object of my desire, could no longer hurt me. They could not deceive; they could not charm; they could not lie.
I left Carlos’s apartment through the opposite entrance, walked home through the shadows, and waited. For what? I guess I’m not entirely sure. Was I expecting the police to surround my house within a few hours of the murder? Was I expecting a grizzly voice on a loud speaker to demand my surrender? Whatever I was expecting, it didn’t happen. The police never came. No one knew that Carlos and I were lovers. Hell, even the two of us didn’t know. It was like we never really existed in each other’s world, and if it wasn’t for the memories (good and bad), I myself may not have believed it.
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occupational_hedonist reviewed Version 2 -
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OK first comment. Some of your sentences seem to be too long with a lot of commas in them. Might be tidier to break these up into smaller sentences.
I like the description of his eyes as rotting cherries. It’s original and non-clichéd.
In general I really liked this piece. I found it gripping and intriguing. I thought you conveyed the atmosphere and the emotion beautifully and I found your characters 3 dimensional.
I was left a bit confused as to what was going on with the races and why your character believed Carlos even though he kept losing. I think this part, personally for me was the weakest part. It might be a good idea to clarify his addiction and false hope to the gambling, or how he trusts Carlos unconditionally.
But later on his spurn and need for revenge was beautifully expressed.
Great little story.
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RavenJake reviewed Version 2 -
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This is a fun read and I enjoyed the story. I view this story as borderline because it’s really good, but could be great. It has interesting elements, good characters that could be elaborated into great characters, and a solid construction. The fact that I think it’s good made me comb through thoroughly because I’d like to see this in a perfected form.
Here are the critical notes I took:
Cut the semicolons. Four semicolons in the first paragraph and none of them are necessary.
(Carlos and I met at a bar of all places;)
“Of all places” should be removed as it says nothing and the semicolon can be replaced with a comma. The punctuation messes with the flow.
(Tuesday night if I remember correctly)
Unless this is framed, remove “if I remember correctly” as it does nothing to tell the story.
(other than me the bar was abandoned)
This is awkward and excess wording. There are a few ways to state this in a concise way, within its own sentence or tacked on to another (i.e. sole patron).
(So Carlos and I began to talk)
This is passive and an action shouldn’t “begin” or “start” unless that action is interrupted. It’s also a redundant statement as there are lines such as “first he asked me what my favorite candy was” that inherently imply that there was a conversation.
(He wore a black, V-neck t-shirt with a pink stripe down the middle.)
I like the description, but when address someone’s clothes “wore” is a boring action. If his black, V-neck shirt “sagged with sweat” or “waved under the fan” then there is a visual to accompany the list of facts. Those are dumb examples, but this is an effective way to immediately give your characters unique identity.
(From there, the questions got stranger.)
You don’t need to state this, just show the stranger questions.
The dialog works and is clear but you may wan to divide character speech into separate lines as it will alleviate the need for identifying statements.
(Boom, there’s the lie…if you get the chance. Carlos wouldn’t.)
First, the asterisks separator shouldn’t be necessary. This section has some great ideas that should be expressed in the story rather than given as a lump of digression from the character. It feels like during this section nothing is happening and the themes of the story are being highlighted for the readers benefit. It reads perfectly well when this section is cut. If these ideas aren’t conveyed by the progression of events then the progression should be adjusted. The interaction with Carlos is far more interesting, so to have a symbiosis between these ideas and the interaction will give the story a clearer and more memorable identity.
(Not even considering any repercussions)
Who doesn’t consider repercussions from dog races? If this is expounding on the character’s gullibility then this works.
(his raw, cracked hand meeting my worn leather glove.)
He doesn’t mention the “raw, cracked hand” of Carlos before this time so it seems a little bit of a stretch that he would notice this detail through a leather glove.
(I think you know where this is going: I lost, and I lost badly.)
This is lazy. I like the winning set up so much that I think the advent of a loss requires equal play time. The addiction needs explanation. The very first loss after his winning streak, and his feelings concerning it would far better convey the character’s explicit statements about gambling. Seeing this activity would be a great addition to the story and remove the need for the character to inject personal thoughts on gambling- as when he is doing that, the story isn’t happening.
(put his right hand on top of mine. His skin was moist with lotion)
This isn’t in keeping with the earlier description of the hands, unless he spent the ‘donations’ he earned on skin care products.
(This bartender, this… Carlos desired.)
Sometime during the 12 weeks of losing the trust issue may have come up. If not, there needs to be a reason for it. The hustle seems a little obvious to the reader. We need to know why it isn’t questioned for so long and through such periods of financial misfortune.
(I could not combat Carlos’s stupidity with my own)
I don’t know, it seems like Carlos had a good thing going for a long time with no risk, is he really so stupid? The transition of personality from Carlos should be adjusted. Up to this point he’s been somewhat of a malevolent force that has weaved a situation with craftiness. Almost immediately he shifts to tender, soft and needy.
(gravel parking lot my arms were sore from pumping)
I’m not sure I want to ask, but from pumping what?
The ending is interesting, but ultimately I wanted more from their dynamic- especially from Carlos. He has the opportunity to be a complex character with deep ulterior motives. Those ulterior motives seem like they could really propel this story to be something unique.
Sherry9876 reviewed Version 1 -
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I thought it was a very good read. It kept me reading to find out more. The one part you have about, “night’s army” I was a little confused. I also found that the subject was very interesting. It sound very real and I could picture as I was reading all that was going on. It was very much in detail. The beginning had a get start also. I like how you talked about how it would come about to being a big lie. Over all I think it is a great story and very well written.
shadow_loveless reviewed Version 1 -
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I would rearrange the work a little bit, allow the introductory diatribe to come in as an aside, after the meeting with Carlos and the initial lie.
The physical description of Carlos is adroitly done.
The gambling angle is an interesting twist that I didn’t see coming. Good stuff.
“Week twelve, and I was at the bar – not drinking, there was no way I could afford that – but confronting Carlos, demanding that I meet his brother, demanding that I see the dogs, demanding that he fix my life.”
The repetition here betrays a desperation without needing description. Excellent.
“I lowered my fist, released my grip and dashed for the bar’s exit; I couldn’t do it, I could not combat Carlos’s stupidity with my own; that was not the solution. And I couldn’t be there; I could not compel myself to complete him, not after what he had done.”
Again, excellent usage of repetition. You’re quite skilled in dialogue that flows organically and the sexual attraction between the characters is palpable.
“Arriving home, I began to rummage through my chipped, beat-up, coffee and vodka stained, oak desk”
Interesting descriptors here.
Quite a climax! I think it’s a good story.
music1358 reviewed Version 1 -
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I like the story, the concept and the writing. It is good. I just have a slight doubt about the ending. It might need more of a twist to kick it up to a higher level. Can you no think of another twist to the story? I don’t know. It’s is just that I’d like to see this go from good to great. Who is the hooded figure talking to Carlos outside the gas station? Why are they there? I don’t get that bit. Still. it shows real promise.
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