thanks for the review… it’s been a while, not sure how i overlooked it for so long. but thank you, again.
...tstone
Novel Treatments / Prologue/Ch. 1 "Rose and Lilly"
ooo
White flakes, like wet confetti grated from the pulp of some albino fruit, tumbled delicately from the overcast, 2am sky. The firmament itself was a peculiar tint of gray and pastel blue, uniquely bright considering the time, and where it met with the horizon some miles ahead was anyone’s guess. Slight, subdued hills bubbled randomly up from the earth, but mostly the landscape was flat. The sloping banks on either side gave a vague indication of where the buried and trackless road might be, but made no promises. We were in farm country, blanketed in whites and soft blues, and the whole world was a virgin, pearl canvas.
I reached over to take a look at the map. In the city, house numbers on mailboxes indicate whether you are headed towards or away from the center of town. But in this particular rural area the numbers jumped up and down with seemingly no rhyme or reason. The fact that the houses were often miles apart didn’t help, either. The map may as well have been the laminated cross-section of a skin graft, veins and capillaries representing roads and highways, showing no respect for the shortest distance between two points, and signifying nothing in the end anyway. In the city everything was laid out in a grid as if on a giant waffle. All major roads ran north-and-south, or east-and-west. But we were attempting to follow a road we couldn’t see, apparently built by someone tracking the whims of a one-eyed, drunken monkey on stilts. It was like trying to follow a seventy-mile-long spaghetti noodle buried beneath a pound of mashed potatoes. I‘m certain that at one point the road actually circumnavigated an old tree.
Occasionally, we met with a fork in (what we hoped was still) the road—-a fork that clearly had been used to split firewood—-and were forced to decide which gnarled path to take. There was always a gut-feeling as to why left seemed safer, or right seemed to point in the direction of civilization. Without fail, no matter which way we chose, we would quickly begin to second-guess what had been, only moments earlier, an infallible conviction. The causes for such sudden lack of resolution came from a wide variety of sources: a thick cluster of trees, a sharp bend where the road curled back in the direction from which we were coming, the distant sound of an automobile.
Amidst the confusion and uncertainty, though, we were able to enjoy the ethereal beauty of the first real snow of the season. And that especially so, being away from the city with it’s emergency sirens, flashing lights, traffic jams, and slide-offs. The disaster and stress of recent years had left me near paralysis. And now that it was over, I just wanted to take in this other world. This other environment from years ago. As a friend, who had recently moved back to these parts, had written me two weeks prior: “We have ties to these old roads. We have bonds that surpass the restraints of memory. These pleasures, they belong to us.” There could not be, it seemed, a better night to head for home.
When we struck the large, darting buck, however, the white, virginal canvas turned quickly to red. And just before unconsciousness removed me, I thought to myself: ”Now this is funny.” Then everything went black.
Chapter 1
ooo ROSE AND LILLY ooo
(6 years earlier)
ooo ROSE ooo
The tall booth at the back of the bar was crowded to overflowing in the dimly lit, smoke-filled, so-called dive. I had managed to somehow find my way to the very center of the festivities, flanked on each side by attractive women, and downing glass after glass of cheap beer. This was a time before obsessive-compulsive thinking controlled my every action. At the time, my one concern, besides rent and car insurance, was to make enough money each week so that I might find myself in a crowded bar, surrounded by girls, and drinking large amounts of alcohol. Mission accomplished.
The hazy room radiated a deep-cherry glow, enhancing the amorousness that occurs effortlessly in a college-town bar. The music, chitchat, and laughter were great for filling awkward conversational gaps between newly acquainted singles, as well as covering up intimations that one might not want overheard—-people are often willing to do or say a lot more than you might think, so long as they’re certain no one else will find out. The music was at an appropriate volume for a chatty bar; conversely, clubs and sports bars either thumped the drink right out of your hand with obnoxious levels of bass, or played no music at all, opting for the TV instead. Yes, I was quite pleased with the venue I’d chosen for paycheck night.
I was also quite pleased with the red-haired girl sitting to my left. As I mentioned earlier, the booths were packed tight, forcing everyone to press against his or her neighbors. This afforded me the opportunity to revel in her perfumed neck without looking like a creep. It also allowed me to engage her in conversation without having to invent a reason for approach. I don’t recall one thing that we talked about. But I know that we talked with ease for quite some time. I felt that the occasion called for something more refined than the “champagne of beers,” so I ordered a carafe of red wine and two glasses.
As the table talk continued, I spoke less and less, and listened more. She had beautiful eyes, big and blue; a perfect smile with full, red lips; and just a sprinkle of freckles on her high cheekbones. She also had an elongated jaw-line; something I’d fallen in love with while studying Egyptian art. She was a dancer, and it showed. But the absolute, most charming attribute that Rose possessed was her generous, robust laugh. She laughed like Julia Roberts on nitrous-oxide. I don’t know if it was her laugh, her lips, her eyes, or the wine, but something—-maybe a combination of all four-—made me lean forward, sans permission, and kiss her. Not a peck, but a plunge. She reciprocated, but only for a moment.
“I’m not going to do this in the middle of a crowded bar.” she said, scolding me with her words, though her stare betrayed them. I smiled, rewarding her sensitivities and stepping voluntarily into the trap.
Leaving my last fifty dollars with a friend to cover our bill, I stood and walked to the door. I exited the building into the oppressive heat of late-May and waited around the corner, unsure if I’d taken this a step too far. Seconds later, I saw Rose walk out through the same glass door and look around for me. I stepped halfway between the sidewalk and the alley, where she could see me. She did, and we locked eyes. It was a supremely corny moment straight out of Hollywood stratagem. The air was thick; the sidewalks, wet. A single lamppost stood, glowing faintly, across the side street. Her heels tapped solidly and evenly, reverberating off the alley walls, as her pace quickened. I stood there motionless, waiting in partial shadow and almost total disbelief. She reached me and we embraced. I spun her around and she yielded, leaning against the red brick wall. Our eyes closed. Our lips locked. I could have sold the scene to Calvin Klein for a million bucks.
ooo
I should have felt terrible the next morning, but I didn’t. There’s no cure for a hangover like a beautiful girl and an unfamiliar bed. I recognized the fact that I had just met Rose, but for the first time since my first love I felt something real. I felt a connection. One look at her CD collection and I knew I was right.
She rolled over and looked at me. I froze. [What’s she thinking?]
“Good morning, sunshine.” she offered, stretching her long arms.
“Hi.” I replied. As if sensing my anxiety, she leaned forward, resting her left arm over my chest, and kissed me on the shoulder. I relaxed immediately and felt my confidence restored.
I asked her to join me for coffee at a local bistro only a few blocks away. She declined, though, citing class as the reason. In a sense I was relieved. I really had a fondness for this girl, and I needed a break to recharge my batteries before we began circling the same conversation pieces. We needed to go off separately and have some new things happen so that we’d have something to discuss next time. I’ve found this to be a valuable insight towards the longevity of any relationship. Too much of a good thing can be boring as hell.
Sadly, I saw Rose only a dozen or so more times after that. It hadn’t occurred to me that morning that the end of the school year was only two weeks away, and she’d be going home to Wisconsin. The time we did spend together, though, was wonderful. We went out a few times for drinks, talked on the phone nightly, and discussed plans to somehow continue seeing one another, even after graduation. She allowed me to sketch her once. I held onto the sketch for years after she’d left in one of my notebooks—-one of only two books that survived the fire. It was a good likeness, and my throat tightened each time I looked at it. [Another one that got away, thank God.]
The last time I saw Rose was a sad experience. She knocked on my apartment door, crying. I lead her to the couch and put my arm around her while she buried her face in her hands. After a few moments of sobbing, she was able to collect herself enough to tell me that she had just come from the doctor. My lungs felt as though they had collapsed, fearing what she was about to say. I tried to imagine how we would make it work as young parents who’d only just met. Such is the mind state of young men. We naturally assume that having a child would be the worst thing that could happen to us. So much so that the mere mention of the word, “doctor,” from a girl’s lips lofts flags as red as Santa Claus’s thong-bikini. Given the choice between raising a baby and defusing a bomb, seventy-five percent of young men would say, “Show me the wires. It’s always the red one.”
As it turns out, I was a self-centered jerk. Rose wasn’t pregnant—-she had contracted herpes. She swore that she had not been with anyone else, and I didn’t doubt her at all. She hadn’t cheated; she wasn’t the lying type. The doctor said that she could’ve contracted it from a variety of sources. She cried some more, and I did my best to console her. We went to the park where I made a fool of myself, climbing trees and acting like an idiot, in an attempt to take her mind off things. It wasn’t until weeks later that I considered the possibility that she might have suspected me. That her testimony of fidelity hadn’t been an attempt to clear her own name, but rather a solicitous accusation. And, though I knew I hadn’t given her any disease, I felt strangely culpable—like an innocent man who, though unpunished, had nonetheless been found guilty. Then the fear set into my slow-as-ever brain: [Maybe I didn’t give her herpes, but what if… Ah, damn it!]
I spent the next few months terrified of any bug-bite or blemish even remotely close to certain select areas, and using mirrors in ways that I’d never considered using them before.
ooo LILLY ooo
It didn’t take long for the hot nights of summer to turn into the cooler nights of autumn. I took a job as a set-up person for banquets at a resort south of town. I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be the place where I would not only meet one of the most influential people in my life, but also the starting point for what I had, at the time, written off as a dead dream.
I met Joshua my second week on the job. He was vacuuming the floors in one of the banquet rooms, the Commodore. He was about my height, but slightly broader in the shoulders. He was a quiet guy, but had a confidence that seemed to escape from his observant eyes. In an earlier time, he could have been Hitler’s poster boy: white skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, strong jaw line. [What is my obsession with jaw-lines?] Of course, snags might have arisen—-he had two black roommates, and his best friend was King of the Jews. I tried to coax him into conversation, but I ran into dead ends at every attempt. He was not a big sports fan. He didn’t really go out much to partake in the nightlife of the highest-ranking, collegiate party-town in the United States two years in a row. And our musical tastes barely intertwined, the one exception being Led Zeppelin-—a band that I really knew very little about, but had heard enough of to appreciate. At first, it seemed that Joshua was either going through something weighty that continually occupied his mind, or simply didn’t care to be friends. Being the egotist that I was, I refused to believe it was the latter.
It took a few more weeks of prodding and probing but, once I got him to open up a bit, we quickly became good friends. Our minds actually operated on a very similar program. We analyzed things in quite the same fashion using comparable criteria. We were both interested in discovering the man behind the curtain, so to speak, and intent on doing something extraordinary with our lives. We both understood the importance of working hard and doing one’s best, no matter the task. And, most importantly, we both liked to sing loud at work.
We spent our days preparing for weddings, business luncheons, sorority parties, and motivational-speaking seminars. We rolled in tables, wheeled in stacks of chairs by the hundreds, and pieced together dance floors. It was a thankless and never-ending job, as there were usually several functions going on daily. We had to coordinate with the catering staff, the maintenance crew, the contact person, and the sales-rep continuously throughout each event. Our feet never stopped moving, usually together. At some point we became the same person to most of the hotel employees. I turned my head anytime I heard someone call out, “Hey, Josh.” Half the time they were calling for me.
Our time together permitted us to discuss at great lengths the more cavernous topics like faith and philosophy. We waxed supernatural and metaphysical on any subject from politics to Hank Williams. But, no matter the topic—-it could be a dental procedure or a new soft drink—-we would somehow always arrive back at “girls.” The best advice I’d received, not to suggest followed, was when Josh said, “Even if it doesn’t work out, always leave her better than you found her.” Sounded simple. It wasn’t. I think the most beneficial aspect to our daily banter was that it got us through the long, eighteen- to twenty-hour shifts. And whenever we ran out of things to talk about, we would fill the whole resort with song.
Before long, my respect for Joshua had become fervent enough that I could say, without much trepidation, that I loved him and that he was the most tone-deaf individual walking the earth. I reminded him of these facts as often as possible.
ooo
Life at home was usually unusual. I was living in a house of musicians, and it seemed that the house was less a home and more a place for the vampires to hang out after the bars closed. I didn’t mind, it made me feel like a part of something. I had begun dating again. It was not an easy thing to do, after coming so close to the potential of authenticity with Rose. But, I suppose the brevity of our relationship made moving on less-than-traumatic. That, plus the fact that I was a male in my early twenties.
I met Lilly, ironically, at the same bar where I met Rose, but under completely different circumstances. Lilly was sent by her friend to talk to me. I should have known right then and there that she would be a bad, albeit noteworthy, person to get involved with.
I was actually sitting by myself, writing in a notebook. I was jotting down this idea I had for a TV series about an insanely-brilliant, jerk-of-a-doctor who walks with a cane and is addicted to pain medication. I decided, however, that no one would believe it. [A doctor AND a jerk?] Right about then, Lilly sat down next to me. (I should note that from that moment on, “disinterest” and “detachment,” became two of the biggest weapons in my arsenal of attraction. Pretty girls hate it when you don’t notice them.)
“Hi.” she began. “My friend over there,” she pointed to her friend, “she wants to talk to you, but she’s too shy. So she sent me; I’m not.”
“Oh, well hello.” I replied, disinterestedly. Check…
“My name’s Lilly.”
“Hi, Lilly.” I lit a cigarette, but did not put away my notebook. Detachment. Checkmate.
“So, what are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just getting away from my house.” I don’t think she really cared, because it took her less than a millisecond to respond with:
“Do you have a car? I could use a ride home.” She spoke with such disinterest and detachment—-it was intoxicating!
“Yeah, where do you live?”
ooo
Lilly lived at Trafalgar Apartments, about a ten minute drive from the bar. It was a Thursday night, which, in a college-town, is considered to be the beginning of the weekend. People were everywhere: walking to and from clubs, on the sidewalk and in the streets, hanging out of car windows, standing in a line that writhed into the parking lot at Taco Bell, trying to walk a much straighter line for the police. The midnight air had that crispness that comes after the loll of a humid summer has departed and just before the reality of a drawn-out winter has begun. The possibilities of my youth seemed endless on such nights. I had only mildly been bashed over the head with, and by, life, and the expectations for me having achieved anything were far off in the future. Living in the moment was so much easier, it seemed.
Once inside Lilly’s apartment, things moved along expediently. Unlike with Rose, there was no innocence to the state of affairs with Lilly. No sweetness. It was apparent from the moment the door closed why I was there. I literally had no time to consider my options before she was on top of me, biting my lower-lip. She was a tiny thing, but surprisingly strong. My shirt-buttons never stood a fighting chance. I was falling backwards onto the couch before I could say, “So, where’re you from?” She had my belt hanging from the ceiling-fan before I could ask, “You a student?” And I found myself in her bed upstairs before I could comment, “I like your lip-ring.” I discovered in a hurry that I did not, in fact, like it when girls played hard-to-get. Lilly had opened new doors for me.
ooo
The room was dark, save a soft-violet light that hung above her open door. It gave the experience a velvety feel that it didn’t really merit. As I looked around the curious room, I noticed books in every corner, heaped in sloppy stacks; spines half split-open. I was happy to know that my new acquaintance was a reader. Her clothes, all seemingly purple in the hazy glow, were hung neatly in a large closet next to an antique sewing-machine. On the walls were large, framed posters: a couple of Andy Warhol’s back-to-school classics; the Eiffel Tower; and a familiar black-and-white of Claude Monet in his garden. [I used to have that one. Stupid break-ups!]
Lilly had fallen asleep, but I was wide awake. I noticed a bottle of burgundy on her end-table, but no glasses. I decided to take a drink straight from the bottle but, before it reached my lips, I noticed a crouching figure move outside the room, in the upstairs hallway. I froze. Having never asked Lilly whether or not she had roommates, I didn’t know if I should be concerned about the stranger who had apparently been watching us. The figure stood quietly, and turned to walk away. I heard a door shut softly, and then a thud and a girl’s voice, wincing. [Now that’s the sound of a stubbed toe.] I decided to let it go. [So she watched. So what? Maybe she’ll have suggestions in the morning.] I pulled a cigarette and lighter from my blue-jeans, crumpled on the floor beside the bed. I tried to recreate the night’s events in my brain—-the unsolicited attention from two attractive girls, [Whatever happened to her friend, anyway?], the drive to the apartment, the NASCAR-style hook-up, the peeping-Tom-girl-—but I could only manufacture flashes of memory. I breathed deeply and looked at Lilly, sleeping. I repositioned the blanket over her exposed shoulder and leaned back against the solid headboard. I looked again at the Monet poster near the foot of the bed; his garden was staring back at me. I lit my cigarette and exhaled a death plume.
The burgundy was calling my name.
ooo
I awoke, naked, to the sound of a low growl. Lilly’s dog, Roosevelt, was a mean-looking creature. His snarl was menacing and his wide display of sharp teeth made his case for him. I was immediately reminded of a Richard Prior quip: “Does it look like I’m smiling, mother fucker?”
”No.” I thought. ”You’re not smiling. Good dog. Good, not-smiling dog. Please don’t take my dangle! Take a finger, take my nose. But leave my dangle, please!”
Lilly barely stirred. “Rosey!” she roared. “Go!”
Roosevelt’s face went soft, and his teeth took cover beneath the flappy skin of his mouth. He turned and thumped his way out of the now sun-filled room. Lilly rolled over, facing me, and drifted back to sleep. I was surprised and delighted to find that Lilly was even more appealing in the light of day. She had short, black hair and a smooth, ruddy complexion. She had a build that was not at all displeasing to look at: feminine and firm. Her neck rested on the pillow at an elegant angle, and lead south towards her perfectly symmetrical breasts. Her stomach invited kisses and caressing, but I let her be. It was now nearly noon, and I needed to be getting on with my day.
I stood and began to dress. As I was pulling on what remained of my shirt, Lilly sat up and yawned, allowing the blanket to fall into folds just covering her thighs.
“Are you leaving?” she asked, mid-yawn and stretch.
“Yeah, I probably should. I work later.”
“Do you want some breakfast?” she offered. “At least some coffee.”
“Sure, coffee sounds good.”
I went downstairs while Lilly found her robe, passing a closed door adjacent to Lilly’s on the way. My mind drifted for a moment back to the nighttime spectator who’d stubbed her toe, and then to the abandoned friend Lilly had been with at the bar. Once downstairs, I made myself at home on the plum-colored sofa next to an open, screen door. Lilly was down promptly and put on a pot of coffee. She was obviously quite relaxed, more so than I, which made me even less so. I remembered the narrow escape from Rose’s dilemma, and reached into my pocket, grabbing hold of the empty condom package for assurance. I’d made a pact with myself during those months of worry and self-examination that casual sex would never be quite so casual again. [No more jumping ship without a life raft.] I wondered what precautions Lilly had taken to produce such an air of nonchalance the morning after. I also wondered about the stranger upstairs.
“So, you’ve got roommates?” I began, listening to the coffee percolate.
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh, I just noticed that one of the doors was closed this morning. I think they were all open last night.”
“Yeah, that’s just Liv. She never sleeps with the door open—-Roosevelt is not welcome in her room.”
“Liv. That’s not who you were with last night, is it?” She slinked slowly towards me, like a lioness about to pounce. She sat a cup of steaming coffee in front of me and then curled up on my lap with her arms loose around my neck. I felt like a really bad stage-prop.
“I was with you last night.” she nearly purred, kissing my forehead. I wondered if she was purposefully avoiding the connection or if there was simply no connection to be made. Perhaps her friend at the bar and Liv were two different people. And apparently her friend at the bar was of little importance to Lilly. I suddenly noticed that Roosevelt was sitting in the corner of the living room, giving me his best not-smile. I reached for the coffee, balancing Lilly with my left arm, and watched as Roosevelt’s eyes followed my hand.
Taking a careful sip, I pressed on, “So, what do you think happened to your friend?”
“Who?” she asked, as if in a wakeful state of dreaming.
“…At the bar. You were there with someone. Sitting over near the pool tables.”
“Oh, Melanie? She’ll be fine. She knew the risks of sending me over to talk to you.” Her eyes were half-closed and her robe was half-open. “She just needs to grow a pair.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. Her body-warmth was soothing and my curiosities began to wither. My hand brushed against, then rested on, her smooth leg. I ran my fingers from her knee down to her ankle and gently gripped her foot with the meaty palm of my hand. She squeezed slightly my shoulders and neck with her arms, and entangled her long fingers in my crazy hair. Surprisingly, I, too, began to drift into a half-asleep state of waking. I was right there with Dorothy, the Tin Man, and the rest; walking through the poppy-field. I had hours before I needed to be at the resort. [Plenty of time to… get home… To shower. Dress. Plenty of time to get… home. Get ready… for work. No place… no place… like home.]
ooo
Typically, the stroll from my bedroom to the shower was not likely to draw a crowd. My roommates and their hangers-on were accustomed to seeing half-naked people cross the living room and head upstairs. But something caught the attention of everyone awake that afternoon. It was certainly not my physique, nor did the towel around my waist slip off in mid-stride. Rather, it was something that I was completely unaware of which begged a curious gaze from everyone present. Parrish’s comment, mid-toke, stopped me in my tracks and derailed my caboose:
“Whoa! She put her stamp on you, my friend.”
Several people chuckled—-not out of derogation, but with combustible intrigue. “Oh!” and “Shit!” seemed to be the general accord. Observing my baffled facial-expression, Parrish grabbed me by the shoulders and escorted me to one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the southern wall. With my back turned to the reflecting glass, I craned my head over my shoulder to discover the object of everyone’s amusement: eight, red claw-marks stretching from my spine to my outer ribcage, four on either side. For the briefest of moments I was alarmed, but quickly realized what had happened. An almost prideful sensation came over me. [Eight red badges of bedroom greatness! Priceless.] It would not, however, be the last time Lilly drew blood.
I proceeded to take a shower, avoiding the broken skin on my back, and dress for work. Hopping into my 1987 Dodge Daytona, leaking gas as if it was designed to do so, I headed south for the hotel.
ooo
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photographer200 reviewed Version 3 -
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Overall, your writing style is clean, descriptive, humorous, fun and entertaining to read. Never did I feel like I should stop reading.
The introductory writing provides a nice lead in for Chapter One.
Just a personal opinion, but I might start your story with the last line of the first paragraph. It’s a great summary. I would reword it slightly as …
We were in open (I added “open”) farm country. The whole world appeared as (instead of “was a”) virgin, pearl canvas, painted (instead of “blanketed”) in whites and soft blues.
you are headed: I think this should read as “you were headed” or more correctly “one was headed” based on your beginning tense of story telling.
laminated cross-section of a skin graft, veins and capillaries: use of this type of description, even if it is for a map, really contrasts, and in my opinion, takes away from the scenic description and feeling you have established so far.
“The tall booth at the back of the bar was crowded to overflowing …” Given your following description of the bar, I’m not sure how relevant this detail is … it is only one of many booths.
“As I mentioned earlier, the booths were packed tight …” So you need to combine this thought and the one in my comment above into one sentence and decide where to place it in your story.
“She laughed like Julia Roberts …” Careful about references to real people and other people. You might need to figure out how to describe this laugh in words.
Overall, I like your description of Rose, and Lilly, and Joshua. Your descriptions of places and actions are very good, too.
“I could have sold the scene to Calvin Klein for a million bucks.” Great line! I might go with a perfume like Obsession.
as red as Santa Claus’s thong-bikini … a disturbing thought, I’m sorry.
he could have been Hitler’s poster boy: a great desciption.
Richard Prior quip: “Does it look like I’m smiling, mother fucker?” GOOD, no, GREAT humor!
I went downstairs while Lilly found her robe, passing a closed door adjacent to Lilly’s … Seems an awkward description, at least in the reading of it, but I don’t have any fantastic replacements for you.
giving me his best not-smile. Great touch!
and dress for work: and dressed for work.
Overall, very good, and keeps me wondering where things are going. Some might say the pace is slow, but your clean writing style, with its humor, allows you to do this while still keeping the reader captivated. Good work!
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EJSchwartz reviewed Version 3 -
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I agree with you that this was a little long winded, however with that being said, I really liked it a lot. There was humor, depth. I felt like I was there watching him. This is a good piece. I would like to read more. You have a great start here.
Good Luck!
im_dragon_f8 reviewed Version 3 -
Read 62% of the Item
I made it through most of it, I found it as a good story, but I personally wasn’t very taken to it; not very captivated by the word usage.
BigMamaMags reviewed Version 3 -
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I really liked this. Without knowing where this is going, I think I would read on to find out. Its hard to judge the plot (adventure’s of a young man?).I do think however that this offering is a good start to to a bigger piece. I liked the characters of Rose, Lilly and even Roosevelt. I don’t remember seeing the name of your main character. Since this was a first person account I guess that’s why. If you mentioned it and I over looked it (several times), I’m sorry. His jumping to conclusion with Rose, was typically male. You never mentioned if he did or not have the STD. I thought his fondness for Joshua might lead to a relationship or encounter, but was pleased you kept it platonic. I’m not homophobic, I just enjoyed the friendship between the two men, very refreshing. Lilly, was the good/bad girl. You demonstrated her character well. The journey from first real love to the present was very believable as was your description of a typical college town and going ons. Great job. Would love to read more.
stephanloy reviewed Version 3 -
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Good character study, though I would approach it with perhaps more focus and intertwine the segments. This seems more like three vignettes than a single story, with a journalistic, somewhat filed and fettered feel. It would have a much more fluid feel if the Josh story were overlapped with the Rose and Lilly stories. Not that the way you handled it is somehow flawed; how could I say that without knowing the trajectory of the story as a whole? Just a suggestion of style. One other thought: it seems to me that the dog and the “friend” would disappear from the guy’s mind once he has an attractive, nearly naked young woman curled up on his lap nibbling at his forehead. Considering the character and the context of trhe narrative so far, you might be being a bit too coy with the subject of sex. Not that you ought to resort to porn, but the story seems to scream out for more detailed, erotic descriptions.
SeattleghostWriter reviewed Version 3 -
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This definitely has a good start for a solid literary style type novel. I am not sure if that is what you are attempting to go for. Nor, am I sure what type of genre this is actually befitting under. Yet, there is a definitive literary style to this piece. A nice flow, a rhythmic heartbeat within the overall piece.
While there are some awkward sentences. The one thing I would comment on is the prologue. I am not particularly sure what the Prologue has to do with the story itself. To me (In my opinion) the Prologue suffers from serious adjective overkill. In essence, unlike the overall piece itself, the Prologue has more descriptive unnecessary words that seem to burden the readers mind with too much decriptors.
My suggestion is to see how the piece stands alone outside of the Prologue. You have a definite good hook at the beginning that keeps the readers attention and you continue to lead the reader along with tidbits of revelation of the characters, events and their coming and goings in one anothers life.
I definitely like the fact that you have chosen the First Person viewpoint. It shows well in the story how the narrator voice speaks and how he relates his feelings, the emotion in the story and the anxiety that is sometimes built up.
Overall, this is definitely a good start for a literary piece.
DWVickers reviewed Version 3 -
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The best segment was the bar-Lilly’s bedroom sequence. The story moves forward better there. The three parts seem disconnected except the narrator in the third refers back to events in the second. The narrators in 2 and 3 don’t sound enough like the same person, though. Can you find an identifying personality trait that you can mention several times without making it seem repetitious? The narrator in 1 seems quite different as well.
I know you’re mainly developing characters here, but I missed have at least part of an overall plot to attach them to. Why should your readers care about this young man and his two girlfriends? Could you give us at least some hint of what your driving crisis will be?
I rated ‘talent worth shaping’ high because of your interesting use of imagery and metaphor.
Think about the voice of your narrator. This reads like it’s his diary. Perhaps you should step the narrator back a bit from the character by reducing the number of internal observations.
NancyAllen reviewed Version 3 -
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Interesting start, good imagery. The script gets a little wordy at “An where it met with the horizon, etc. I became interested at “where buried and trackless road…” “One-eyed, drunken monkey on stilts” seems as if you are pushing it,maybe overkill and out of place. Reference to a “fork” after noodles and mashed potatoes is comical.
Curtastrophe reviewed Version 2 -
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The first sentence (as it should be) is excellent and really sets the tone for the next two paragraphs.
”...jumped up and down with seemingly no rhyme or reason.” The last part of this sentence is border-line cliche, so I’d ditch it in the revise. “Avoid cliches like the plague”. :)
Yes these first two paragraphs are written with magic. I could say you have a real way of painting with words, but I think that would sound trite. Or I could say you’ve managed to weave a beautiful narrative tapestry, but I think I’ve used that phrase too many times already. I’ll just say that although this first part is pretty heavy on the metaphors/analogies, my appreciation for it is nothing less than a flaming exclamation mark.
Consider this revised sentence, “--And-- Now that it was over, I just wanted to take in this other world, this other environment from years ago.” I think it’s got much more ‘flow’ this way.
”...moved back to those parts…” Shouldn’t it be ‘these’?
You do a good job of describing the setting of the bar. Anyone who has been to a college town immediately recognizes this place and for those who haven’t your descriptions conjure up an atmosphere that is real in its sense of place.
Nice description of Rose.
”...into the oppressive heat of late…” VS. “The air was cool; the sidewalks…” This is an easy fix in the revise.
There are some very good observations about life and love and sex and the fear that all young guys who are having sex feel to their core – the word doctor.
I’m assuming the brackets you are using to indicate interior monologue. You can actually italicize by putting and underscore (_) before and after any text you want to emphasize. I’ll send you an Urbis formatting sheet that someone sent to me. It’s invaluable.
SO now we’re entering a new “chapter” in which I assume there will be a female character named Lilly. Was it subconcious to name both heroines after flowers? Or is there something more clever going on? I’d place my bet on the latter.
Josh seems like a cool character.
And Lilly… Whoah. Quite the opposite to Rose it would seem.
High marks for you, this was a very well-written piece.
-Curt
Blue_Eyes reviewed Version 2 -
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White flakes, like wet confetti grated from the pulp of some albino fruit, tumbled delicately from the overcast, 2am sky.
This first line really grabbed me, and held on tight during my entire ride throughout this exhilarating piece! I enjoyed the lively dialogue throughout, which really held my attention and never let go. Also, the intricate descriptions of the first line were continued throughout the entire piece, which is quite a feat. Reading this was like driving that ‘87 Daytona at 100 mph on a wet, winding road! Very fun read. :)
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