Assorted prose

[Cronopio]

Comments and criticsim most welcome. This story is a couple of years old.

*

Rain & Neon

Rain and neon licking the streets of Oblivion, US of A. Caressing the asphalt, promising nothing but sleep and whiskey sour. I find you in a bar called The Flytrap and you've already downed six shots, but you look me straight in the eye and say

"Yeah, she tried to kill me."

I can see no bruises on your face, no cuts or scars, but then you always were a fast healer.

"What now?" I ask as I wave to the bartender and ask him to bring me a shot. I gulp it down without even blinking. The grey smoke hovers above the rim of the shot glass and disperses as I slam it down on the counter.

"Nothing", you say and tap your fingers on the bar for another.

"You're sure she won't be coming after you? You're sure she's not going to be coming into this very bar sometime soon?"

"Why would she?"

"She tried to kill you. Remember?"

"Yeah. And let's just say ..."

You turn around on the stool. I see your eyes. They are very black.

"You took care of it ..." The words slip out of me; I cannot help myself.

The rain coming down outside in broad torrents, tapping, tapping, your fingers tapping on the counter.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

I look up, see the big mirror behind the bar. I look for your reflection and find it after several excruciating seconds. I let out a sigh, but then I realize I cannot see the bartender's reflection. His stark white shirt is very visible behind the counter, but not in the mirror. As I reach into my coat you put your hand on my arm, stopping me.

"Wait. Let me just order one more sour. He makes 'em damn fine, gotta give him that."

Rain and neon, blurring reality outside the windows. I really hope you killed her, lest we all have to die. You don't fall in love with them and you don't make friends with them.

As the bartender comes with your whiskey, you've already whipped out the cross and laid it on the counter.

 

[Einherjar86]

That's not a bad bit of short prose. I have a couple technical issues. For starters:

"The grey smoke hovers above the rim of the shot glass and disperses as I slam the glass down on the counter."

I wouldn't repeat "glass" in this sentence; it's too repetitious. I'd suggest: "The grey smoke hovers above the rim of the shot glass and disperses as I slam it down on the counter." Readers will be able to tell what you mean by "it" from the context of the sentence.

My only other impression is that some of the dialogue seems a bit strange; but there's clearly something going on in this story that I'm not picking up on. I get that the secondary character seems to have killed someone who might be his "girlfriend," but I'm not entirely sure the two characters are human (or, for that matter, if the bartender is). Thus, depending what they are, the dialogue might be entirely appropriate.

Anyway, it's a nice little piece. I enjoyed it, and I enjoyed the atmosphere of uncertainty and tension.

 

[Cronopio]

First of all: Thank you so very much for reading, and thank you for taking the time to comment. In regards to the sentence you mentioned, you're absolutely right. I guess it's one of those things that slipped by when I read through the text again prior to posting. But your suggestion is spot on.

As for the plot, I don't want to give too much away, if someone else wants to peruse the thread, and also because I believe it's very cool when the reader is left 'hanging', thus inspiring them to come up with their own interpretation. I know what I had in mind when writing, but the way your mind goes when reading is just as important to the story.

 

[waif]

I think we're meant to understand that the bartender is a vampire (no reflection, cross). It's definitely intriguing, though. I suspect that "you" are not entirely human either.

The second-person viewpoint is definitely cool, and works pretty well here.

 

[Dak]

What WAIF said.

 

[Saparmurat_Niyazov]

I wouldn't repeat "glass" in this sentence; it's too repetitious.

, that's almost ironic.

 

[Onder]

One stupid bitch from high-school used to write some stories. She was immensely ugly and everybody thought she would be a frigid virgin. Then one time I read her story on the internet and while I was fairly certain it would be a fantasy story, it still surprised me. It was a sex story (literally pornographic) about two gay vampires. It was like twenty pages of a sexual intercourse.

Then one time she arrived on a party and her boyfriend had a bra. Such an ugly couple.

 

[Einherjar86]

, that's almost ironic.

I guess it's one of those things that slipped by when I read through the text again prior to posting.

As I was going to say, I do the same thing all the time. It's something you usually don't catch until you proofread, or have someone else read your material.

 

[Cronopio]

Everybody, thank you for your input. Runk, I sorta agree with what you're saying. Maybe the story is too short for an ending like that to be slapped on. Worth thinking about though, as I was kind of going for ambiguity in the first place.

And thank you Onder, for managing to contribute with something completely different, yet on topic, as always.

 

[Cronopio]

Part II of my pretentious coffee shop prose. This one's called

Herself With Her Shadow

I have barely entered the room, yet there is an instant change in the atmosphere. She sits atop the duvet, back turned to me. I can feel the muscles in her face tensing, the skin stretching over the ivory cage that is her skull. Something moves therein; rustles like discarded candy wrappers. I have an ear for these things; it rests within my real left ear as a protrusion on the ear-drum. Anything you whisper about me, I will hear. And other things.

But this is about her, not me. Beside her, on the beadspread, rests all the literature she's been digesting the last few weeks. Dostoyevsky, Sartre, Nabokov, Cythraul. When able to, she has been perusing these volumes in their original language. I am in awe; upon inhaling I almost choke on the multitude of sensations that flitter around her head. She has been trying so hard.

"Hey", I say, let the word float between us for a couple of seconds before reaching out for it, crushing it slowly between my fingers. Its transparent hull feels like lukewarm jelly against the skin. Has she heard?

She has. Turning around, she manages a smile that stretches her thin lips into a distorted clown's mouth. When she sees my reaction, her face grows slack again.

"Don't be sad", I tell her. "At least you're trying. And you're learning."

Her eyes are glittering turqoise ovals, it almost hurts to look directly at them. But I am one to labor with chance; otherwise there can be no life.

She opens her mouth, trying to speak, but only a croak escapes.

"Don't say anything", I say. "Just read ... some more." I smile at her; this is the way we plant security in those we love, or want to love. I know what I want, and this knowledge has annihilated the greatest fear of all.

"I've got something for you", I say, hoisting the burlap sack I've been carrying up on the bed, letting it rest beside her. "A present", I continue as I untie the twine keeping it shut, letting shadows slowly spill out like purple billowy smoke over my hands.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

Later, you will tell me "yes", in a thousand ways or more.

 

[zabu of nΩd]

Hey, cronopio actually has a talent. Who knew?

 

[Saparmurat_Niyazov]

Yeah, his total inability to make funny memes overshadows his ability to write an intriguing tale.

 

[Cronopio]

Wow guys, thanks for these backhanding compliments.

 

[JontRevolting]

This stories gave me a boner,is that wrong?

 

[Blind Guardian]

Fiddler In The Room

Daniel paced the street below Spruce Monument in a resolute pace, fast approaching the harbor promenade that since midday had become littered with cracked clay and white mounds of rice. He must have given a curious impression to the few townsfolk still outside during that late afternoon with his hunched back and flailing neck, but his resolution afforded him little consideration for outward appearance. Indeed, weeks of intense mental preparation had equalled weeks of physical neglect, and his pink gut and saggy breasts had swelled to inappropriate proportions to rival the fattening labyrinths of his brain. His smile – the few times he used it – was a grotesque display of misshaped tangents and yellow rot, and his hair was a sparse mess of thin stripes climbing down his temples like vine on a vacant and forgotten brick house. Any observer would consider him a wreck. ”No matter”, he had thought, ”I'll meet laddy, I'll meet him and for a short while I will forget, no transcend the petty judgment of other people”.

He turned a corner on the promenade and stopped by a small wooden door facing the water. A young Portuguese boy answered his knocking and invited him into the house. The boy slowly led him up a set of stairs into a small dark room completely empty of furniture. In the damp room the balding old kiddie fiddler indulged in primal sin while the sun shot waves of red light streaming through blinds like a virus past the safety grid.