magicshoemonkey
December 30th, 2006, 01:28 AM
I've been trying to get this short story done for a couple of weeks, and I'm not getting anywhere. I thought maybe somebody on here could help me out. The thing is I'm not sure where to go with it or if it's even going in a good direction as is.
Basically the plot is that an alien who has moved to earth for unknown reasons has kept this man as a prisoner/friend/pet/etc. for a long time, and this story is about how the alien is killed and the man ends up traveling through space, first as a prisoner and then on his own. This story, however, only covers the death of the alien, and the imprisonment of the main character. Anyway, the idea is really not for a book or anything just a group of short stories about this guy. I'm not even sure I'll get farther than this one.
I don't have a lot, but maybe it's enough for someone to point out some problems or something, or tell me it sucks and I should go on to something else.
I'm still not quite sure what the rules are on language here, so I'll edit the languge in the story, though it's not much. It's probably obvious what it is, though. Here's the story:
We were sitting at our usual table in the back of the room listening to a local Jazz trio attempt “Giant Steps.” They weren’t doing so hot. Ed and I came into this same Jazz club every Saturday night to hear the local talent, smoke, and, some odd weeks, talk. The talent was scarce, but I think we came to this particular club because Ed liked the tobacco shop next door, and he always stocked up before we came in. Ed smoked about half a carton a day.
I was staring blankly at the drummer (the only real musician on the stage) with my gloved hands resting on the table, and Ed was staring at the ceiling, elbows resting on the table, holding his scotch in one had and a lit cigarette in the other. His blue dress shirt’s sleeves were rolled up, showing the cheap watch on his left hand and the worn WWJD bracelet on his right. “You ever read Chaucer?” Ed asked.
I jumped, suddenly jolted from my daze. “I think in school. I’m not a big fan.” Most of my reading consists of thrillers, mysteries and spy novels.
Ed smirked his capricious smirk. “One of the stories in there, the Miller’s Tale, there’s a guy who is told that Noah’s flood is coming again. He goes up into the ceiling of his house with a bunch of barrels and gets ready to drop them down when this little prick student who lives in his house tells him to. So, while he’s up there waiting, that prick student is screwing around with his wife. Did I mention that the student was the one who told him about the flood?”
“No, you didn’t.” I said.
“Oh, well, he was. It’s a riot. You should pick it up sometime.”
“I don’t know.”
“You should; it’s good stuff.” He took a long drag of his cigarette and released the smoke as if relief had suddenly washed over him.
Ed was always bringing up some classic novel or poem or story, asking me if I’d read it, recommending it to me. He wanted me to read more enlightening stuff, or so he said. He once became so angry with me for refusing to read Jane Eyre that he locked me in a room for six weeks, sending in food through the slot under the door. I nearly went insane.
Ed’s hand grasped my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. They’re not really swingin’ tonight.” We got up and walked out into the city streets and the dark, muggy night. Ed threw the butt of his cigarette on the ground, pulled out another, and lit it.
We walked to Ed’s car, an 89 Accord with a “Baby-on-Board” sign in the back window and a "&#&# Happens” sticker on the back bumper next to the “Jesus” fish. Ed started the car and we drove out of the city and toward home.
Home was a rural town that was 20 miles from the city; it was a quaint little gathering of people who formed a town only because it was convenient. We lived in a two story Victorian-style house on the hill at the end of a long drive off the main highway. It was a nice place, really.
When we got home Ed went into the living room to read and listen to the news on the radio while I went to the undesignated room at the end of the upstairs hallway to play my guitar.
Ed’s experiments on my body have given me many gifts. My hands were much more suited to playing than they had been before; Ed had lengthened them and made the fingers able to stretch farther still. My stamina and strength have also been greatly increased. Without such enhancements I would probably not have survived as long as I have; but back to that evening.
I practiced for about two hours before I went down to grab something to eat. Ed was sitting in his chair reading some old pulp magazine; I walked into the kitchen to make a sandwich. That was when the doorbell rang.
“It’s way too late for Mormons,” Ed said.
“May be one of the neighbors, “ I said. We didn’t have any friends, or at least Ed didn’t. I didn’t keep in touch with anyone.
“They wouldn’t walk this far to borrow a cup of sugar. You go upstairs and get the shotgun.” Ed grabbed a pistol from the bookshelf next to the stairs and stuck it in his jacket pocket while I headed up the stairs.
I didn’t see what happened. I wish I had. All I know is while I was pulling the shotgun from the cabinet in the bedroom I heard a gunshot and Ed came running up the stairs screaming.
Basically the plot is that an alien who has moved to earth for unknown reasons has kept this man as a prisoner/friend/pet/etc. for a long time, and this story is about how the alien is killed and the man ends up traveling through space, first as a prisoner and then on his own. This story, however, only covers the death of the alien, and the imprisonment of the main character. Anyway, the idea is really not for a book or anything just a group of short stories about this guy. I'm not even sure I'll get farther than this one.
I don't have a lot, but maybe it's enough for someone to point out some problems or something, or tell me it sucks and I should go on to something else.
I'm still not quite sure what the rules are on language here, so I'll edit the languge in the story, though it's not much. It's probably obvious what it is, though. Here's the story:
We were sitting at our usual table in the back of the room listening to a local Jazz trio attempt “Giant Steps.” They weren’t doing so hot. Ed and I came into this same Jazz club every Saturday night to hear the local talent, smoke, and, some odd weeks, talk. The talent was scarce, but I think we came to this particular club because Ed liked the tobacco shop next door, and he always stocked up before we came in. Ed smoked about half a carton a day.
I was staring blankly at the drummer (the only real musician on the stage) with my gloved hands resting on the table, and Ed was staring at the ceiling, elbows resting on the table, holding his scotch in one had and a lit cigarette in the other. His blue dress shirt’s sleeves were rolled up, showing the cheap watch on his left hand and the worn WWJD bracelet on his right. “You ever read Chaucer?” Ed asked.
I jumped, suddenly jolted from my daze. “I think in school. I’m not a big fan.” Most of my reading consists of thrillers, mysteries and spy novels.
Ed smirked his capricious smirk. “One of the stories in there, the Miller’s Tale, there’s a guy who is told that Noah’s flood is coming again. He goes up into the ceiling of his house with a bunch of barrels and gets ready to drop them down when this little prick student who lives in his house tells him to. So, while he’s up there waiting, that prick student is screwing around with his wife. Did I mention that the student was the one who told him about the flood?”
“No, you didn’t.” I said.
“Oh, well, he was. It’s a riot. You should pick it up sometime.”
“I don’t know.”
“You should; it’s good stuff.” He took a long drag of his cigarette and released the smoke as if relief had suddenly washed over him.
Ed was always bringing up some classic novel or poem or story, asking me if I’d read it, recommending it to me. He wanted me to read more enlightening stuff, or so he said. He once became so angry with me for refusing to read Jane Eyre that he locked me in a room for six weeks, sending in food through the slot under the door. I nearly went insane.
Ed’s hand grasped my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. They’re not really swingin’ tonight.” We got up and walked out into the city streets and the dark, muggy night. Ed threw the butt of his cigarette on the ground, pulled out another, and lit it.
We walked to Ed’s car, an 89 Accord with a “Baby-on-Board” sign in the back window and a "&#&# Happens” sticker on the back bumper next to the “Jesus” fish. Ed started the car and we drove out of the city and toward home.
Home was a rural town that was 20 miles from the city; it was a quaint little gathering of people who formed a town only because it was convenient. We lived in a two story Victorian-style house on the hill at the end of a long drive off the main highway. It was a nice place, really.
When we got home Ed went into the living room to read and listen to the news on the radio while I went to the undesignated room at the end of the upstairs hallway to play my guitar.
Ed’s experiments on my body have given me many gifts. My hands were much more suited to playing than they had been before; Ed had lengthened them and made the fingers able to stretch farther still. My stamina and strength have also been greatly increased. Without such enhancements I would probably not have survived as long as I have; but back to that evening.
I practiced for about two hours before I went down to grab something to eat. Ed was sitting in his chair reading some old pulp magazine; I walked into the kitchen to make a sandwich. That was when the doorbell rang.
“It’s way too late for Mormons,” Ed said.
“May be one of the neighbors, “ I said. We didn’t have any friends, or at least Ed didn’t. I didn’t keep in touch with anyone.
“They wouldn’t walk this far to borrow a cup of sugar. You go upstairs and get the shotgun.” Ed grabbed a pistol from the bookshelf next to the stairs and stuck it in his jacket pocket while I headed up the stairs.
I didn’t see what happened. I wish I had. All I know is while I was pulling the shotgun from the cabinet in the bedroom I heard a gunshot and Ed came running up the stairs screaming.