Every year in Boston, a writing contest is held. It's sponsored by the Dig, a free, local paper, Bukowski's (officially, Bukowski Tavern) and Harpoon Brewery. They call it The Pint and the Pen. First prize is $2,500, second is $1,000 and third is a set of shitty steak knives.
Anyway, I am broke and there was no entry fee, so why the fuck not? I submitted and was told that mine was in the top 10. It's basically a promo tool for three institutions, but fuck it man, money is money. This year's second and third place winners didn't even show up, so a friend of the third place winner read his story and received the steak knives. The second place winner's prize was donated to a victim of the Marathon bombing. First place, of course was there.
Mine was not first place, but that's ok. It was a good time anyway. Some real work probably went into that first place story and if I'm being honest, I can't really say the same for mine. Here it is:
Tall Tale
This morning when I woke up, I didn’t think things could get worse. At the foot of my bed, was a guy I’d known all my life. Gus. He was there in a heap, like the clothes I’d thrown off me before flopping into my usual drooling unconsciousness. Dead. I knew he was dead because my favorite pen, the one my ex-girlfriend had given me the birthday before she found me and her sister in a parked car in front of her work, was sticking out of his right temple and there was shit in his pants. Cold shit.
I checked the apartment. Nothing. The usual mess, lit by the weak autumn sun, filtered through busted blinds; old pizza boxes with stories I’d never bothered to finish telling myself, crumpled cigarette packs and the last streamer of condoms I’d likely never use, but would need if I went to prison. I’m not a lot of things, but they don’t call me Pretty Boy Juan for nothing. I sat in the kitchen, failed to find a clean coffee cup and opened a Harpoon, to steady my nerves. 9:12. I didn’t know how long I’d have until the cops came, but I didn’t want to waste any time. I found my keys in my jacket and a matchbook I didn’t remember taking. I retrieved a bent cigarette and opened the matchbook to light it. On the inside was a phone number and “call me.” The “e” in “me” was dotted with a heart. This didn’t make sense.
I called the number. A voice like mead, poured over ice answered.
“I was wondering if you’d call . . . after what you did to me.” I could hear the smile in her voice. As far as I knew, Juanito hadn’t gotten us into any trouble, but I couldn’t be sure, even if it did burn when I pissed. After Carol, I thought we’d been careful, but of an evening, who can remember the word?
“Yeah, you know me. I’m one of the good guys.” She laughed. It was like menthol smoke after finding my way out of a desert. “I’d like to buy you coffee.” She seemed surprised, but she agreed.
I took off, locking the door behind me. At least Gus would know what he’d missed, hanging around a guy like me. I waved “hello” as I passed the homeless lady who made a living off of money she collected from returning empties. I stopped.
“Hey Mrs. Bobrova, did you see me come in last night?”
“I see you. You drunk like always. Like you drunk now.” I waved her off.
“Was I with a big black guy?”
“No. Big black guy come later. Later, you yelling, ‘I get rid you!’ like that. You have money?” Hell, she’d done her job. I handed her a $5 and walked on.
I got to the coffee shop early and sat down. I grabbed a copy of the Dig and watched the room, over it. My eyes flew to the door as I heard it tinkle open. There she was, dressed in a long, khaki coat. She made a beeline for me and sat down, like we were two ordinary people, the kind that would get coffee together.
“So did you get rid of him for me?”
“You betcha.” She let out a sigh of relief and held my hand.
“Gus just would not leave me alone. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but he just didn’t want to accept that it’s you that’s got me all wound up, not him.” Girls. It always comes back to girls. I kissed her then. It seemed like the thing to do. I could tell by the way Juanito was starting to itch, that at least she’d given me something to remember her by. I broke this kiss and swept her hair back, looking at my own darkness reflected in her eyes. Then the darkness got deeper. I looked up. Gus! I heard a woman scream and then nothing.
When I came to, a doctor was checking my chart. I had a headache like I’d been slapped by a whale. I had no idea what happened to me, but hell or high water, I was going to get myself a pint of Harpoon. There’s a whole lot of strangeness in the world and I’ll be damned if a cold pint can’t go toward fixing them.
What's good big pimpin', I just read through this. My feedback is as follows: First let's take a look at your opening, and let's see how we could improve. Instead of using 'thought' verbs like think, believed, felt, I always try to instead expand upon what exactly it is that is causing the character to think or believe or feel something. So rather than 'The teacher believed Roger was cheating.', it would be 'There was often movement in the third row, second seat, where Roger Rimrock sat. But whenever the teacher would snap her head up, Roger was always straight as a rod. Something was up.' However, this is a short story, and you obviously weren't aiming for a ton of wordcount. In a case like this, I would honestly drop the second half of the first sentence entirely. It would read like this: And then continue on just the same from there. We don't need our protagonist telling us he didn't think things could be worse, because finding Gus dead and soiled at his bed says it all for him! Stronger, and more immediate. In the same paragraph there's one of those 'thought' verbs again right here: Again, just drop the icky and unnecessary thought verb. That gives the reader everything they need to know without being spoon-fed. This is another one I'd 'un-pack'. Again, I get it, short story and all, but it's good practice if nothing else. Give us a specific detail that'll clue us in on her surprise without outright telling us. I actually like the way this paragraph reads better without the phrase 'When I came to,' Again, there's more immediacy without it and the ensuing details will clue us in on our narrator's previous unconscious state. A few other notes on this paragraph: A lesson on similes and clichés. Anywhere you can use a simile, a metaphor is usually stronger. This is a lesson I learned from those old Chuck Palahniuk essays on writing, in fact. So, instead of 'I had a headache like I'd been slapped by a whale.', it would be 'My head had been walloped by a whale.' Stronger. Too many little comparisons distract your reader and they're usually too weak to make much of an impact. In fact, just avoid using the word 'like' to compare two things in your writing in general. As for 'hell or high water', this is a less important note than simile usage, but good to note nonetheless. Idiomatic phrases in small doses are usually pretty safe, so you're fine here. But, for practice, instead of using these packaged cliché phrases everyone knows, phrases like 'hell or high water' and 'a blessing in disguise', try re-inventing the world in a way unique to your character. Give them their own 'burnt tongue' and made-up idioms to use... because real people do that! This is an easy way to characterize people and make your story feel fresh and unique. Often times I'll go through spotting every idiom I slipped in on autopilot and replace them with phrases and verbal tics unique to the character. The result is almost always stronger writing. --- Something that worked for me in this story were the interactions you had take place between the characters. They were snappy and moved things along without being too wordy. As thenewgreen mentioned, this was very noir and that's always a fun, sexy setting to play in. Keep writing.This morning when I woke up, I didn’t think things could get worse.
This morning when I woke up, at the foot of my bed, was a guy I'd known all my life.
I knew he was dead because my favorite pen, the one my ex-girlfriend had given me the birthday before she found me and her sister in a parked car in front of her work, was sticking out of his right temple and there was shit in his pants. Cold shit.
My favorite pen, the one my ex-girlfriend had given me the birthday before she found me and her sister in a parked car in front of her work, was sticking out of his right temple. And there was shit in his pants. Cold shit.
She seemed surprised, but she agreed.
When I came to, a doctor was checking my chart.
A doctor was checking my chart. I had a headache like I’d been slapped by a whale. I had no idea what happened to me, but hell or high water, I was going to get myself a pint of Harpoon. There’s a whole lot of strangeness in the world and I’ll be damned if a cold pint can’t go toward fixing them.
Yeah, it could use a lot of work. I don't see myself working on this, but it's nice to get feedback. It's kind of a let-down that the least "serious" literary competition in the area pays the most money, but it's good advertising for those three bodies.
Very noir, I enjoyed it. Miss Barbosa seems to be making the rounds in your work.
Thanks, I'm glad you caught that! I have a hard time coming up with new characters. That reminds me, I had an idea for something we could do for #storyclub. I think the ongoing discussion of part 1 of 2666 jogged my memory a bit too. I'm eager to see the current "Caribou" story shape up, but what if we got people to collaborate on creating characters? We could even have different groups of people working on characters, fleshing them out first before dropping them in a setting with a conflict and then creating the story together from there. We could even use the existing characters in the Caribou story as a way of figuring out where the story inevitably goes. I think it might be a good opportunity for us to stretch writing skills and to learn about looking at things differently. Anyway, it's an idea. Let me know if you think it's something that might add to #storyclub.
That sounds like fun. I have zero writing training, but I would participate. It'd be your baby though. Maybe after 2666? Hubski should be fun and when you get too many "responsibilities" it can loose that aspect. Word to the wise.
Haha, not looking for responsibility for anyone, just thought it might be a way to include more people at the same time. Writing can get pretty technical, but people that write like that tend to enjoy writing that way. Maybe I'll see how it goes, but scaled very small.
I meant responsibility for you. These things take shepherding as you have no doubt found from the shortstoryclub and the book club.