no working title
Sep. 22nd, 2006 03:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
novapsycheOn July 4th, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
netmouse held a writers' workshop in her home. The second half of the workshop involved everyone writing a short story with a slightly apocalyptic theme/setting. As I had complained earlier that day, I really have no idea how to execute a short story, so what I have so far seems to be the beginning of a novella. I picked up the story again this week, but I still do not have a full chapter. (Yes, this means that what follows is unfinished.) I thought I'd post what I have, in the hopes that by doing so I will have more motivation to revisit it.
What you can do, as a reader, is tell me if what you read here makes you want to read more.
July fourth. Yeah. What a holiday. What a breakdown. I don't know how anyone could have come up with such a crazy, and I mean crazy, side of summer. Were we supposed to enjoy weather like this? And all this refuse, newspaper strewn all over the street. It's hard enough to keep walking.
Up ahead, NRG. Funny. I need a place to crash, but before that, let's get some groove on. What else to do in this wasteland. It's time to dive.
"What'll it be?"
Dan looked at the scraggly face before him. "It'll be tequila all night. You got any rooms?"
The bartender sucked his teeth. The dust on the liquor bottles seemed to extend down his shoulder into his skin. His lip was no more than a scar, and when he grinned Dan could hear the cash register in his head.
"$250 a night. Unless you got something to barter."
Dan dropped a small leather bag on the counter and motioned to it. The bartender loosened its drawstring and measured out a few crystals. "These'll do. All right. Upstairs, you got a bed, a sink and a toilet. How many nights you'll be needin'?"
"Just tonight. And I want a woman."
This corridor between Ann Arbor and Detroit is doable, but pain on the feet! Augh. Gotta relax. Stretch them toes out, ah, yes, all right. This is the lamest bed ever, at least for what I paid. Springs in my back? Ugh. Well, it's better than nothing.
There's more work in Detroit, it's just the caravanning out that way. It takes days. Well, if you're smart it takes days. Otherwise—
"Knock, knock, rag man." A familiar face opened the door. Into the closet space walked the scarsmile bartender, clasping a girl at the elbow. She was veiled, wrapped in gauzy, dirt-colored fabric, and had a slight curl to her stature. All Dan could see were her eyes.
Dan sat up and indicated a corner of his bed. The bartender thrust the woman toward it. Teetering, the woman found her footing before sitting with what dignity she could muster.
"Where's my tip?" Scarsmile demanded.
Dan clicked his tongue. "Bring up your top-flight tequila in an hour. And a goddamned blanket—this mattress is crap. You'll get your tip."
The bartender grunted, paused, then closed the door behind him.
Dan turned to the figure on his bed. Her lowered eyes were the color of sand, the color of a desert snake. Each corner angled up into cheekbone. A thousand years ago, as far as he could tell, her blood knew royalty.
"Mabon," she said.
Her word startled him. She was a cheeky one, to speak first in such a situation.
"Is that your name?" Dan asked. She fidgeted, which he took as a yes. "Unwrap, Mabon. We're to be friends."
Mabon stared at the floor, then began to unravel. A skirt came into view, then a close-fitting shirt. Her arms were bare beneath her wrap, yet bore the same tinge of dirt as her clothing. When she finished, she folded her garment and placed it underneath the bed. Still, the veil remained. Dan waited to see if she would remove it. She did not.
netmouse held a writers' workshop in her home. The second half of the workshop involved everyone writing a short story with a slightly apocalyptic theme/setting. As I had complained earlier that day, I really have no idea how to execute a short story, so what I have so far seems to be the beginning of a novella. I picked up the story again this week, but I still do not have a full chapter. (Yes, this means that what follows is unfinished.) I thought I'd post what I have, in the hopes that by doing so I will have more motivation to revisit it.What you can do, as a reader, is tell me if what you read here makes you want to read more.
July fourth. Yeah. What a holiday. What a breakdown. I don't know how anyone could have come up with such a crazy, and I mean crazy, side of summer. Were we supposed to enjoy weather like this? And all this refuse, newspaper strewn all over the street. It's hard enough to keep walking.
Up ahead, NRG. Funny. I need a place to crash, but before that, let's get some groove on. What else to do in this wasteland. It's time to dive.
"What'll it be?"
Dan looked at the scraggly face before him. "It'll be tequila all night. You got any rooms?"
The bartender sucked his teeth. The dust on the liquor bottles seemed to extend down his shoulder into his skin. His lip was no more than a scar, and when he grinned Dan could hear the cash register in his head.
"$250 a night. Unless you got something to barter."
Dan dropped a small leather bag on the counter and motioned to it. The bartender loosened its drawstring and measured out a few crystals. "These'll do. All right. Upstairs, you got a bed, a sink and a toilet. How many nights you'll be needin'?"
"Just tonight. And I want a woman."
This corridor between Ann Arbor and Detroit is doable, but pain on the feet! Augh. Gotta relax. Stretch them toes out, ah, yes, all right. This is the lamest bed ever, at least for what I paid. Springs in my back? Ugh. Well, it's better than nothing.
There's more work in Detroit, it's just the caravanning out that way. It takes days. Well, if you're smart it takes days. Otherwise—
"Knock, knock, rag man." A familiar face opened the door. Into the closet space walked the scarsmile bartender, clasping a girl at the elbow. She was veiled, wrapped in gauzy, dirt-colored fabric, and had a slight curl to her stature. All Dan could see were her eyes.
Dan sat up and indicated a corner of his bed. The bartender thrust the woman toward it. Teetering, the woman found her footing before sitting with what dignity she could muster.
"Where's my tip?" Scarsmile demanded.
Dan clicked his tongue. "Bring up your top-flight tequila in an hour. And a goddamned blanket—this mattress is crap. You'll get your tip."
The bartender grunted, paused, then closed the door behind him.
Dan turned to the figure on his bed. Her lowered eyes were the color of sand, the color of a desert snake. Each corner angled up into cheekbone. A thousand years ago, as far as he could tell, her blood knew royalty.
"Mabon," she said.
Her word startled him. She was a cheeky one, to speak first in such a situation.
"Is that your name?" Dan asked. She fidgeted, which he took as a yes. "Unwrap, Mabon. We're to be friends."
Mabon stared at the floor, then began to unravel. A skirt came into view, then a close-fitting shirt. Her arms were bare beneath her wrap, yet bore the same tinge of dirt as her clothing. When she finished, she folded her garment and placed it underneath the bed. Still, the veil remained. Dan waited to see if she would remove it. She did not.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 07:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 08:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 11:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-23 09:36 am (UTC)