zedword

joshgotro

Dave woke to the deafening sound of something slamming against his bedroom wall with no rest. His bed lacked the presence of his wife but where her body laid was still warm. Walking down the hallway Dave felt a cool breeze splash across his chest. Leaving the hallway behind Dave turned to see his front door wide open and his wife standing three feet out the door. “What are you doing honey?” sprang from his lips. As he walked up behind her she replied, “Nothing, just enjoying the view. I doubt I’ll ever see this again.” She turned and pointed to the side of the house. A stream of water was shooting out of what was once a fire hydrant. “So that’s what woke me up.” Dave walked out passed his porch, looked around his front yard and turned toward his wife. “Shelly. Did you call 911?” Shelly seemed to wake from a coma and gave a dirty eye to Dave. “Of course I tried. It’s been busy the past fifteen minutes.” Dave looked back to the flowing water. “Call them again.”

Shelly pulled a cordless phone from her robes front pocket and hit the redial button. A busy sound came back through the speaker. “Still busy Dave.” Shelly put the phone back in her pocket and walked out to where Dave was standing. The sun was just getting midway into the sky. Its shining life gave an orange hue to the neighborhood. The street was lined with two story town homes. Between each set was a driveway. All were the color brown. Dave reached out and rubbed his back. “Well I guess there’s nothing to be done about this right now. Let’s go inside.” Dave and Shelly started to walk back towards their front door when a scream jerked both the attention back towards the other town homes on the street.

The scream faded. Dave and Shelly again tried to make it back into there house when the sound of screeching tires brought their attention back to the road. Seconds later a car came shooting down the street. As it came into view Dave and Shelly could see the driver was covered in blood. Driving insanely fast, the car jumped the curb and speed across their front yard. As the car passed them the driving through the rolled up window scram, “Run!”

Dave and Shelly quickly moved back into their house and locked the door. “What was that?” Dave fell into his couch. Shelly sat down next to him. “I’m pretty sure that was Nancy Shattuck’s boy.” Dave looked at Shelly. “Of course it was Mike. What about the blood and the insanity?” Shelly smiled. “Too much meatloaf?”

any thoughts good or bad would help.

Baron Dirigible

So are you saying that:

• ... it took Dave fifteen minutes to get out of bed and go outside to talk to his wife?
  
• ... people call 911, rather than their local fire department (or whoever else), to report a burst fire hydrant?
  
• ... Dave and Sherry can tell if the driver of an "insanely fast" car is covered in blood?

The last time I asked someone this they didn't reply, so I'm hoping it's not a harder question than I imagine. But still: what do you consider the biggest flaw with your writing? Are you satisfied, on a technical and creative level, with what you've posted here?

There's a beauty in simplicity. Your prose, while hardly purple, is still filled with completely meaningless elements which only serve to slow the reader down. Forget about detailing each action of the character; do portraits include every single hair on a person's head, or do they generalise and make shortcuts?

Shelly pulled a cordless phone from her robes front pocket and hit the redial button. A busy sound came back through the speaker. “Still busy Dave.” Shelly put the phone back in her pocket and walked out to where Dave was standing. The sun was just getting midway into the sky. Its shining life gave an orange hue to the neighborhood. The street was lined with two story town homes. Between each set was a driveway. All were the color brown. Dave reached out and rubbed his back.

Blah blah blah boring. All of your sentences are roughly the same length and have the same construction. There's no rhythm to be found; certainly nothing to hold the reader's attention. It's monotonous. There's an excellent article here about sentence length and pacing. For now, I offer a quick revision:

Shelly hit the redial button, listened for a moment, and then shook her head. The sun was clipping the tops of the two-story townhouses running down the street and draping an orange hue over their identical grey driveways. Dave yawned and rubbed his back.

(that's a literal revision -- in practise I'd probably say that the middle line would be better suited somewhere else)

Really, though, I'm being a bit presumptuous with these crits because you don't seem to have much of an ear for rhythm at all. And though I could technically show you every fault you've made, it would be better for you to read more stories and absorb the understanding that way.

Again, where do you see your faults? Is your story reading well to you, or are you stumbling in parts yourself? Read it out aloud before answering that last question -- you may be surprised, especially when you get to sentences like this:

As the car passed them the driving through the rolled up window scram, “Run!”

joshgotro

shelly has been up for 15 minutes.

i don't know my local fire departments number.

yeah... that doesn't make sense.

so the piece is slow and boring.

i've bookmarked the sentence and pacing site.

yeah... even as i was writing it i thought the description should come long before where it is.

i'm a beginning writer. i need to study before actually writing.

The Lovely Bastard

Okay, I am a dialogue freak, and I only have two major qualms with your piece:

1. When saying a character says something: don't try to be too clever with how you say "says." It is pretty meaningless, and unless you are doing it specifically, it distracts. If you keep up that trend, people will look more to "how's he going to say said" instead of what the meat of the story is. And if you are going more for the plot than the characters, that can be devestating.

2. Take notes on how people talk. "What about the blood and the insanity?" may work if given the right stage directions behind it, it just seems forced more than anything. People don't really talk like that.

The best thing you can do, as a writer, is to read, watch TV/Movies, and watch people. I also suggest reading the news a lot to get possible plot points out of it as well.

Baron Dirigible

shelly has been up for 15 minutes.

And why is Shelly up? The fire hydrant wakes Dave up at the start of the story, and Shelly is already up by then. Unless Dave somehow slept through the whole fire hydrant business and was woken up by something else?

Also, I completely missed Lovely Bastard's crit about dialogue, but to add: each line of dialogue begins a new paragraph. You've got several lines of dialogue, from two different characters, contained in a single paragraph. Reading more stories will reveal many more similar conventions.

joshgotro

so i need to explain that dave actually slept through the fire hydrants initial blast to the house?

it's obvious i have a long way to go.


thanks for the help.

Nerissa

I get the general feeling that there's something else going on that we aren't aware of in this piece. I finished the piece with more questions than answers.

• 911 is busy for 15 minutes straight? That usually means some major disaster is going on, but in this piece I haven't got a clue what.
• Why did the fire hydrant burst?
• What's the deal with the insane bloody driver?
• Why does Shelly think she's never going to see the view again? Why is she so dazed?
• What's the significance of the meatloaf?
• What do all of these things have in common?

I can't see any cohesion in the piece -- it seems more like a random selection of images from horror stories than a single unified piece. You need to work on tying things together, and give the reader at least a few hints as to the nature of the overall disaster (assuming there is one).

As for calling 911 for a burst fire hydrant -- you may not know your fire department's phone number, but you ought to have a phone book around somewhere. If it's not an emergency, you have time to look up the number (or call information), and calling 911 for a non-emergency can get you into a heap of trouble. (Also, a burst hydrant is probably more of a city water problem than a fire department problem.)

Personally, I assumed when Dave asked Shelly whether she had called 911, that he was referring to something other than the burst hydrant, and was slightly confused when I never found out what the emergency actually was.

And I'll echo the suggestion to read more. It's a great way to get a feel for rhythm, convention, etc. and make it second nature rather than something you have to consciously think about.

Nebuchadrezzar

And for God's sake, use some pronouns man. You don't need to use the names Dave and Shelly over and over.

joshgotro

My fingers moved back and forth along the imaginary piano that was the end of my desk. The choice of surroundings failed miserably at inspiring some great piece of literature I knew I had bottled up inside. Poorly whitewashed walls closed in on my every thought. Spider webs moved gracefully in what could barely be called a breeze. A slight humming from the opposite side of my computer created a constant irritant towards my ears.

“Flesh out the character Josh. You’ve taken the class twice. You know what you need for a good character. He’s got to be real, three dimensional. Jumping off the page and smacking the reader in the face.”

Fingers prodded the defenseless keys. A few words appeared on the screen. The fingers moved more rapidly. I had it.

“He hates everyone, even his mom. She choose different men over him. He didn’t matter. He knew it.”

The furnace disrupted the quiet night with a louder version of the hum my computer was making. “More humming, I might fall into unconsciousness.”

The alarm reads nine thirteen. A dry, dirty taste filled my mouth. The humming persisted. “I only nodded off?”

The screen was black, a screen saver. The face staring back at me needed some work. Pulling one too many all-niters, finishing math problems and analyzing history’ mistakes. It’s the life, school, work, bars.
“I’ll get sleep after this masterpiece is done.”

I went back through everything I had written. The feeling came back to me. “This sap needs a name. Not just any name, another slap in the readers face.”

The keys became alive with noise again. A slight pause came over my fingers.“Sirak Pitts.”

Delete. Delete. Delete. My fingers again raced their way towards the winning name. “Tom. Tom Sawyer. It’s perfect!”

Fingers poised to pounce on their unexpected prey jolted back along with the limbs they were attached to. Bang, bang, bang. Three knocks, my mothers calling. Her voice followed. “You didn’t eat dinner. It’s getting late.”

The fact eluded me. Dinner, something of a social event, I fled from as often as possible. "What did you make?”

Footsteps made there way from my door. Her response I could barely make out. “Meatloaf.”

My smile, the lies it told. “Thousand curses on the man who only had a bread pan clean in his kitchen.”

If I didn’t eat something now, I know I wouldn’t get the chance again till morning. Click. Click. Click. The computer screen went blank. The humming stopped. “The genius has arrived!!”

I slid into the kitchen. Arms flailing about, my mother smiled. “How’s the paper coming sweetheart.”

The flailing stopped. “I’ve got the protagonist. Hopefully this meatloaf will be the inspiration I need to get the juices flowing. I’ve only got two more days.”

The meatloaf smelled delicious. My frown, the lies it told as my mother laid the plate in front of me. My stomach feeding off the synapses sparking in my brain began a cry for food. Almost gut wrenching. “Do we have any ketchup?”

My mom smiled as she closed the refrigerator door. “Here you go sweetheart. Rinse your plate when you’re done.”

She glided off the linoleum onto the carpeted living room floor. “What! No milk?”

The faucet opened and water fell down on my plate. Small islands of ketchup the only thing left to clean off. The faucet closed. The loaf hit the spot. My stomach no longer hurt from hunger. “Thanks for the dinner mom.”

I heard her in the living room, chatting with my father. She was always rushing off to be by his side. I understood it though. The door to the basement was only a couple feet from our kitchen table. It always squeaked opening and closing it. The door itself locked from the inside, my only true freedom.

The cushion in my chair was still warm, although the rest of my room was cold. “Warm air rises.”

My father reminded me the day I moved my stuff down here. Pushing in a small button on the face of a silver metal case, the humming began again, and my monitor returned to life once again. My computer, the poor machine, six years old, modified, and reduced down to nothing more than an electric pad and pencil. No internet, no music, just Word. The familiar load time passed and my masterpiece lay before once again.

“Tom Sawyer. Two months shy of twenty, from small town Ohio. This kid is tired. Not of life but of the bull shit associated with it. Two years of undergraduate school for nothing. Still floating idly by waiting for his spark, his muse, the one thing he can grasp onto and ride. He’s has to hate people. Why would someone dark and disturbed enough to hate their mother care about anyone else?

The bruised and beaten keyboard made clacking noises. I’d come accustom to them as I was always down here smashing them in. The alarm read one thirty. Time flies when you’ve got ideas. “Tom Sawyer. Your story now begins.”

I sat back in my chair, nervous. My stomach moved as if to burrow deep down further into my body. My fingers turned to slime. My mind zoned in on my next step.“I need a conflict.”

All great stories have a conflict. The story can’t sit still. Something has to happen. For a split second I heard noise come from the door. My father had turned up the television in the living room. He went on and on earlier in the day about a new movie on tonight. Some earthquake cuts California from the continent. Killing millions, but some remote scientist alone averts the catastrophe with the help of another rogue agent of the government.
“Outlandish.”

He never listens. I guess the corporate top dogs know what to put on television. It obviously had my father’s attention. My mom on the other hand, knew ridiculousness when she saw it and I’m sure by now had moved along to some sort of cleaning of knitting. She loved to knit. “An earthquake in Ohio splits state into two? Tom goes on an adventure to the middle of the planet!”

A silent pause followed by a huge laugh filled my room with noise. The noise from upstairs died out and my father yelled something through the floorboards. The television returned to its prior volume level. “Come on Josh. You’ve got to have something better up your sleeve than an earthquake. Something personal, more close to home.”

The keyboard grew quiet. The humming dominated the room once again. My chair rocked back and forth. “Double homicide. His next door neighbors found dead.”

The keys paused. “Double homicide. The next door neighbors found dead, half eaten.”

My mind went blank. Then one word flashed across my eyeballs as though it was scrolling text and my eyes where the monitor.
Zombies

It was perfect. What better calamity than one people would be forced to deal with everyday that they lived through? Calm rushed over my body. My character had been chosen. His great conflict decided. Fate was left.

The trees passed by Tom as he sped down the dirt path. The uneven path made for a bumpy ride. His bike, a dark green mountain bike, flashed through the wooded area almost unseen. Tom’s plain white t-shirt gave away his position from the tree line. His feet moved faster and faster. The chain moving perfectly over the wheel propelled the bike further away from the woods. The sweat fell, slowly down his forehead then quickly passed his cheek and back towards his ears. The wind cooled his body. The trees becoming less dense letting more light in as Tom made his way down the path and towards the edge of the wooded area. A small cloud of dust rushed up through the air as Tom made his exit from the woods and down through the grass. The sky turned a bright blue interrupted by small islands of white. Tom refused to stop pedaling. Not long after leaving the woods Tom’s bike meet with the sidewalk, which line a dead end street from south of the trees. Houses lined the left side of the street and two schools line the right. All was calm.

The houses, the detached garages behind them, and the fences all raced away from Tom as he pedaled harder and harder. A curve in the road led to more houses and a side street. Tom quickly turned onto the road and made his way down the alley. The rocks from the old alley shot from his tires and landed on the backs of garage ports and trash cans so that a short steady noise followed his presence. He pulled tight on the breaks and his bike came to a halt. Once again a dust cloud followed behind him.

Quickly dismounting the bike Tom grasped the support bar and lifted the rig off the ground. He made his way towards a fenced in backyard where another boy came running to open the locked portion.
“
"Hurry up. Spotters are already reporting noise from the woods. We’ve got to get back to the front line.”

Tom carried the bike into the backyard as the other boy closed and locked the gate behind him. The stone slabs that lead towards the backdoor of a bright yellow two story house was open and waiting for Tom’s entrance. “I’m glad you made it back in one piece.”

A voice from the front of the house echoed through the kitchen and into the back where Tom was standing. Tom gently laid the bike against the wall and removed his helmet, laying it on an oddly placed table in the middle of the room. The voice grew louder and a body entered the backroom. “What’s that on your shirt?

The short female asked, pushing her hair out of her face. She looked over Tom once again.“Obviously blood Stella.”

Tom began tearing off his knee and elbow pads. Stella walked in through the kitchen and stopped at the hall connecting to the backroom. “Your blood?”

Tom stopped moving and drove down a couple deep breaths, exhaling towards the ceiling. “No Stella. It was one of theirs. It got to close so I had to take care of it.”

Stella walked up to Tom and slowly grabbed the ends of his shirt. Slowly raising it above his head and throwing it into a corner. “Good. One less we have to worry about later then.”

My fingers stopped abruptly. My finger rose over the delete key. “I can’t have a love interest introduced this early in the piece. I’ll have to develop it more over the course of the whole piece.”

I lunged back in my chair.“Or I could just kill her off.”

My fingers rushed back to their positions. The first letter was a P.“Please get those pads back on. They boys need you back down by the frontline.”

Stella walked back into the kitchen and withdrew two large butcher knifes from the knife block stationed on the countertop adjacent to the sink. Tom picked up his pads from the table and slowly put them back on. “I need a new shirt Stella.”

Stella turned back around and reentered the backroom. “The more material the more chance they have at grabbing you. You’ll be fine.”

“Josh! Come up here quick.”A voice rushed through the crack in my door. It rang again. “Hurry! Quick!”

I saved the piece and quickly shut off the computer. I slipped making my way up the steps and open my door in time to see my mother making her way towards me. “What’s up mom?”

She looked very excited. “You’ve got to see this dog on television. He walks like a human! It’s amazing.”

My eyebrow rose up and my mouth moved to the left. “Seriously?”

Baron Dirigible

Tom Sawyer? Wait a minute this sounds like fanfic

You'd do well to separate the block-text if you're seeking crits, too.

That said, some thoughts:

First, the meta-fictional narrative seems gimmicky. I mean, what's it actually achieve in terms of the story? The notion of a story within a story isn't exactly a new one, and you're not handling it in any special way. You're trying to be clever and it's frustrating.

Secondly, I want to punch your protagonist in the face. I think this might be a good thing, because I'm pretty sure you didn't want us to sympathise with him. But naming him after yourself makes me pause. Are you being self-deprecating? Because it's not especially funny.

It's an improvement over your first piece though, all things considered! Give it a read over yourself for slight issues of grammar and spelling.

joshgotro

Piper Dawn wrote:

That said, some thoughts:

First, the meta-fictional narrative seems gimmicky. I mean, what's it actually achieve in terms of the story? The notion of a story within a story isn't exactly a new one, and you're not handling it in any special way. You're trying to be clever and it's frustrating.

but I want to be clever...real bad. On a serious note, I was taking a shortcut with my english assignment and just throwing stuff my teacher said about creating a story back at her.

Piper Dawn wrote:

Secondly, I want to punch your protagonist in the face. I think this might be a good thing, because I'm pretty sure you didn't want us to sympathise with him. But naming him after yourself makes me pause. Are you being self-deprecating? Because it's not especially funny.

I did want the reader to hate the writer but love Tom.

Piper Dawn wrote:

It's an improvement over your first piece though, all things considered! Give it a read over yourself for slight issues of grammar and spelling.

Aces!

thanks.

DouglasDanger

I'm not even going to try and read the story until you space it out. Returns between paragraphs would be great.

joshgotro

DouglasDanger wrote:

I'm not even going to try and read the story until you space it out. Returns between paragraphs would be great.

done and done.

joshgotro

I found this document and could not stop laughing.

First Version

UNTITLED
Introduction
Three young squires sit at the local tavern. In walks four
knights and a wizard.
The biggest of the knights yells, " Tender! Where's my drink?"

The tender jumps out from behind the bar. " Eras, it's you.
Don't startle me like that. I thought you were a hood."

Eras in a laughing voice, "Stop crying and give me a drink and
four more for the rest of my squad."

Back at the squire table.
"Have you ever seen such a disgrace of knighthood?"
"Not in a long time Gen."
"That's what I'm talking about. Anyone can become a knight
these days. It is too much to easy to become chivalrous."
"Stop running your mouth before they hear you!"
"You fuck pussy. Loki, they are drunk and out of shape. I
could take them by myself."
"That will be they day. Gen Median wins a fight."
"Loki, I'll prove it to you. I will be right back."

Gen gets out of his set and starts to walk over toward the
drunken knights.

"Hey you fat piece of shit. Why don't you drop the cup and pick
up your sword? Maybe I can show you something about how to be a
knight."

"What boy? You wish to fight me. I don't think so. I
will not fight a squire."
Gen in a cocky tone, "What are you chicken? Afraid you'll lose
a fight to a little squire. Just bring it old man. Maybe I can wipe
you into shape."
"Ok kid, but once I kick your ass, I want you to tell your
daddy how bad I kicked your ass."
Gen leaps forward, drawing his sword. “Let’s go!!!!!!!!"

Rewrite just minutes ago

        “Those gents should be taken care of Loki.”
	The tip of Gen’s sword smashes against the old wooden chair as he jerks up and moves aside from the table.
	
        “Sit down Gen. You’re in no state to fight.”
	Gen moves quickly around a couple eating each other,
	“Cock head. Those drunk fucks are no problem.”
	
        Across the bar a group of men and women make more noise than their tab is worth. “Keep! Pour us more ale. Bring some snacks.”
	
        Gen slowly pulls his cutlass from the sheath and with the strength of three men sends it crashing through a table. 
	“Poor excuse for knights you gents are. Away with you are feel my steel.”
	A rather large man rises above the other occupants and smiles.
	“Please don’t stain my hands with your blood boy.”
	
        Before the man could finish Gen leaps from his position landing awkwardly on the table top. Raising his sword to the man’s face a smirk crosses his face. 
	“Let’s go old man.”

and yes this has nothing to do with zombies. I just didn't want to make another thread.

Soultaker

(On the first piece)
There are some issues with your writing style (as others pointed out), however, the main problem of the piece is that it's incoherent. Too many strange things are happening right after another. By switching the focus of the story so quickly, you confuse the reader to the point where he doesn't care about anything that happens anymore, since none of it seems to make any sense. One 'strange' element per scene is enough to make it interesting; you could add more but combining the early waking, the busy emergency number, the wounded driver and the meatloaf makes it a mess, even if you would put it all together at the end (which you don't). So, try to work out each element seperately, only introducing a new one whenever the dust has settled, so to speak. I would say you can't put this many elements in so short a story, especially not unless/until you are a much better writer.

(On the second piece)
It's suprising to see how orderly the development of this story is (at least in the first half), compared to the story above. This is exactly what I was getting at. A lot less is happening, in a much longer story, which is good, because it gives you room to flesh out all the elements that are there.

What I don't like is that a large part of your story is the story Josh is writing. There is no point to the story itself, as far as I can tell, and there is not much of a relation to the main story line. The main story itself seems a bit pointless as well; I'd hardly call it a self-contained story. Finally, writing about writing can be interesting, but it has become a bit of a cliché, so if you're going to do so, make sure you write something original!

As for the "hate Josh, love Tom" part: I don't really like Josh, but I don't hate him either, and I don't care much about Tom. The idea is good; now try to make the story speak for itself instead of mentioning this seperately. (You'll find that coercing the reader to hate a character and still keep the story enjoyable is very hard!)

On some specific passages:

Fingers poised to pounce on their unexpected prey

I generally like lively writing like this, and I do like how this sounds, but what does it mean? What is the expected prey for a finger? Playful writing is nice, but when you lose your message, you're overdoing it. You can probably fix this somehow, by replacing 'unexpected', which leaves the alliteration intact.

I saved the piece and quickly shut off the computer. I slipped making my way up the steps and open my door in time to see my mother making her way towards me.

Really, he shuts his computer off completely, just because his mother called him over? I would just walk over there, have a look at whatever is so important, and get back to my writing. Also, by describing Josh's actions so extensively, you are giving the impression that he isn't really hurrying at all, but this contradicts the use of "quickly". So which is it? If you want to describe events that are happening quickly, you should cut down on the details.

I'm not even going to comment on the third piece.

joshgotro

Soultaker wrote:

I'm not even going to comment on the third piece.

thanks for the crit.

I want some on the last piece. It's the one I want to continue with the most.

joshgotro

as I'm always writing this in short pieces here is the first paragraph of two more characters.

The trees were bare. Long slim branches moved out into the atmosphere, fingering for the wind. Fifty meters behind the line of trees hundreds of stone tablets rose from the ground. I had seen the cemetery everyday for the past two years. It's amazing what you get used to seeing. An unused freeway separated RMH, Riverside Methodist Hospital, from Union Cemetery. I could still see cars traveling in both directions. I could still see lots of things. Moving away from the window extremely warm rays fell upon my face. My eyes took two seconds to readjusted to the extreme light. The hallway, off-white walls lined with tinted windows ten meters in each direction, echoed my footsteps. The door mechanism made a rubbing metal sound and swung open. His body lay silent with sleep, his hand clinching his steel pipe.

Munacra

The trees were bare. Long slim branches moved out into the atmosphere, fingering for the wind

.

aaaaaalmost there. but the atmosphere is like, hundreds and hundreds of meters up in the sky. those tree branches, being slim could not support that kind of lenght and the weight of them.

also, there are no trees that stretch all the way into the atmosphere, unless it's that tree of life in warcraft 3.

I could still see cars traveling in both directions. I could still see lots of things.

these two sentences need to be conjoined like siamese twins.

Moving away from the window extremely warm rays fell upon my face. My eyes took two seconds to readjusted to the extreme light.

wtf? is radiation hitting him the face or something? is he looking straight at a fire? hospital lights don't really warm up anything, and he's moving away from the window, so it's not the sun or whatever coming from the outside. if you're going to put this in somewhere, back it up with something.

you know. whatever.

imagery is nice. implausible imagery is bad. no implausible imagery.

ArcanisTheImpotent

In my opinion, after browsing through each of your pieces in succession, you really need to go through and 'trim your hedges' as it were. You have a lot of superfluous (as I sound like a hypocritical ass) language that not only clutters your readers pipes, but also gets you into the habit of telling instead of showing.

Example:

joshgotro wrote:

The hallway, off-white walls lined with tinted windows ten meters in each direction, echoed my footsteps. The door mechanism made a rubbing metal sound and swung open. His body lay silent with sleep, his hand clinching his steel pipe.

I would definitely consider changing this entire chunk into something like

As I walked down the hallway, my footsteps echoed. The hinges creaked as the door opened, and I saw him on the bed asleep, pipe in his grip.

This isn't meant to rewrite your work at all, of course. Just take it as an example and always see if there is some way to state it simpler. There's many reasons Stephen King is one of the most widely read writers, and one of them is he never bogs his sentences down with unnecessary, clever verbiage. What's said is said simply, and it pushes the narrative forward.

Mykonos

Definitately agree with the above post. It's extremely easy to over clutter your work because your rightfully adament about making the reader picture your world precisely as you envision it. Still, sometimes its best to leave more to the reader's imagination. Choose your words carefully, try to avoid some detail that isn't relevant or important to what's going on. That way, you keep the plot flowing and avoid losing the readers interest.

For example, I couldn't care less that the windows were ten meters in each direction, but stating that the windows are tinted could subtedly provide detail into the home owners persona ( Example: he wants privacy - he has a dark secret perhaps?).

You have done a good job adding atmosphere, just cut the fat.

joshgotro

I'm not making a new thread for my work. I like them all in this thread. This also let's me get back to looking at these pieces.

anyway.

Andrew

	Johnson sips down a short enjoyable stream of cappuccino.  The sound of unlatching metal breaks the silence. 

“I'm good so far buddy. It's early though.”
	
	Johnson sits the cup down on a circular table. His eyes focus on the dividing wall. 

“I saw you pull in Dave. What's taken you so long?”

	A tired man comes around the corner, his hands moving with small tasks to accomplish. His smile is hideous. 

“Morning co-worker. I need my coffee sir.”

	Johnson averts his gaze to the tabletop. His fingers find the lukewarm cup. 

“You need pretty women to look at.”

“My eyes are wide open.”
	
	Dave finds his chair, empty space once was the armrest. 

“How did it go good sir?” 

	His hideous smile making another appearance.

“The night could have been better. She was nice though.”

	Johnson leaned in and his chest pushed against the table. 

“I know you want details. Shapiro's on Nineteenth and Fullerton. A quiet low key restaurant an old business associate loved. Shadows bounced around the cherry red room from candle light. The fireplace lay in the center, hardly efficient.”

	Dave knocks on the table twice. 

“I've been there before buddy. What was the girl like?”

	A laugh seasoned with evil came from Johnson. 

“I was running late Dave. The hostess apparently knew why I was there because all I got was point in the right direction. Straight back towards the kitchen door.”

“John. I've been there. Get on with it.”

“You'll appreciate the prolonging sir. I move through the table arrangement and she comes into view. She's beautiful Dave. Long flowing brown hair. I can't see her face. Candle light. Good choice that was. She looks up as I moved in to present myself. Her eyes were perfect emerald. Open and welcoming.”

	Dave's leg beats quickly on the floor. 

“You're worse than my wife Johnson.”

“She introduced herself as Annabelle Fisher.”

“Good evening John. I'm glad we could finally get together.”

	Johnson takes another drink from his cup. Slightly longer. 

“I lay on the forced niceties. You know. Pity our first date should be months after we've met.”

	Dave lets out a laugh. 

“It has been awhile right?”

	Johnson doesn't notice and continues. 

“She's making quick glances towards the back hall of the restaurant. I sit down and notice three sets of silverware our placed at the table. I look up to see her smile at me. She's almost blushing.”

	John moves towards Dave. 

“I'm sorry but I had to bring Andrew along. I wasn't able to set anything up.”

“Who's Andrew Annabelle?

	Johnson smiles and sighs.

“He's my son.”

Soviet Waffle

Johnson sits the cup down on a circular table. His eyes focus on the dividing wall.

I may be missing something, but I'm not too sure what the wall references too. It makes sense that it's outside, or to a hallway from outside based on what happens, but the image still seems a bit too open.

his hands moving with small tasks to accomplish.

Hmm, I like the image, but, it still may be too open to literal translation.

His hideous smile making another appearance.

Heh heh, I love that detail.

Johnson leaned in and his chest pushed against the table.

Tense change. You went to past tense, tsk tsk.

Shadows bounced around the cherry red room from candle light. The fireplace lay in the center, hardly efficient.”

From the way you write this character, and how he's trying to avoid Dave's gaze, this line seems too far out to fit into his mouth. It seems romanticized, something I wouldn't him to say to someone who he wants to avoid eye contact with.

all I got was a point

Forgetting something .

Johnson takes another drink from his cup. Slightly longer.

The slightly longer isn't needed, or at least doesn't fit there. I've already developed an image by the time the last sentance has finished, the slightly longer just isn't working there.

“Who's Andrew Annabelle?

You need a comma after Andrew, but really, Who's Andrew seems more natural to say.

“He's my son.”

The twist isn't too surprising... it's a fairly small twist, and doesn't seem to fit the rest of the story.

Overall, it's an interesting minuet, but I feel that it needs a focus, since you seem to enjoy building up the twist. I actually like the dialogue, and I think it'd fit into a larger scheme, but on it's own it just feels like it needs... more.