Restless Demon

[Beswitchingly Positive]

Pain grasped my chest as I started to walk away from Celia’s apartment. It was not the pain of heartbreak, more like almost drowning. She would not let me be. In the beginning, she was strong, calm and quiet. Back in the good days, we fucked every night. After I quit my job, she started to quietly panic. I could not breathe around her.

I wished I was the mad millionaire who lived in the mansion on the corner. He wanted for nothing. All the neighborhood girls called him Papa. Lean and muscular in his advanced years, he was handsome and capable. He did all of the maintenance on his property. Crazy old guy, he climbed all over the roof of his house, shouting at people in the street, captain of his own ship. He was cool. I watched the old man. He had lots of young girlfriends.

The summer heat became stifling. No matter what kind of deodorant I wore my clothes would stink of sweat in a few hours. Tempers rose with the temperature; crime was at an all time high. Celia refused to run the air; she was paying the bills. I suffered.

When the power blacked out for good, we lost the option of air conditioning. I had no money to go out with. I was stuck. I had her to stare at in the evening. She would glare at me every now and then in the candle light, looking up from the book she was reading. Silently she would stand, give me a look of sad resolve, and leave to lock herself in her room.

There was no more mention of sex. Celia had been rabid for my cock when we met. I have to admit, sex with her was the best. She did everything. She would tirelessly suck my cock. She handled my stuff better than any girl I had been with, a little rough, grabbing and pulling; it scared me at first. She was right though, once I relaxed, her aggressive grip became pleasurable. She had expertly extracted ounce after ounce of my fluid, making me come several times a night.

She stopped touching me. If I tried to touch her, she reacted by flinching.

I knew I had to get away.

She stopped speaking to me. She would only answer direct questions.

She was driving me crazy

Celia locked herself in her room one night. I listened to her chanting in the dark. After the third night, I had to ask.

“What were you doing?”

Her eyes held the light of madness; her voice had a hint of her old certainty.

“Protecting the block. There are demons out there. Don’t go out, Mateo, please.”

“I’m not going out.”

The sadness in her made her face lumpy and ugly. Part of me wanted to comfort her, but most of me wanted to run. There was no use arguing with her. I could not reach out to her.

At first, I did not go out. Scattered announcements on the radio warned of gang warfare, looting, and out of control fires. The city was in chaos. It was hard to believe just a few miles away people were shooting at cops and rioting. Our block was quiet; it seemed perfectly peaceful. The gunfire sounded distant. Few cars passed.

During the day, Celia talked to the neighbors; she knew everything that was happening out in the badlands. I knew what she told me, which wasn’t much. I did not ask after she stopped talking. I could not bring myself to talk to the neighbors. I was sure she was telling everyone what a worthless, jobless, waste I was.

I could not talk to her. I realized I had no friends here.

My last night of freedom, I listened to Celia chanting again. The incense was seeping out the cracks of dim light that framed her door. Demons or not, I was itching to go out.

Moving as in a dream, I dressed in my favorite jeans and a dark shirt. I packed a small bag: change of clothes, toothbrush, razor, comb, hair gel, extra socks. I took a bottle of water for the walk. I was going downtown, to find a job in the cold air and electric light. It wasn’t more than five miles away but I wished I had a gun. All the weapons were in Celia’s room; they were all hers, anyway. I slipped on my boots and took a deep breath. I knew there was only one way to save myself.

I quietly stepped out the front door. Turning her key for the last time, it felt final. I knew I would never go back.

Sneaking down the creaky stairs, I made it to the courtyard. The pain in my chest was slowly lifting. The sky was clear and moonless; a thousand stars twinkled approvingly at my escape. I crept down the alley, feeling my way in pitch black, making it to the iron gate that led to the street. I opened it slowly, creaky metal metal hinges yeilded, quiet as a robber. I was out. Heart pounding, I let my eyes adjust to the wicked dark. Celia’s chanting faded into the night, as I walked away.

Fast and quiet; the dark swallowed me. Putting blocks between myself and that crazy witch, I breathed a little easier. I could see dark outlines of houses and trees. I could hear an occasional gunshots in the distance. I was fully prepared to duck into a shadow if I heard a person, or a car, coming close. There was no need. I saw no living soul that last dark walk.

Not until I made the mistake of stopping.

I almost made it to the part of town that still had street lights.

Stopping to have a smoke, I looked toward the distant hazy glow of electric light. I spotted movement on the roof up the street. My eyes caught a dark form pacing on all fours along the peak of the roof. It was slinking like an animal.

My mind grappled with itself, trying to name what I was seeing. It moved like a huge black...shadow cat? It looked like dark tiger moving in fast forward, unnaturally fast. Taking a good portion of the roof, it must have been the size of a large wildcat. The movement was sleeker and more fluid than any beast of this earth.

The ‘cat’ stopped it’s rapid movement and abrubtly sat on it’s haunches, at the point of the roof closest to me, facing me. The thing was suddenly a statue.

Skin crawly with shiver and tingle, I felt eyes on me. It was watching me. Holding my breath, I did not want to lose sight of that still, dark form.

I stared. I saw a sudden flicker of dark movement come out from behind it. Looked like flexed its...oh god, wings?

Fuck, suddenly I missed Celia. Having no where to run, I stood frozen in the dark.

I watched as it turned and resumed that menacing walk more slowly. Becoming barely a shadow in the dark, at the center of the roof line, it vanished. Did it pause and look back at me before it disappeared? Blinking, I strained to see it again, wishing I had not seen it at all.

“You saw it too.”

A voice in the dark behind me at that moment should have scared me out of my shoes. Instead, I felt an unreal calm, like a hand at my back urging me on. I turned away from the misery of fear to behold a woman of unearthly beauty. The contrast was unreal.

Her voice was sweet and syrupy; low without being masculine at all. I turned to see a face that matched. My heart hurt; her skin looked so soft. He pale skin glowed in the dim light, like a porcelain doll with a translucent velvet finish. No more than five foot four, her full, curly, dark hair gave her the illusion of another inch or two. Even in the dim light, I could see that her lips were full and red. Her breast heaved with quick breath, as if she had been running.

A glistening drop of sweat rolled from her neck down into her cleavage. She shook her hair like an animal, drawing me back to her face. Big dark eyes pulled me closer, I moved without thought. I matched her hushed tone when I finally remembered to speak.

“Saw what?”

What else could I say?

Her voice was unsteady, I could almost see her shaking.

“I thought I saw something running on a roof top, two blocks up. I was watching from my window; I saw you walking. When you stopped, I thought you were watching it too.”

“No, I just stopped walking to smoke.”

I held out the stump of the cigarette that had gone out in my hand. I did not want to admit I had seen it. I lied to her without thinking, and now it was too late. It was a mechanism. I did not want to scare her.

She smiled small and tight.

“Have you been walking for long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did you come from?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, doesn't matter.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know, toward the lights, to find a job.”

She fidgeted, a nervous, awkward movement.

“Are you okay?”

She considered my question for a minute before responding.

“ No, I am not okay. I’m scared. I thought I saw something out there. I want to ask you to come home with me. I don’t even know your name.”

She lowered her face, hiding a shameful blush. “My brother went out three weeks ago and hasn’t come back. I’m scared to be alone again tonight.”

Looking up at me once more, I fell into the chasm of her dark eyes.

“My name is Mateo. I can look after you tonight; the lights will still be there tomorrow.”

I followed her; I suspected no evil.



She led me to a huge brick house. It loomed, a quiet fortress, all shutters shut tight. Like everything else, it was dark.

We entered through a tall, solid, wood door. She bolted it shut behind us. A few candles lit the long hallway just enough to see a path flanked with heavy, old doors. Aged hardwood creaked under my feet as we walked the corridor. There was nothing unusual about the place, except the smell. I caught a floral scent and started to inhale deeply. By the end of my breath, I was gagging.

Her house smelled like flowers on top of dead rats.

She turned to face me as I grimaced at the perfume of death.

Smiling, she closed in. I felt like an actor in an dimly lit black and white film as she reached out to touch my arms. Flinching, my heart froze. Her hands were so cold it was shocking. Where I expected heat, I found ice.

That’s when I felt the blinding, shattering pain.

What a quiet gun, I thought, as my head rocked back on my neck I fell slowly to the ground. Everything went black.


Waking, I found that I was strapped, standing against a cold, damp, cement wall. My wrists were held straight out from my shoulders, ankles bound far apart from each other. I was somehow attached to the wall. My head was held in such a way that I could not turn any direction, locked straight ahead.

I could not think. My heart wanted to pound but felt sluggish. Maybe I had brain damage. Focusing my eyes was not possible, I saw blurry, dim light flickering around a dark shadow, a huge creature. My head hurt only faintly, a numb fuzz clouded my sight. The form was wobbling toward me. Something about the way it moved; it was wrong. I swallowed cotton and sandpaper.

She shrank down to her sexy girl shape as she approached me. Strange, how the perspective was reversed, her form getting smaller as she approached, blocking less of the light. I still did not know what she was. I shrugged it off as a trick of the shadows.

“Poor Mateo. “ She cooed at me, teasing.

The scent of flowers filled my head as she put her face next to mine. I inhaled deeply, powerless to do anything but breath. It was an exotic aphrodisiac, her musk and proximity. I drifted into a hazy approximation of reality. Turned on was better than terrified.

She must have stood on a chair to be eye level. She must have had help to hit me so hard, move me, and get me tied like this. I remember such thoughts, logical, worldly thoughts.

Feeling her cool body gently press against me, I realized I was naked. A shiver ran through me. What had she said to get me here, "I am scared. I don’t want to be alone." I was scared now.

Not warm or human feeling, her icy hands were gentle. Frigid fingers worked their way along my arms, under, tickling a little on their way to my chest. She caressed me like a lover, lulling me into thinking this might be all right, after all.

Defying fear, my meat stirred as her hands explored my restrained form. She ran her nails down my chest to muscled belly, pulling the hair softly, barely scratching. Working her way down, I felt soft palms pressing on my growing erection. All I managed, in my bound state was a small thrusting movement and a whimper that came involuntarily at her hands. I pushed my cock toward her.

While her fingers were frigid, her palms were unnaturally warm. My cock grew quickly clasped between them, the focus of her prayers. She warmed the length of my shaft and pulled me to full attention. One hand on my cock, icy fingers and hot palm, she stroked me. The other hand cupped my dangling, exposed testicles, warming them. I could not help thinking of eggs under a warm hen, life growing from ugly fetus to wet stringy baby chick inside. Her hand grew hot and my balls started to ache with her heat.

That was when I realized I didn’t even know her name.

“Please, stop, Ma’am. Lady. Something's wrong with my head. What happened to me? Fuck, I don’t even know your name.”

Suddenly she pulled away, stepping back where I could see her. My vision had cleared just in time.

“Look around. You are my prisoner.”

My head became free to turn on my neck as if she had cut an invisible string without moving. I could feel no device but there was a sickening tickle on the back of my neck.

The room was a torture chamber, complete with racks, ominous tables, and devices designed to drive a man mad. Candles were ensconced randomly on moldy stone walls that seemed unsettlingly out of place. The dim light showed me too much.

I turned to look at her. Her porcelain skin that I liked so much was turning a sickening black.

“You will never know my true name.”

I saw the flickering of wings flexing behind her still form. Before I lost my mind, I tried desperately to remember Celia’s chants. My chest tightened up; all I could hear was the sound of her voice.

[moptop]

Beswitching, I'm not right now going to nit pick all my way through this. There are plenty of little nitpicks I would happily make, but we'll come to them later. Oh, except for this one:

she started to quietly panic.

Split infinitive. Quietly to panic or to panic quietly.

Please don't take anything I say as insulting - it is truly intended to be constructive criticism and done with gusto, because I think your story is worth it. I really do like this story: as I said, it is chilling and compelling.

However, there are two main things that give me problems.

One is - too many short sentences. Try to mix and match a bit more. Now, I know that the narrator is breathless, enclosed, feels claustrophobic: so there are moments when this choppy style really suits the atmosphere. However, there is too much of it. Here is one example of a way in which you could tweak things, (which also sorts out a sentence that just seems to be sitting around on its own):

"All the neighborhood girls called him Papa - he had loads of young girlfriends."

The other issue you have is use of tenses. The story has a current narrative, in the past tense. But it also has background, and this is in the past within the context of the story. If you used your tenses to differentiate between these two phases, it would make it easier to read/understand. At the moment, you start with the pain in your chest: and then, all still in the same tense, you go back over the past; and we don't get back to the moment when the narrative began for a good number of paragraphs; but this isn't currently clear to the reader.

So:
"Pain grasped my chest as I started to walk away from Celia’s apartment. It was not the pain of heartbreak, more like almost drowning. She would not let me be. "

This is the story narrative.

"In the beginning, she was strong, calm and quiet. Back in the good days, we fucked every night. After I quit my job, she started to quietly panic. I could not breathe around her."

This is the story background. Try:

"In the beginning, she had been strong, calm and quiet. Back in the good days, we had fucked every night. But after I quit my job, she’d started quietly to panic. Gradually, I found I could not breathe around her."

Similarly, the old guy on the roof - this is not something that is happening within the current narrative, it is background to it. The summer heat becoming stifling also - it is stifling now, but it became stifling over a period of time, which is before the moment of the narrative.

Have a play with that stuff, and I'd then love to pick your next version to happy shreds!

[Beswitchingly Positive]

Thank you!

I had a lot of trouble with this one, my assignment was active voice, past tense, first person male perspective. There were a few other things, had to have a male and a female character, a dungeon, and a supernatural creature...I interpreted active voice to be short, active, to the point. I looked it up. This is what I came up with. I sensed there were a lot of problems, and I do not in any way resent any suggestions.

How could I do the whole thing with no narrative? Can the first person narrate some parts of their story? I am going to pour over what you have said and try try try to get it, and then do it better.

Thanks, no need to be gentle. You know how cats can be...

BP

[H Dean]

Hey - I got to this one!

First off, this was pretty damned good. The manner you told this story, with short and choppy sentences made for an interesting feel. However, there were too many short sentences and two many that started with "I". A little more variation, still keeping the majority of your sentences short, would have set this perfectly.

Since this was told from the first person you could have used contractions. I know that a naration is not supposed to have contractions, but in this instance it would have aided the feel of the story.

I am not going to say anythign else - Moptop actually covered most of what I would have said about this piece.

I will close by offering that you gave this a hell of a feel. I really liked this.

[Satan_Klaus]

I was rather anxious to see what you did with this assignment and I must say that I am impressed! The fast pacing, although it has been criticized give the story a breathless feel. If you scaled it down a little bit, especially in the beginning, I think it would be perfect.

The other thing I felt about this story is that in the beginning I was not entirely sure what was happening, what kind of world you were talking about. The descriptions in the beginning are, well, vague and there is some taste of madness in the air. I could not tell what was real from what was illusion (or delusion for that matter). Only later when hard facts were produced, could I read on with certainty.
I’m somewhat reminded of the “world of darkness” if you are familiar with that. The “similar to our world but in a darker shade of grey” setting. The general feeling of despair and the demons lurking in the darkest alleys.


On the whole a dark, brooding piece of troubling literature. Well done.



Also, it is amazing how different the tone of your story is from mine. While "dreamshaped" is upbeat, starting in despair but ascending quickly, yours starts low and descends even quicker.


Satan_Klaus

[Beswitchingly Positive]

Ha! I love you guys!

First, dear Satan,

The unsettled feeling you described is just what I was going for! I want to classify it a magical realism. Everything in this story is really happening, the magick is real as the rest...should I explain it is New Orleans? Would that help?

Sir, I am not crazy, or on drugs. I really saw that thing on the roof.

I really wanted that to be the creepiest part.

Now, I am having fun editing this. I find it very interesting that the men seem to like the short, blunt sentences a little more than miss moptop. Hmm.

Active voice, underdeveloped male mind, what else could I do? Mateo wouldn't let me write the way i like to do with the depth of attention to fine details, and i wanted him to seem so stupid he didn't know he was stupid.

I was worried it wouldn't creep anyone out. Thanks! The fix is cooking, now I am extra nervous about trying to change it...maybe a few long sentences so he can catch his breath...

The disjointed reality of a young man who can not communicate well when faced with hard times...the city services are falling apart, there is no power and he didn't make an effort to read or network to find out what was happening....

I am addressing my serious problems, tense, and all the things you all very kindly pointed out. I will go back and force that asshole Mateo to let me turn this into a more correct effort. I really hate this character. I finally did it!

For you to say I gave this a hell of a feel Dean, I am humbled. Oh, master of the story with a hell of a feel, I am barely worthy of you praise.

So, for a first draft, not totally dismal. I am happy.

Big kisses to moptop, Satan Klause, and H Dean.

[Ruby]

Hi BP,

Thank you for your patience.

To say this has been a crazy work week, would sum it up.

Meanwhile, active tense does not have to mean short sentences. Shorten or lengthen those sentences to add a bit of pacing and use those conjunctions to string a bunch of sentences together when needed.

I'm really looking forward to spending some time with this story. However, since you've gotten some great feedback, feel free to work on the next draft.

Ruby

[moptop]

How do you use the multi-quote thing, and how do you quote from several messages?

Anyway -

Beswitchingly "I find it very interesting that the men seem to like the short, blunt sentences a little more than miss moptop. Hmm."

Ah, but is that so??

moptop "I know that the narrator is breathless, enclosed, feels claustrophobic: so there are moments when this choppy style really suits the atmosphere. However, there is too much of it."

Mean Dean "The manner you told this story, with short and choppy sentences made for an interesting feel. However, there were too many short sentences "

Satan Klaus "The fast pacing, although it has been criticized give the story a breathless feel. If you scaled it down a little bit, especially in the beginning, I think it would be perfect. "

Hah! I rest my case *looks smug*

Actually - how come everyone has reviewed yours and no-one has even bothered to read mine! I know mine is short and in no way as atmospheric or interesting as Beswitching's... but hey - guys - can you really resist a chance to have a slam back at me??

*feels unloved*

[Beswitchingly Positive]

Oh, moptop, you are right, perhaps it is interesting that I noticed the men's compliments more than the criticisms...hmmm, sounds like I have a personal problem there.

I have learned that patience and web forum writing classes go very well together...maybe the danger of correcting your own work the way you did is that it seems you already have a good idea of what to do next...

There are at least five other stories I want to review here, and I have not been able to all I want to.

I appreciate the note Ruby. I was not feeling impatient. I have had a lot on my plate this week as well. My feelings never get hurt when online forum stuff takes some time. Took me weeks to get this far with this assignment, I can't expect everyone to jump up and review it when I finally get it posted.

moptop, please don't feel unloved. I cannot speak for anyone else, but I think you are worth reading. Perhaps folks are just waiting for you to fix the stuff you already think needs fixing.

Oh, kitty, keep writing, and I am sure someone else will rip on it soon.

Hugs,
Bewsitchingly

[moptop]

I can't expect everyone to jump up and review it when I finally get it posted.

Um - I should pipe down... took me weeks to write mine, lol.

moptop, please don't feel unloved. I cannot speak for anyone else, but I think you are worth reading. Perhaps folks are just waiting for you to fix the stuff you already think needs fixing.

a) thank you! b) ah - good point. In fact, I already owe everyone a rewrite of my 'not' first assignment, following their reviews; let alone a rewrite following my own! Oops.

Oh, kitty, keep writing, and I am sure someone else will rip on it soon.

Is not a prob! the general issue is getting me to shut up!!

But hang on - hey - why am I being so contrite? I WANT to wind the guys up! Guess I'm just a glutton for punishment.

Beswitching, don't you worry - thank you for showing such concern, and especially thank you for being nice about my writing. But most of what I say should be taken with a pinch of salt! I have FAR too big an ego to feel unloved really. Well, most of the time.

[Beswitchingly Positive]

All in good fun moptop; I bet you are fun. I too relish getting the guys wound up...and the rare, exceptional girl...there seem to be many exceptional women here.

I have already thought of three ways I could get you to shut up, your post makes me want to see those pretty lips around a gag. Then I would chain you to a laptop, moptop...

Wow, sorry if I am getting scary already, we just met.

I was looking at the story contest thread and got a little inspired to try to slam something out before the end of the month just for fun. I dare you to write one too. Take your mind off waiting for reviews, and there is the thrill of the deadline...

A big ego, or rather a good self image, is a trait most of my friends share.

A pinch of salt...that saying always gets me...I wonder where it came from.

Of course you're a glutton for punishment; you're a writer.

So, wanna do the story contest with me? Ready, set...

[tessa]

I was on that dark street, looking up at that thing...scared. So scared.

You are an amazing writer. Wow.

tessa

[moptop]

there seem to be many exceptional women here.

I think you're right there! have you been Tessa'd yet?

I have already thought of three ways I could get you to shut up, your post makes me want to see those pretty lips around a gag. Then I would chain you to a laptop, moptop...

Wow, sorry if I am getting scary already, we just met.

Chained to a laptop. Hmmm. I think I already am.

Scary??? Unh-unh!! You can't stop there - what's the third way!!! (I have a few ideas of my own...).

I was looking at the story contest thread and got a little inspired to try to slam something out before the end of the month just for fun. I dare you to write one too. Take your mind off waiting for reviews, and there is the thrill of the deadline...

- ulp. Deadline. I'll see... no promises! I havn't looked at the theme yet.

A pinch of salt...that saying always gets me...I wonder where it came from.

It's biblical/superstitious in some way. I understand it is related to throwing a pinch of salt over your left shoulder, if you spill some; the devil lives behind your left shoulder, God or an angel behind your right. You throw spilt salt over your left shoulder to get it in the devil's eyes and ward off evil. That goes back to the days when salt was a very expensive commodity, plus a symbol of your social status (you sat above or below the salt at table, depending on whether you were important or not).

That could all be total rubbish!!

Of course you're a glutton for punishment; you're a writer.

Damn. That explains so much! But - chicken or egg - am I a writer because I'm a glutton for punishment?

Story contest... I'll go see now... but I SHOULD be continuing my rewrite of my non-assignment. (I'm two-thirds there, guys, honest).

[moptop]

La-la-laaaaah. Done mine. Where's yours, then?

*looks even smugger than usual*

Oh - it is shamelessly sentimental. Or shameless and sentimental, I'm not sure which. And frightfully un-British, lol.

[Beswitchingly Positive]

moptop,

It occured to me, after I wrote the post about the contest, that I had not finished my edit either...I was not trying to distract you, it just seemed like writing for a contest might be fun.

Well, I am sure there are still nits rooting around in this little assignment, but I think mine is ready to post as well. I hate not being able to catch all of my mistakes.

Maybe August's contest would be a more realistic goal.

BP

[Beswitchingly Positive]

Pain grasped my chest when I found myself standing outside Celia’s apartment. It was not the pain of heartbreak, more like almost drowning. When had I stopped loving her? In the beginning, she was strong, calm and quiet. Back when it was good with her, we fucked every night. When did I start feeling smothered?

After quitting my job, I got mixed messages from her; she became a friendly cat that suddenly bites. Never yelling, she brooded over her writing more and more; it was her way of quietly panicking. I knew she was angry at me, but she wouldn't say why; she just glared. Breathing around her had become difficult.

Finally out, I breathed deep. I had wanted to leave for weeks. I was, momentarily, free.

I wished I was really free, like the mad millionaire who lived in the mansion on the corner. He wanted for nothing. Loved by many, the neighborhood girls called him Papa. Lean and muscular in his advanced years, he was handsome and capable. He did all of the maintenance on his property. Crazy old guy, he climbed all over the roof of his house, shouting at people in the street, captain of his own ship. I had watched the old man, studied him. He never seemed to pass up an opportunity, women threw themselves at him. He had lots of money and young girlfriends.

I didn't leave Celia without thought. I wanted something different.

The summer heat settled in. For months, I existed in a damp sweat. No matter how much deodorant I wore my clothes would stink of sweat in a few hours. Tempers rose with the temperature; crime was at an all time high. The heat was driving the town mad. Celia refused to run the air; she was paying the bills. I suffered.

When the power blacked out for good, we lost the option of air conditioning. I had no money to go out with. I felt stuck. I had her to stare at in the evening; instead, I took to staring at the walls. I would catch her glaring at me every now and then, in the candle light, looking up from the book she was reading. Without a word she would close the book, give me a look of sad resolve, and proceed lock herself in her room.

There was no more mention of sex. Celia had been rabid for my cock when we got together. I have to admit, sex with her was the best. She did everything. Tirelessly sucking my cock, she handled my stuff better than any girl I had been with. At first I thought she was too rough, grabbing and pulling on my cock and balls. It scared me at first. She was right though, once I relaxed, her aggressive grip became pleasurable. Every way imaginable, Celia had expertly extracted ounce after ounce of my fluid, making me come several times a night.

As the summer dragged on, she stopped touching me. If I tried to touch her, she reacted by flinching. Next, she stopped speaking to me, only answering direct questions.

She was driving me crazy, I could not stay another day.

Celia locked herself in her room one night. I listened to her chanting in the dark. After the third night, I had to ask.

“What were you doing?”

Her intense green eyes held the light of madness; her voice had a hint of old certainty.

“Protecting the block. There are demons out there. Don’t go out, Mateo, please.”

“I’m not going out.”

Sadness and worry made her face lumpy and ugly. Part of me wanted to comfort her, but most of me wanted to run. There was no use arguing with her. I could not reach out to her. Every time I thought I should, I froze.

At first, I didn't go out. Scattered announcements on the radio warned of gang warfare, looting, and out of control fires. The city was in chaos. It was hard to believe just a few miles away people were shooting at cops and rioting. Our block was quiet; it seemed perfectly peaceful. The gunfire sounded distant. Few cars passed.

During the day, Celia talked to the neighbors. She knew everything that was happening out in the badlands. I knew what she told me, which wasn’t much. I quit asking, after she stopped talking. I could not bring myself to talk to the neighbors. My imagination was sure she was telling everyone what a worthless, jobless, waste I was.

I could not talk to her. I realized I had no friends here.

The last night, I listened to Celia chanting again. The incense smoke was seeping out the cracks of dim light that framed her door, saturating the apartment with an sharp smell. Demons or not, I was itching to go out.

Moving as in a dream, I dressed in my favorite jeans and a dark shirt. I packed a small bag: change of clothes, toothbrush, razor, comb, hair gel, extra socks. I took a bottle of water for the walk. I was going downtown, to find a job in the cold air and electric light. It wasn’t more than five miles away, not a long walk. Not afraid exactly, still, I wished I had a gun. All the weapons were in Celia’s room; they were all hers anyway. I slipped on my boots and took a deep breath. I knew there was only one way to save myself.

I quietly stepped out the front door. Turning her key for the last time, it felt final. I knew I would never go back.

Sneaking down the creaky stairs took me to the courtyard. The pain in my chest slowly lifted. The sky was clear and moonless; a thousand stars twinkled approvingly at my escape. I crept down the alley, feeling my way in the pitch black, making it to the iron gate that led to the street. Opening it slowly, the creaky metal metal hinges yeilded, for once, quiet as a robber. I was out. Heart pounding, I let my eyes adjust to the wicked dark before proceeding. Celia’s chanting faded into the night; I walked away.

Fast and quiet, the dark swallowed me. Putting blocks between myself and that crazy witch, I breathed easier. I could see dark outlines of houses and trees, could hear occasional gunshots in the distance. I was fully prepared to duck into a shadow if I heard a person, or a car, coming close. There was no need. I saw no living soul that last dark walk.

Not until I made the mistake of stopping.

I almost made it to the part of town that still had street lights.

Stopping to have a smoke, I’ll never forget my longing, looking toward the distant, hazy glow of electric light. That’s when I spotted movement on a rooftop, up the street. My eyes caught the dark form, pacing on all fours along the horizontal peak of the roof. It slinked, like an animal.

My mind grappled with itself, trying to name what I was seeing. It moved like a huge black...shadow cat? Looking like a dark tiger, pacing in fast forward, it was unnaturally fast. Taking a good portion of the length of roof, it must have been the size of a large wildcat. The movement was sleeker, more fluid than any beast of this earth.

The ‘cat’ stopped it’s rapid movement and abrubtly sat on it’s haunches, at the point of the roof closest to me, still as a statue.

Skin crawly with shiver and tingle, I felt eyes on me. It was watching me. Holding my breath, I did not want to lose sight of that still, dark form.

I stared. I saw a sudden flicker of dark movement come out from behind it. Looked like flexed its...oh god, wings?

Fuck, suddenly, I was missing Celia. Having no where to run, I stood, frozen in the dark.

I watched as it turned and resumed that menacing walk more slowly. Becoming barely a shadow in the dark, at the center of the roof line, it vanished. Did it pause and look back at me before it disappeared? Blinking, I strained to see it again, wishing I had not seen it at all.

“You saw it too.”

A voice in the dark behind me at that moment should have scared me out of my boots. Instead, I felt an unreal calm, like a hand at my back urging me on. I turned away from the misery of fear to behold a woman of unearthly beauty. The contrast was unreal.

Her voice was sweet and syrupy; low without being masculine at all. I turned to see a face that matched. My heart hurt; her skin looked so soft. She glowed pale in the dim light, like a porcelain doll with a translucent, velvety finish. No more than five foot four, her full, curly, dark hair gave her the illusion of another inch or two. Even in the dim light, I could see that her lips were full and red. It was hard not to stare at her full breasts, heaving with quick breath, as if she had been running.

A glistening drop of sweat rolled from her neck down into her cleavage. She shook her hair like an animal, drawing me back to her face. Big dark eyes pulled me closer, I moved without thought. I matched her hushed tone when I finally remembered to speak.

“Saw what?”

Her voice was unsteady; I could almost see her shaking. What else could I have said?

“I thought I saw something running on a roof top, two blocks up. I was watching from my window; I saw you walking. When you stopped, I thought you were watching it too.”

“No, just stopped walking to smoke.”

I held out the stump of the cigarette that had gone out in my hand as burnt evidence. I did not want to admit I’d seen it. I lied to her without thinking; now it was too late. It was a mechanism. Didn’t want to scare her.

She smiled small and tight.

“Have you been walking long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where'd you come from?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, doesn't matter.”

“Where you going?”

“I don’t know, toward the lights, to find a job.”

She fidgeted; it was a nervous, awkward movement. It made her look hungry.

“Are you okay?”

She considered my question for a minute before responding.

“ No, I am not okay. I’m scared. I thought I saw something out there. I want to ask you to come home with me. I don’t even know your name.”

She lowered her face, hiding a shameful blush. “My brother went out three weeks ago and hasn’t come back. I’m scared to be alone again tonight.”

Looking up at me once more, I fell into the chasm of her dark eyes.

“My name is Mateo. I’ll look after you tonight; the lights will still be there tomorrow.”

She smiled gratefully, it seemed.

I followed her, suspecting no evil.




She led me to a huge brick house. It loomed, a quiet fortress, all shutters shut tight. Like everything else in this part of town, it was dark.

We entered through a tall, solid, wood door. She bolted it shut behind us. A few candles lit the long hallway just enough to see a path flanked with several heavy, old doors. Aged hardwood creaked under my feet as we walked the corridor. There was nothing unusual about the place, except the smell. I caught a faint, floral scent and started to inhale deeply. By the end of my breath, I was gagging.

Her house smelled like flowers, on top of dead rats.

She turned to face me as I grimaced at the perfume of death.

Smiling, she closed in. I felt like an actor in an dimly lit black and white film as she reached out to touch my arms. Flinching, my heart froze with the contact. Her hands were so cold it shocked me. Where I expected heat, I found ice.

That’s when I felt the blinding, shattering pain.

What a quiet gun, was my thought. My head rocked back on my neck; I fell slowly to the ground. Everything went black.


Waking, I found that I was strapped, standing against what felt like a cold, damp, cement wall. My wrists were held straight out from my shoulders, ankles bound far apart from each other. I was somehow attached to the wall. My head was held in such a way that I could not turn any direction, locked straight ahead.

I could not think. My heart wanted to pound but felt sluggish. Maybe I had brain damage. Focusing my eyes was not possible. A sound invaded my stupor, seemed like footsteps of an animal with long toenails, clicking on the floor. I saw blurry, dim light flickering around a dark shadow. A huge creature moved at the far side of the room. My head hurt only faintly; a numb fuzz clouded my sight. The form was coming towards me. Something about the way it moved; it was wrong. I swallowed cotton and sandpaper.

It shrank down to sexy girl shape as it approached me. Strange, how the perspective was reversed, her form getting smaller as it got closer, blocking less and less of the light. I still did not know what she was. I shrugged it off as a trick of the shadows.

“Poor Mateo. “ She cooed at me, teasing.

The scent of flowers filled my head as she put her face next to mine. I inhaled deeply, powerless to do anything but breath. It was an exotic aphrodisiac, her musk and proximity. I drifted into a hazy approximation of reality. Turned on was better than terrified.

She must have stood on a chair to be eye level, or she had grown taller. What had knocked me out? Who had helped her move me, and trap me like this? I remember such thoughts, logical, worldly thoughts.

Feeling her cool body gently press against me made me realize I was naked. I shivered. What had she said to get me here, "I am scared. I don’t want to be alone." Now, I was scared.

Not warm or human feeling, her icy hands were gentle. Frigid fingers worked their way along my arms, under, tickling a little on the way to my chest. She caressed me like a lover, lulling me into thinking this might be all right, after all.

Defying fear, my meat stirred as her hands explored my restrained form. She ran her nails down my chest to muscled belly, pulling the hair softly, barely scratching. Working her way down, I felt soft palms pressing on my growing erection. All I managed, in my bound state was a small, pathetic, thrusting movement and a whimper that came involuntarily at her hands. I pushed my cock toward her.

While her fingers were frigid, her palms were unnaturally warm. My cock grew quickly clasped between them, the focus of her hot prayers. She warmed the length of my shaft; pulled me to full attention. One hand on my cock, icy fingers and hot palm, she stroked me. The other hand cupped my dangling, exposed testicles, warming them.

I could not help thinking of eggs under a warm hen, life growing from ugly fetus, to wet stringy baby chick inside. Her hand grew hot and my balls started to ache.

That was when I realized I didn’t even know her name.

“Please, stop, Ma’am. Lady. Something's wrong with my head. What is happening? Fuck, I don’t even know your name.”

Suddenly she moved away, stepping back where I could see her. My vision cleared just in time.

“Look around. You are my prisoner.”

My head became free to turn, as if she had cut an invisible string without moving. I could feel no device, but there was a sickening, wet tickle on the back of my neck.

The room was a torture chamber, complete with racks, ominous tables, and devices designed to drive a man mad. Candles were ensconced randomly on moldy stone walls that seemed unsettlingly out of place. The dim light showed me too much.

I turned to look at her. Her porcelain skin that I liked so much was turning a sickening black.

“You will never know my true name.”

That’s when I saw the flickering, flexing movement behind her still form. Before I lost my mind, I tried desperately to remember Celia’s chants. My chest tightened up. I could hear the sing song sound of Celia’s voice as the dim light of my prison was eclipsed by large, dark wings.

[Beswitchingly Positive]

I was on that dark street, looking up at that thing...scared. So scared.

You are an amazing writer. Wow.

tessa

Wow, coming from you, I am flattered. Your writing has never disappointed me tessa. And yes, moptop, tessa was one of the exceptional women I was refering to. Thank you so much for the compliment, tessa.

moptop, you are so sweet to explain the salt thing. Might be rubbish, but it sounded good.

Now, in my experience, the best ways to shut someone up are of course, a gag, also a kiss and finally, feeding you treats! This would work unless you have the bad habit of talking with your mouth full.

Hope ya'll like my edit. Please, rip it up.

BP

[moptop]

Um - Beswitch, I think we're meant to wait for Ruby now? To give her first pick, I mean.

Ruby/guys, is that right?

I have never been fed treats. *thinks about figure* And it would probably best to stick to the other options. (Since 'treats' is obviously just an alternative word for 'chocolate'!).

I feel cheated, though: I rushed off and wrote a story (however contrived...) for the competition - and you get gold star points for doing your editing! *sulks*

[Beswitchingly Positive]

Moptop,

Ok, I was confused, I thought you edited your story.

I saw the poem, (I liked your poem, by the way) in the July contest, but I did not see an entry from you in the story contest. That's where I was thinking of diverting my attention, not with poetry.

Whoa, Please, don't feel cheated. I can't write poetry to save my life!

Running the risk of being shunned, I was not thinking chocolate...more like strawberries or something very spicy...wasabi peas...or just straight hot sauce. Do you like oysters? I just fasted for ten days last month, Indulging in food is something I have trained myself away from.

I will work on a contest entry after work today and see if I can spit something out, I was reading the song lyrics and had something fairly fighting with my brain to be written...I wasn't trying to trick you. I was trying to distract myself from waiting to see what Ruby says. This is distracting me from missing my man. I read some of your other posts and it seems we have quite a bit in common...my man is self employed and has little time for playing. I should be happy with his once a week minimum (if I am lucky it is sometimes thrice a week...) and writing, well, he always tells me when he leaves, "Now, go write something."

He thinks I will be writing a story about getting caned next...so I might get sidetracked soon (yikes, the cane scares me). Now I have to submit something in that contest so I don't feel bad for sidetracking you. If I can just stay out of the other threads...

Off to work. 6 am is so early.

Beswitchingly

[moptop]

So the challenge IS still on!! That deadline creeps forwards... heh heh.

Oh - strawberries - yummy - ooh ooh - bombay mix! that is very very spicey and soooooo moreish! Never tried wasabe peas - sound nice.

Ah, yes, the missing man syndrome... damn, it's hard! But it's nice he encourages you to write - it is a good way of getting those feelings out!

The cane scares me too.

[moptop]

And nectarines (cut up, of course)

[Beswitchingly Positive]

Nectarines scare you? Have you ever had a satsuma?

[Ruby]

Hi BP,

Thanks for the editing refresh. It's made this scary tale, much easier to read and enjoy. The ending made me shiver with terror for the leading man.

There's quite a bit to savor. Your descriptions are delighful and I can "see" as I read so much of what's happening.

The formatting and pacing are right on target.

The story is well developed and complete. It leaves the reader wanting more, more, more!

Some things to work on:

A semicolon is not a period. If the phrase stands alone, or it a complete thought, it's okay to use a period. This is first person and we don't all speak in correct sentences.

It's okay to use contractions.

Here's a little hint that may help with the active tense:
When you are describing something, it's okay to use "was, were, be, being, been," etc. words. When describing the action, that's when to remove them.

The opening of this tale still needs a bit of work. It's a rambling set of thoughts from a male who is trying to tell us he's left a woman. Later, we find out that perhaps his rambling has a reason, though, still, it would help if there were more hints to help the reader understand the timeline.

Here's some suggestions:

Standing outside Celia's apartment, pain grasped my chest. It wasn't the pain of heartbreak, more like almost drowning. When had I stopped loving her? In the beginning, she was strong, calm and quiet. When it was good, we fucked every night. When had I started feeling smothered?

"Insert time - Last month, last week, last year" After quitting my job, I got mixed messages from her. She had became a friendly cat that suddenly bites. Never yelling, she brooded over her writing more and more. It was her way of quietly panicking. I knew she was angry at me, but she wouldn't say why. She just glared. Breathing around her had become difficult.

"Take us back to the present." Now, finally out, I breathed deep. I had wanted to leave for weeks. I was, momentarily, free.

"Interesting, you tip us off with momentarily. Is this deliberate?"

"Help us again, with the time line and the moment".

Often, when I was with her, I wished I was really free, like the mad millionaire who lived in the mansion on the corner. He wanted for nothing. Loved by many, the neighborhood girls called him Papa. Lean and muscular in his advanced years, he was handsome and capable. He did all of the maintenance on his property. Crazy old guy, he climbed all over the roof of his house, shouting at people in the street, captain of his own ship. I had watched the old man, studied him. He never seemed to pass up an opportunity, women threw themselves at him. He had lots of money and young girlfriends.

If you are talking to the reader, it's okay to break the third wall. Give us a transition and let us know you are changing topics again.

You see, I didn't leave Celia without thought. I wanted something different.

"When was this?"

Six months ago, the summer heat settled in. For months, I existed in a damp sweat. No matter how much deodorant I wore my clothes would stink of sweat in a few hours. Tempers rose with the temperature. Crime was at an all time high. The heat had driven the town mad. Celia refused to run the air. Since, she was paying the bills, I suffered.

When the power blacked out for good, we lost the option of air conditioning. I had no money to go out with. I felt stuck. I had her to stare at in the evening. Instead, I took to staring at the walls. I would catch her glaring at me every now and then, in the candle light, looking up from the book she read. Without a word, she would close the book, give me a look of sad resolve, and proceed to lock herself in her room.

There was no more mention of sex. Celia had been rabid for my cock when we got together. I have to admit, sex with her was the best. She did everything. Tirelessly sucking my cock, she handled my stuff better than any girl I had been with. At first, I thought she was too rough, grabbing and pulling on my cock and balls. It scared me. "removed rest of sentence" She was right though, once I relaxed, her aggressive grip became pleasurable. Every way imaginable, Celia had expertly extracted ounce after ounce of my fluid, making me come several times a night.

As the summer dragged on, she stopped touching me. If I tried to touch her, she reacted by flinching. Next, she stopped speaking to me, only answering direct questions.

She drove me crazy, I could not stay another day.

One night, Celia locked herself in her room. I listened to her chanting in the dark. After the third night, I had to ask.

“What are you doing?”

Her intense green eyes held the light of madness. Her voice had a hint of old certainty.

“I'm protecting the block. There are demons out there. Don’t go out, Mateo, please.”

“I’m not going out.”

Sadness and worry made her face lumpy and ugly. Part of me wanted to comfort her, but most of me wanted to run. There was no use arguing with her. I couldn't reach out to her. Every time I thought I should, I froze.

At first, I didn't go out. Scattered announcements on the radio warned of gang warfare, looting, and out of control fires. The city was in chaos. It was hard to believe just a few miles away people were shooting at cops and rioting. Our block was quiet. It seemed perfectly peaceful. The gunfire sounded distant and few cars passed.

During the day, Celia talked to the neighbors. She knew everything that happened out in the badlands. I knew what she told me, which wasn’t much. I quit asking "no comma needed" after she stopped talking. I couldn't bring myself to talk to the neighbors. I imagined she told everyone what a worthless, jobless, waste I was.

I couldn't talk to her. I realized I had no friends here.

My last night with Celia, I listened to her chanting again. The incense smoke seeped out the cracks of dim light that framed her door, saturating the apartment with a sharp smell. Demons or not, I itched to go out.

Moving as in a dream, I dressed in my favorite jeans and a dark shirt. I packed a small bag with a change of clothes, toothbrush, razor, comb, hair gel, and extra socks. I took a bottle of water for the walk downtown. I was going to find a job in the cold air and electric light. It wasn’t more than five miles away, not a long walk. Though not exactly afraid, I wished I had a gun. All the weapons were in Celia’s room. They were all hers anyway, and I wouldn't ask for one. I didn't want her to know I was leaving. I slipped on my boots and took a deep breath. There was only one way to save myself.

I quietly stepped out the front door. Turning her key for the last time, it felt final. I knew I would never go back.

I'll stop edits here and put the task to you to do the following:

a. Seek semicolons and remove them.
b. Look for places to take advantage of the active tense and go for it.
c. Look to places where you tip off the reader that something bad is going to happen and ask if this is what you wanted. If not, remove them.

Have fun with it and keep up the great work!

Ruby

---

Other reviewers,

Please let BP know how she is doing in these areas:

1. Does her dialog read like something that would be written in the first person? Does it work for you?

2. Do you believe that this story is told by a man?

3. Do you have any suggestions on how she can make this story better?

4. What is she doing right?

Thanks!

Ruby

---

Moptop,

I haven't forgotten you. BP has been waiting a bit longer. She sent me her assignment in an e-mail before you posted yours. You're up next!

[Beswitchingly Positive]

Thank you Ruby, I understand now why this was so hard for me. Your very detailed explanation of what I need to do is so helpful. Thank you for letting me rewrite before wasting your time picking at the first one.

Active voice, save it for the actual action! I can be very slow to catch on.

I interpret my assignments very literally.

I thought you wanted the whole thing in active voice, this is why my first attempt was so clipped and breathless You got the virgin draft, Ruby the one I posted might be a word or two different, but not by much. I sent it to you privately because I knew it had problems...then I was restless and saw the brave moptop post a first draft, and it rocked, and she was so brave, so I figured why not? I sent it to Ruby, she saw it, I could do that too...mine had far more to fix, but what the hell.

I have to apologise to H Dean, he said he my story didn't seem like a first draft. Now I think I know why. Never thought about it until he said that.

This is how I wrote this, it had to have a dungeon, and what fun is that with out a bit of torture? Hmmm who do i want to torture, oh right, That Guy, so I will try to get in his stupid head and think about why I want to toture him...with my interprtation of active voice, it took off like a breathless runner from there. Once I had a who and why, the how was easy.

I did not finish this in one sitting, each time I looked at it I reread it from the beginning, keeping in mind my assignment, and added and subtracted as I saw fit (because, here, writing, I am g-d, dammit) until it felt as though it reached an end. I was going to change alot and I am pretty sure I didn't do it before moptop (unintentionally) lit the fire under my ass to post it.

I wanted to know if it was worth saving, and I am an attention whore at times.

So, because it was so hard to try to do it ALL in active voice, (because i took the assignment too literally) I worked on it and got exhausted by the pace and had to stop and start over (on the origina?) quite a few times.

Maybe I am incapable of a first draft.

My dearest H Dean, I think this is why it seemed not to be a first draft, I'll bet. And maybe I don't really know what constitutes a first draft because I have usually write this way, very gradually. It seems to take me a few tries before a piece feels finished. I have to pretty much read the whole thing again whenever I work on it, so I edit as I write, until I catch the mood again and then I can keep going to an ending.

I never really thought about this process before, I just figure when it feels like a complete scene, or story, or chapter, it is the first draft.

Deanie, darling, you are truly an ispiration to me. You call me on my subconscious bullshit. My first draft is only in my head, before I start writing...no one gets to see it, I am too much of a perfectionist, in my mind, not with my skill.

I will set myself to task to eradicate all my clumsiness. When I began writing in earnest, five years ago I was going to blatantly fuck the rules...it had been so long that I had school, I had forgotten many.

People liked my stories in spite of that, so I kept writing and occasionally letting someone see...

Now, I see the value of sticking to a form and fashion that is more comprehensible...I enjoyed the abstract quality of my stream of consciousness phase...now I want the story it self to be the mind fuck, not the form...jeez, might I be finally growing up?

Ruby, your comments and instruction have shed a bright light on how I can fix this.

Thank you, I hope I can make you all feel like it was woth the effort to give me all this help. In thanks I want to invite you all, Dragon's Muse, Aussiegirl, Rhabbi, Ruby, H Dean, moptop, Satan_Klause, Tessa and Mad Lews to my Halloween party in October...please forgive me if I am overlooking anyone who has helped me...as far as you all being strangers, I am not afraid...I am not kidding, PM me for details.

I throw kickass parties. I am so happy, I feel like having one right now.

I will get to work Ruby, thank you!

Beswitchingly

P.S. My r/l writing partner read the last version of this outloud to myself and two other friends this afternoon, before Ruby posted...one of my very best friends, Mad Mike (he is famous, look up madmikethehippiebum on my space if you want to consider the source) he kept shouting out "No guy thinks that way!! No guy would ever say that!!" over and over...so please, tell me, yall, was the male pov at all believable?Any suggestions will be gratefully accepted...

[Ruby]

Thank you Ruby, I understand now why this was so hard for me. Your very detailed explanation of what I need to do is so helpful. Thank you for letting me rewrite before wasting your time picking at the first one.

Active voice, save it for the actual action! I can be very slow to catch on.

I interpret my assignments very literally.

Me, too. lol I'll do my best to be more clear next time.

I wanted to know if it was worth saving, and I am an attention whore at times.

It is indeed worth saving. Consider this:
This tale may not really work in first person!
It may be better told in third person, from the leading man's point of view.

Why?

One. The writing style is more like third person, with lots of I's and me's thrown in for good measure.

Two. The ending lends itself to the leading man's demise. Consequently, how can he be telling the story? To whom is he telling it?

I know, I know, this is often done, but I usually feel cheating as a reader and quite frankly, if he's become mad, it would be hard for him to string the story together at all.

Three. It may actually read better, and elminate the issue whether or not it's told by a man, if it's told by an unknown narrator.

You've accomplished the original task. Now it's time to consider, how to make the story better.

You can either re-write (give it a big editing refresh) by putting it in logical order, and really trying to "speak" like a man, or you can adjust the story to third person.

The choice is yours. Where would you like to take this tale?
Which "voice" would have the most impact on your readers?

Maybe I am incapable of a first draft.

Perhaps that's true and it's okay!

I never really thought about this process before, I just figure when it feels like a complete scene, or story, or chapter, it is the first draft.

That works for me. It's when you feel that you are done and need to put it down that you can call it any draft number you want.

I will set myself to task to eradicate all my clumsiness. When I began writing in earnest, five years ago I was going to blatantly fuck the rules...it had been so long that I had school, I had forgotten many.

People liked my stories in spite of that, so I kept writing and occasionally letting someone see...

Now, I see the value of sticking to a form and fashion that is more comprehensible...I enjoyed the abstract quality of my stream of consciousness phase...now I want the story it self to be the mind fuck, not the form...jeez, might I be finally growing up?

Ah, the student is learning quite a bit about herself.
One of the reasons I like people to play with different styles is to see what works for them and what works for the story they've chosen to write. It's like trying on a new coat, if it doesn't fit, we can select another and try again.

Ruby, your comments and instruction have shed a bright light on how I can fix this.

Great. I'm hoping I didn't shock you too much with my thoughts above. The more I think about it, the more I believe this story would work better in a third person, active tense, leading man's point of view, telling.

I throw kickass parties. I am so happy, I feel like having one right now.

Party? Oooh. We should PM.

I will get to work Ruby, thank you!

Beswitchingly

Thank you!

P.S. My r/l writing partner read the last version of this outloud to myself and two other friends this afternoon, before Ruby posted...No guy would ever say that!!" over and over...so please, tell me, yall, was the male pov at all believable?Any suggestions will be gratefully accepted...

I agree with your writing partner. Here's why:

In general and for first person stories (in my opinion):

Men think and want.
Women feel and need.

Men tend to be blunt, women flowery.

Men often speak and communicate in a logical flow: first A, then B, insert part C into slot D, etc.
Women often tell a story out of order, with random bits thrown in for emphasis and emotions sprinkled through out.

Both can be quite good at describing sensual items like touch, smell, sights, sounds, and tastes.

When I read your story, I didn't believe that a man was telling it.

Did your writing partner have hints or tidbits that you can share?

Keep up the great work!

Ruby

[H Dean]

Well, I am not going to harp on the few things that Ruby harped on. I enjoyed the way the story was told. It was rather sorrow filled and a bit dreamlike. It seemed like the story teller was chasing something he couldn't quite get a grasp on. That added to the overall feel.

There are, of course, critisisms. The main complaint I have is that there were too few contractions of words. The story being told from his point of view would have had more. No one tells a story with "would not" and "could not" unless they were trying to be scary or trying to present himself as stylized. Guys, unless they are snobbish, generally contract everything they say. If grunting were a sentence we would use it. Other than that, this was told with a voice of a rather sad man.

The changes you made to this story definately helped out, by the way. The flow was far better than it was before. One thing that I would have liked to read was of the surrounding smells and sounds. There was atmosphere, but blooming flowers offering their blooms and smells would have been a great contrast to the city and the violence and the scent of gunpowder I imagined hanging in the air.

Finally, "I followed her, suspecting no evil." Of course he was suspecting no evil. But what was he really following her for? Suspecting no evil was a forshadowing that need not have been there - lots of shit was foshadowed already. He followed, her need for his comfort being a welcome change from the quiet storm where he lived.

Anyhow - I am off. Much to do - crickets to buy. Animals to feed.

[moptop]

*wonders who eats the crickets. Feeding the beast...*

Beswitching - as Dean says, Ruby has done a great job of going through this in detail. I actually got almost all the way through doing a similar detailed pick-apart for your first version, before deciding to make a much more generalised comment and leave you to work on it. I agree totally with Ruby when she says

The ending lends itself to the leading man's demise. Consequently, how can he be telling the story? To whom is he telling it?

I know, I know, this is often done, but I usually feel cheating as a reader and quite frankly, if he's become mad, it would be hard for him to string the story together at all.

. I wasn't going to mention it, because it is often done, it is a perfectly valid story-telling device, but as for Ruby, it has always annoyed me and felt like cheating. If we're looking for realism, then that is just not a possible ending.

In a way, although it would permit that ending, I think it would be a shame to make this third person. I like the first person telling of this tale, his confusion comes through well. But it would give you more freedom.

I wonder if some of the thoughts you've had about how you write would be worth putting into the 'how I put a story together' thread? It is really interesting to read your learning process.

Nectarines scare you? Have you ever had a satsuma?

No no no - bad writing technique on my part, lol. Changed the subject without allowing the reader to know. Nectarines as treats! I have had a satsuma, yes - although a Satsuma has never had me.

[Satan_Klaus]

In general and for first person stories (in my opinion):
Men think and want.
Women feel and need.

Ruby

Or expressed in other, words:

"Melvin how do you write women so well?"
"I think of a MAN, and I take away reason and accountability."

Jack Nicolson in "As Good As it Gets"

Satan_Klaus

PS:
Please don't hurt me ladies......or please do.

[Beswitchingly Positive]

Me, too. lol I'll do my best to be more clear next time.


No need to apologise Ruby, this was an interesting lesson.



It is indeed worth saving. Consider this:
This tale may not really work in first person!
It may be better told in third person, from the leading man's point of view.

Why?

One. The writing style is more like third person, with lots of I's and me's thrown in for good measure.

Two. The ending lends itself to the leading man's demise. Consequently, how can he be telling the story? To whom is he telling it?

I know, I know, this is often done, but I usually feel cheating as a reader and quite frankly, if he's become mad, it would be hard for him to string the story together at all.

Three. It may actually read better, and elminate the issue whether or not it's told by a man, if it's told by an unknown narrator.

You've accomplished the original task. Now it's time to consider, how to make the story better.

You can either re-write (give it a big editing refresh) by putting it in logical order, and really trying to "speak" like a man, or you can adjust the story to third person.

The choice is yours. Where would you like to take this tale?
Which "voice" would have the most impact on your readers?


I only wrote in first person for years, it was something I was trying to get away from. Writing from the male point of view doesn't feel honest to me...I also realise it is important to be able to do so effectively, if I ever want any of my male characters to think or speak. I would like to make this third person, and I could set him up to tell the story (he is mad) and it would be much easier not to cheat you all with a vague notion of where he is telling the story from and make it more believable...however I did like the surreal aspect of it...I will have to think on this, perhaps I can do both.


One of the reasons I like people to play with different styles is to see what works for them and what works for the story they've chosen to write. It's like trying on a new coat, if it doesn't fit, we can select another and try again.

Great. I'm hoping I didn't shock you too much with my thoughts above. The more I think about it, the more I believe this story would work better in a third person, active tense, leading man's point of view, telling.


I will give it a go but it may take a little time

Party? Oooh. We should PM.

[COLOR="rgb(72, 209, 204)"]Yep, will do! [/COLOR]



I agree with your writing partner. Here's why:

In general and for first person stories (in my opinion):

Men think and want.
Women feel and need.

Men tend to be blunt, women flowery.

Men often speak and communicate in a logical flow: first A, then B, insert part C into slot D, etc.
Women often tell a story out of order, with random bits thrown in for emphasis and emotions sprinkled through out.

Both can be quite good at describing sensual items like touch, smell, sights, sounds, and tastes.

When I read your story, I didn't believe that a man was telling it.

Did your writing partner have hints or tidbits that you can share?

Keep up the great work!

Ruby

[COLOR="rgb(72, 209, 204)"]I will keep all of this in mind.

Thank you for taking so much time with this.


BP
[/COLOR]

[Ruby]

Or expressed in other, words:

"Melvin how do you write women so well?"
"I think of a MAN, and I take away reason and accountability."

Jack Nicolson in "As Good As it Gets"

Satan_Klaus

PS:
Please don't hurt me ladies......or please do.

Satan_Klaus,

Feel free to drop your pants, bend over and lay across my knees.

You deserve a good "reward" spanking for putting a huge smile on my face.

Ruby