Doug Johnson
kickbox
StillILearn said:
I noticed that too. Novella, is that want you want?
-
Welcome
to BookAndReader! We LOVE books and hope you'll join us in sharing your favorites and experiences along with your love of reading with our community. Registering for our site is free and easy, just CLICK HERE!
Already a member and forgot your password? Click here.
Story beginning
- Thread starter novella
- Start date
I noticed that too. Novella, is that want you want?
StillILearn
New Member
I am seeing Miss N "hurtling towards disaster" all right, but in a somewhat leisurely way. (I'm also watching to see if this is going to turn out to be funny or not.) There's a kind of a tongue-in-cheek feeling about it all so far.
Breaca
Member
Bah humbug - now me gotta wait for next installment. I'll try not to sit here tapping on keyboard impatiently - and certainly not with bated breath. Oh well, I guess it's people's bed time. Come to think of it, I think it's mine. Novella - great stuff. Can't wait to see how the ending develops.
novella
Active Member
Here we go . . .
The rain had stopped completely. I shot straight across the street to Coco’s door with the same blind determination that had taken hold of me a few days earlier. The place was a padded jewelbox, hushed and sparkling.
“Two?” the maitre d’ asked when I went in, assuming I would eat. Unaccompanied women were tolerated at Coco but not expected and certainly not encouraged. Too many women would spoil the tangible mood of powerbrokers at play, the nods and murmurs and handshakes, the best bottles and top-shelf liquors taken neat, the waiters who bowed lower for the rich. The things my father enjoyed.
“I’m only going to the bar, Sal,” I said. My father called him Sal, but I had never done so. He smiled, false and disapproving.
“Of course.”
As I approached the small bar, I felt myself shaking. I tried to still myself with one thought: no one can touch me. So it has been and so it always will be. Amen.
Bruno’s eyes were on me as I crossed the room.
The rain had stopped completely. I shot straight across the street to Coco’s door with the same blind determination that had taken hold of me a few days earlier. The place was a padded jewelbox, hushed and sparkling.
“Two?” the maitre d’ asked when I went in, assuming I would eat. Unaccompanied women were tolerated at Coco but not expected and certainly not encouraged. Too many women would spoil the tangible mood of powerbrokers at play, the nods and murmurs and handshakes, the best bottles and top-shelf liquors taken neat, the waiters who bowed lower for the rich. The things my father enjoyed.
“I’m only going to the bar, Sal,” I said. My father called him Sal, but I had never done so. He smiled, false and disapproving.
“Of course.”
As I approached the small bar, I felt myself shaking. I tried to still myself with one thought: no one can touch me. So it has been and so it always will be. Amen.
Bruno’s eyes were on me as I crossed the room.
StillILearn
New Member
A voice is heard to reverberate throughout the canyons of the silent city, echoing pontalba's sentiments:
"el-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la ... or-or-or-or-or"
"el-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la ... or-or-or-or-or"
theoptimist
New Member
Still hanging in there, eager to read the next part Novella!Lucien said:
novella
Active Member
Let's see, where were we . . .
The door to Coco was heavy. I felt silly pulling it open with two hands, as though my studied composure had already been compromised. The air inside was warm and faintly smoky. Sal discreetly lets the regulars smoke, though he would deny this if asked. It was also understood that complaints would not be tolerated.
"We are international," he would shrug.
Bruno and his companion were on the short end of the L-shaped bar, their backs to the dining room. I went to the other end, letting my eyes pass over them and then away. The companion looked quite the pugilist, with his thick bent nose and heavy fists. Bruno was fingering a gold moneyclip with a few bills tucked into it.
The bar at Coco is fine polished wood with a fine line of brass inlay around the edge, and the mirrors behind the bottles create the impression of being inside an old-fashioned jewelry box, the kind that plays a little tune and has a twirling ballerina. The incongruity is in its coolness to the lone female.
Nevertheless, I took one of the padded gold leather bar stools.
“Madame?” the bartender asked, leaning toward me.
“Lillet, please,” I answered. I watched him choose a stemmed cocktail glass and pour the liquor, the color of poison. The color of arsenic. He placed it on a small napkin in front of me, blocking my sightline to Bruno.
“Saint-John,” I said, nodding toward the book they keep behind the bar. My father’s name. I could not help but notice the bartender’s glance toward Salvatore, and Salvatore’s slight nod.
I use my father’s name in lieu of money, sometimes because I do not have cash and other times because it establishes a certain rapport. In this case, for both reasons.
The bartender moved away, wiping things, meticulous in his demeanor. This allowed me to open my ears to the men across the bar. They were speaking Italian, in low voices and without much inflection. It was impossible for me to decipher.
I sipped my drink and felt the first flush of alcohol bathe my heart and send something tiny inside spinning, as though a little switch had been thrown. I looked up and into Bruno’s brown eyes. His gaze was open and seductive. I blushed and looked away.
“Oh my god, Novella, I can’t believe it!”
I knew that voice. That squeal.
The door to Coco was heavy. I felt silly pulling it open with two hands, as though my studied composure had already been compromised. The air inside was warm and faintly smoky. Sal discreetly lets the regulars smoke, though he would deny this if asked. It was also understood that complaints would not be tolerated.
"We are international," he would shrug.
Bruno and his companion were on the short end of the L-shaped bar, their backs to the dining room. I went to the other end, letting my eyes pass over them and then away. The companion looked quite the pugilist, with his thick bent nose and heavy fists. Bruno was fingering a gold moneyclip with a few bills tucked into it.
The bar at Coco is fine polished wood with a fine line of brass inlay around the edge, and the mirrors behind the bottles create the impression of being inside an old-fashioned jewelry box, the kind that plays a little tune and has a twirling ballerina. The incongruity is in its coolness to the lone female.
Nevertheless, I took one of the padded gold leather bar stools.
“Madame?” the bartender asked, leaning toward me.
“Lillet, please,” I answered. I watched him choose a stemmed cocktail glass and pour the liquor, the color of poison. The color of arsenic. He placed it on a small napkin in front of me, blocking my sightline to Bruno.
“Saint-John,” I said, nodding toward the book they keep behind the bar. My father’s name. I could not help but notice the bartender’s glance toward Salvatore, and Salvatore’s slight nod.
I use my father’s name in lieu of money, sometimes because I do not have cash and other times because it establishes a certain rapport. In this case, for both reasons.
The bartender moved away, wiping things, meticulous in his demeanor. This allowed me to open my ears to the men across the bar. They were speaking Italian, in low voices and without much inflection. It was impossible for me to decipher.
I sipped my drink and felt the first flush of alcohol bathe my heart and send something tiny inside spinning, as though a little switch had been thrown. I looked up and into Bruno’s brown eyes. His gaze was open and seductive. I blushed and looked away.
“Oh my god, Novella, I can’t believe it!”
I knew that voice. That squeal.
novella
Active Member
Today's installment
Sorry about the little continuity problems. Working from memory, I screwed up a little in the last episode.
A voice from parties past, and one that I would have been happy to never hear again. Samantha Aubusson-Matthews, known to some as Birdy. She, encased in cream-colored Balenciaga, was moving toward me with strained steps across the plush carpet. When in striking distance, she kissed the air on either side of my head.
“We thought you were in London,” she squealed. Birdy speaks in ‘we’s, whether she’s alone or not. “Who are you with?” she said, craning her neck around in an exaggerated motion, as if to say, “I must know everything.” This was her quest, in fact—to ascertain every personal fact in her distant acquaintances’ lives.
“Hello, Birds,” I said.
“Come sit with us,” she said, motioning for a waiter to take my drink in. “It’s just me and Charles and one of his work people with some dreadful wife. I need you.” She pinched my arm viciously and looked at me with burning eyes. This would not happen.
“Sorry, I can’t. I have to meet someone,” I lied, getting to my feet. I glanced toward Bruno. His eyes rested on me while he listened to his friend talk, rather as though he was watching a play unfold onstage. I suddenly wished he would come to my rescue. It was a vague wish that he would intervene and free me from something, though I could not put my finger on what. It was more than this moment, it was life, the claustrophobic mahogany panelled elevator of life.
“Must run, Birds. I’m late. Call me,” I said, knowing she did not have my number. “Lovely to see you.” I waved in her direction as I turned my back to her and slipped out before she could reply.
Sorry about the little continuity problems. Working from memory, I screwed up a little in the last episode.
A voice from parties past, and one that I would have been happy to never hear again. Samantha Aubusson-Matthews, known to some as Birdy. She, encased in cream-colored Balenciaga, was moving toward me with strained steps across the plush carpet. When in striking distance, she kissed the air on either side of my head.
“We thought you were in London,” she squealed. Birdy speaks in ‘we’s, whether she’s alone or not. “Who are you with?” she said, craning her neck around in an exaggerated motion, as if to say, “I must know everything.” This was her quest, in fact—to ascertain every personal fact in her distant acquaintances’ lives.
“Hello, Birds,” I said.
“Come sit with us,” she said, motioning for a waiter to take my drink in. “It’s just me and Charles and one of his work people with some dreadful wife. I need you.” She pinched my arm viciously and looked at me with burning eyes. This would not happen.
“Sorry, I can’t. I have to meet someone,” I lied, getting to my feet. I glanced toward Bruno. His eyes rested on me while he listened to his friend talk, rather as though he was watching a play unfold onstage. I suddenly wished he would come to my rescue. It was a vague wish that he would intervene and free me from something, though I could not put my finger on what. It was more than this moment, it was life, the claustrophobic mahogany panelled elevator of life.
“Must run, Birds. I’m late. Call me,” I said, knowing she did not have my number. “Lovely to see you.” I waved in her direction as I turned my back to her and slipped out before she could reply.
RobertM
New Member
I scanned over the earlier installments, and then read the last few entries. I couldn't find much wrong with it.
You have the point-of-view concept down very well, and that is important. There is nothing that will trash a work quicker than bad POV usage. Bad POV is the sign of an amateur.
IMHO this story has possibilities. You can publish a novel at 40k words these days, if you wish. Just boost the font to 12point and go generous on the line spacing, maybe setting to 'at least' in Word menu to 14-16pt.
Easy to read, as well.
You have the point-of-view concept down very well, and that is important. There is nothing that will trash a work quicker than bad POV usage. Bad POV is the sign of an amateur.
IMHO this story has possibilities. You can publish a novel at 40k words these days, if you wish. Just boost the font to 12point and go generous on the line spacing, maybe setting to 'at least' in Word menu to 14-16pt.
Easy to read, as well.
novella
Active Member
I scanned over the earlier installments, and then read the last few entries. I couldn't find much wrong with it.
You have the point-of-view concept down very well, and that is important. There is nothing that will trash a work quicker than bad POV usage. Bad POV is the sign of an amateur.
IMHO this story has possibilities. You can publish a novel at 40k words these days, if you wish. Just boost the font to 12point and go generous on the line spacing, maybe setting to 'at least' in Word menu to 14-16pt.
Easy to read, as well.
Gee, Robert, I don't know whether to say thanks or tell you to **** off. You really should watch the condescending tone. I've been a professional editor for 20 years (in both sci/tech professional and trade) and a self-supporting freelance writer for 10, with several pieces of published fiction. I've given readings at the Celeste Bartos Auditorium of the New York Public main library several times, once taped by HBO.
Not to blow my own horn, but as you seem to assume my total ignorance of such matters, I figure I might as well. I used to post here a lot more, just having stupid fun with some of the personalities that have since fled. Breaks up the routine. Makes working alone a little less monotonous.
One of my favorite threads (in which the further stories of novella are elaborated, mixed with other personalities here) is sirmyk's Therapy thread. But let's not go on about the good old days . . .
BTW, SFG is a guy, not an abbreviation.
SevenWritez
New Member
Not to blow my own horn, but maybe you should shove that tampon up a little further before you post. He was commenting and saying somethign that wasn't all-out praise like every other post here. He wasn't trying to belittle you.
novella
Active Member
"I couldn't find much wrong with it." is not a compliment to an author, it's a self-congratulatory snide comment.
I recently published an economics piece for which I interviewed three subjects. One was a very successful head of a large section of Smith Barney, a multimillionaire who studied literature, built boats, and then became a very wealthy man in banking. He is very well read and funny. Another was an Argentinian in his 30s from a banking family who speaks five languages and now works in private banking. The third was a recent graduate in his 20s who works on back-office risk analysis and studied 'business and information technology.'
I always ask my subjects to read a piece, particularly their quotes, before publication. It's polite and also gives time for clarification.
The first guy read the piece and said, "Wow, thanks. You're a very gifted writer. I could not have done better. What else have you done?"
The second said, "This is very nice. Thank you for giving me the opportunity. It's been a pleasure."
The third said, "I couldn't find anything wrong with it."
Do you see the difference that a style of communication can make?
SevenWritez
New Member
Yes, but those you heard in verbal tone. Realize that this is a forum, and that people may type things out not intended to hurt but that may be taken as offensive.
Robert hardly seems to go around starting fights, his other posts just show him trying to be complimentary feedback or positive support. That's why I jumped in back there.
Also, sorry for my "Tampon," comment; I was just taken aback by how you seemed to attack--for lack of a better word--him after his short post.
I see what you mean, but again, this is Robert. Now, if I or one of the other members here typed that, sure, it may have been written out in a condescending attitude. And...and, that's all.
Robert hardly seems to go around starting fights, his other posts just show him trying to be complimentary feedback or positive support. That's why I jumped in back there.
Also, sorry for my "Tampon," comment; I was just taken aback by how you seemed to attack--for lack of a better word--him after his short post.
I see what you mean, but again, this is Robert. Now, if I or one of the other members here typed that, sure, it may have been written out in a condescending attitude. And...and, that's all.
novella
Active Member
Harry saw me up to the apartment door. I knew that he and the guys had watched me over to Coco, and that the block was full of other information for Harry and Brendan and the guys. He did his job. That’s what he’s paid to do, it’s fine.
But when I was inside, I felt that there was really no way out. He would talk to my father. Or someone else would.
That’s the night I decided to go underground.
But when I was inside, I felt that there was really no way out. He would talk to my father. Or someone else would.
That’s the night I decided to go underground.