- TheForgotton
- Jun 10, 2001
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I'm making a career of evil.
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Scouting for things to review, deleting the independent thread I had for this review and instead posting it here. Hopefully I can crank one out before I leave work and catch some sleep.
I'm looking for feedback regarding my flow/composition.
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quote:
Marlowe’s gaze was much harder than that of most twenty-somethings. His wide smile lit up a room and his laughter filled whatever space he occupied. To anyone paying attention, however, his mind almost never occupied the same space as his body. His gaze was much harder than that of most twenty-somethings. Always he was looking off into this distance. Always…he had that thousand-yard stare. I'd redo this whole paragraph. Telling us about his abnormally "hard gaze" isn't interesting, even the second time around.
A small arm wrapped itself around Marlowe’s throat, it’s owner unseen. The assailant was a featherweight, and from what he could tell, petite. In spite of this he found himself unable to wrench himself free. Darkness closed in around his eyes. A woman’s voice whispered in his ear.
‘My name is Ayla. Terribly sorry for this, but I have some questions that need answering.’
Marlowe felt the sharp pinch of a needle behind his ear. The world went black.
A swift backhand greeted Marlowe’s return to consciousness. It came sharply, and was delivered with authority. He moved to rub the sting out of his cheek but met resistance. A hot trickle of blood flowed from the corner of his mouth and pooled in the stubble on his face. The itch was driving him mad. The heat of a flood lamp shining down on him made it worse. It's been like thirty seconds max. Maddening itch, pah!
‘I’m going to be straight with you Mr. Marlowe, I have been paid to kill you.’ The voice was behind him, female, and young. ‘The pressing question here is why.’
Marlowe struggled against his restraints, to the apparent amusement of his captor. Who whistled, hooted, tapdanced, her glee.
‘What’s the matter? Are those pythons hanging off your shoulders all tuckered out?’ Ayla emerged from behind her prize.Her prize being Marlowe? Seemed awkward to me. ‘It’s probably the heroin. I’m sorry about that, I figured those rippling muscles would have flushed it out of your system by now.’
Looking at her, Marlowe was shocked that this girl was able to bring him down. She couldn’t be more than 18. Everything from her posture to the controlled rise and fall of her breathing spoke of grace and discipline. There was something in the way she walked that hinted at the uncanny strength she possessed despite her slender frame.
‘Ayla…right?’ The words came out hard. The aching in his throat was only made worse by the all-too-familiar dry mouth that accompanied opiates. ‘You look more like a ballerina than a browbeater.’ Browbeater? Assassin, killer, mercenary, etc.
The deafening crack of an open hand slap rang through the room and Marlowe's face felt as if it had been set ablaze. The reverberations told Marlowe more about the room he was in than his eyes could at this point. Large, empty, damp. He could feel the humidity in the room more realistically than he could hear it. Did the echo splash? Some sort of warehouse, near water. Despite collecting dust for the past year, his training was still sharp.
‘Don’t patronize me.’ Ayla’s voice betrayed a real and earnest offense to Marlowe’s comment."Besides." She crossed the warehouse floor en pointe. A contemptuous smirk cut its way across her face. Each step was poised, elegant, and effortless. ‘People are allowed to have multiple talents.’
The room brightened a bit. Light had begun to seep in despite the windows being boarded up. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but at least now he could see beyond what the interrogation lamp allowed. It did not bode well for his escape. Is this supposed to be dawn or headlights outside the warehouse?
Every window was boarded up, and both exits were clear across the room. Marlowe wasn’t a gambling man to begin with. He definitely wasn’t willing to stake his life on being faster than a girl whose stride left most basketball players playing catch up. What he cared about most at this point was the stool sitting before him, and the two bottles of water perched on its seat.He's still tied up so I don't get his "gambling on running faster than her". It would slightly more interesting if he were a gambling man but wouldn't take that bet, anyways.
Closing his eyes, Marlowe listened for something…anything that would give him some clue as to where he was being held.
‘It’s an abandoned boathouse on the south bank of the Allegheny.’ Ayla was standing over him now. She was holding a knife. I'd want more sense words if she's that close.‘Look up.’
Marlowe complied, noting a derelict yacht above him and a set of makeshift stairs leading up to it. He flinched at the sensation of cold steel against his wrist. He let out a noise that was meant to come out as ‘stop.’ Dehydration made sure it sounded pathetic as possible. So much for that spy training.
‘Relax. I’m not planning on ending your life, not if I can help it at least.’ Marlowe’s fist clenched tight as his restraint was cut. Rope? Zip-tie? Silk Pajamas? ‘And before you make another pathetic sound, I didn’t say I intended to kill you…I said I was paid to.’
There was a satisfying click as the last restraint was cut. Ayla took a seat on the bench, tossing a bottle of water into Marlowe’s lap. Even perched on a bar-height stool her legs reached the ground. Ten-foot-tall ballerina assassin?
Marlowe was too tired and too confused to run. Were his legs even tied?Now he wanted answers.What would make a baby-faced teenage girl want to kidnap an ex-con? A slightly older ex-con. Not that big of a deal given the crap about twenty-somethings in the opening.
‘So…’ Ayla’s expression relaxed, ‘If you are willing to sit there and not try anything stupid I’ll clue you in as to what the gently caress is going on. I’m going to need some answers out of you…but if you don’t force me to do so I won’t hurt you.’ Huh? Run that back to me again.
Marlowe gulped down the water he had been given, uncaring as to whether or not it had been drugged. Secret AAAAGENT MAN He took a second to wipe the sweat from his brow, but stopped as he heard the distinct clack of a round being chambered.
‘Don’t delude yourself though.’ Ayla looked Marlowe dead in the eye. Her face telling the story of someone who had seen more trauma than anyone twice her age would have experienced. ‘I will kill you if you make me." Can you describe any of it. Is she horribly scarred, or are you talking about psychological trauma?
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Here's a piece I've been working on. I can't decide if I want to continue this at around 3000 words or try and end it as a short-short.
Marshall waltzed as the band droned on like an engine with loosened bolts. It had been too long since they had swapped in fresh players and the horns sounded drunk and mutinous. Tears dribbled down the fiddler's face as the man scraped sliding notes from his blood-slick instrument. Marshall wondered what would happen if the music stopped before the dancers.
Clara remained limp in his arms, her toes dragging on the polished mahogany of the ballroom floor. She had not spoken to him since the foxtrot. Two songs ago and already a lifetime removed from the present. He hugged her with the last of his strength and felt sharp ribs digging into his flesh. They had stolen brief naps in each others arms on slow numbers before the last sundown, but now he was weary beyond all experience. He dragged her through the motions, the hope draining as her body temperature dropped. The white masks of the Judges followed the dancers' circuits, but no one had risen to inspect the weary competitors in hours. Sooner or later, they would notice the blue tinge in her complexion, he thought.
Feast preparations were under way on the far side of the ballroom. The smell of woodsmoke and simmering meat dragged a whetstone over his hunger. For a cruel second, he imagined himself at the victor's table, about to enjoy the first bite of stew from a golden spoon the size of a teacup. His feet slowed and the ivory masks seemed to grin wider.
“Snap out of it, Marsh. That's how they get you.” Clara's voice. Marshall stumbled but regained his rhythm. Another couple of seconds, and he might have stopped dancing entirely. He heard her too clearly over the dissonant waltz but felt no breath touch his face. He whispered his thanks into the crook of her neck and tried to focus his thoughts away from his slavering belly.
Worse than the maddening aroma of food or the unrelenting soundtrack, was the animosity he felt toward his remaining competition. He had known Hal and Dina for years and had even attempted to dissuade them from entering. Marshall did not recognize the other two couples. He wondered if it was worse to hate friends who stood in the way of your dreams, or strangers.
The young couple on his right still seemed as energetic as when the ordeal had begun. They dressed far too elegantly, the man in a rumpled tuxedo and wing-tips, the lady in pearls, an ermine coat, and a pair of high-heeled pumps that had once been pearl white. Marshall watched them from time to time, hoping to catch them in the act of taking whatever vitamins or stimulants propelled them. He was not sure if the Judges would even listen to his allegations at this point in the contest.
To his left, the hairless man in the patchwork coat whimpered, his face constricting down to a fist between his juglike ears. Fire flashed from a ruby ring and his honey-haired date slapped his cheek with a crack like a hunting rifle. The report startled the bassist, who had been on the verge of nodding off into a three-quarter-time trance. The bald man's chest heaved as he sobbed silently.
Marshall sometimes felt as if he were floating. Although he could hear wet squelching from his socks with every step, all sensation had left him below the knees. His thoughts were sluggish and disconnected by miles of bad telephone wire. Dry sand seemed to rasp his throat but he decided that he would rather suffer thirst than have another swallow of the vile, copper-reeking water that the Judges allowed once per song.
He heard another crack and a surprised yelp of pain. The blonde in the fur coat had snapped off the heel of her shoe and fallen to the floor with a sound like a broomstick broken in two. The right leg was pinned beneath her at a strange angle. “Albert, help me!” she said, on the verge of screaming. She twisted, tried to stand, but her ankle lurched to the side like a rubber doll. She shrieked and fell to her side.
Albert stared at her for half a second, his eyes flashing down to her ruined shin. He held his arms out to empty air and resumed his waltz, turning as a trio of Judges descended upon her, not wanting to witness the hooks and flashing knives this time. A rainstorm of blood-matted pearls pattered over the dance floor and rolled around the room.
Marshall watched the spinning man in the tux and waited for the Judges to carry him off as well, back towards the makeshift kitchen. The man only giggled and pirouetted faster once the masked ones returned to their seats. Then again, if it were a crime to dance alone, Marshall's own life was probably forfeit.
“So let me go,” the voice in his ear whispered. He leaned Clara back in his arms to look upon her face and found her eyes as tightly closed as her lips. “You might make it to the end if you save your strength,” the hallucination continued.
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May 11, 2015 13:00
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May 14, 2024 23:39
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- TheForgotton
- Jun 10, 2001
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I'm making a career of evil.
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Overall, interesting concept and proficient technique. Good balance of humour and horror. The hallucinations of Clara don't really work that well, she speaks entirely in cliché. It goes a overboard on the surreal aspect of it too. The way the hallucination is explicitly spelled out at the end kinda undermines how underplayed everything is to that point. We never really find out what the stakes are. It they lose they die, if they win they get to eat the losers? Is there more to it? I feel like there is and the story is being too coy. I want to be invested, let me be!
I realize this is high society setting and you do make good use of foreshadowing but there are a lot of points where the narrative gets bogged down with extensive description, awkward phrasing, extraneous suffixes (-ed coming up a couple times), and things like "he/Marshall + thought/wondered" don't really add anything either.
I would read a 3000 word version of this but have better word economy. Don't strip everything down, just don't overcrowd your finer prose with filler.
Thanks much for the crit. I must admit that this piece started from a dream fragment. I didn't want to try and over-explain things but I do need to make the circumstances and stakes more solid.
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Jun 5, 2015 22:10
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May 11, 2015 13:00
