Strummer

This is just something I wrote for the sake of practice (it's a bit tossed off really and kind of a sketch that might be better if further developed or taken in a different direction). It's a raw first draft (I just write and then see what comes out), if I decide it's worth the effort of a second it'll be more polished and probably completely different. A shot at writing a more genre-oriented piece. However it still contains my tendency to use a lot of words in the description of very few events. I guess I'm not too interested in plot. I'm more concerned with how I can say something than what I say i suppose. I have trouble writing truly "short" stories, because the need to end it before having a lot of time to make a point causes the conclusion to feel a bit forced. anyway....


John lane squatted in the cold of a New York night. As he did so, his leg brushed against a garbage bag which made its trademark rustling sound. They shoulda put that in a trash can, he thought. It’ll be rat food by morning. This reminded him that he might fall victim to a similar fate. As he sprawled out in the dark alley, he wasn’t reassured by the cold gunmetal pressed against his palm. Though he was reminded that he should have worn gloves.

He cursed himself for making such an elementary mistake, but was resigned to the fact that he’d still have to carry out his plan. He raised his head briefly for a glimpse of his target, but the homeless man in the Dallas Cowboys hat had wandered off. It didn’t matter though. That was the great thing about random acts of violence. Anyone was an appropriate victim.
John wasn’t a disgruntled postal worker. Just a disgruntled member of the human race. Disgruntled because he was human, and thereby forced to suffer through all that it entailed. He considered himself a tragic hero of sorts. A Travis Bickle type of character. He’d rather have been Macbeth, but he lacked the power and had no chance of getting any. The only power he’d ever see was the kind he was going to take tonight. The power of God over human life.

John wasn’t all bad. Just as he was determined to take a life, he was also determined to give one. He'd be the Violent God of the Old Testament, and the Grace-Endowing God of the New.
He lifted up. In hopes that a new target had come into view. One hadn’t.
This night was colder than it had been yet this season. Johnny thought that when you were intent on something so serious you didn’t feel the cold, but you did. It was produced internally. The cold nature gave you was just an addition to what was in your bones.
He realized he’d had his head up too long and shot it downward as a cop walked by on patrol.

The boy in blue stood still on the corner and looked about the way a person does when they want to look important. To see if anyone is watching that they can impress.

The cop was saying something about John. Something about a guy prowling around with a weapon. A gun.
John liked hearing about himself. He liked the fact that as he was being "discussed", he was twenty yards away with a fucking handgun. It was so funny it nearly made him delirious.

He didn’t laugh as he shot the cop though.
Just popped up and popped out. He hadn’t realized that a bullet’s rate of travel would be so fast that he couldn’t follow it with his eyes. There was no time to savor the moment and this was disappointing.
He didn’t know quite what to do next, but running was sure to get him caught. He sat still. Indian-style. He pictured the abortion clinic and wanted to cry. He’d have felt odd though. Crying and holding a gun...so he didn’t.
John didn’t know where Cynthia got the gall to kill his baby. His son.
He was gonna teach the kid how to play baseball too. He’d pictured sun-drenched days of glory every summer as the kid grew up on the little league field, and became a Lawson High Tiger, like his dad had been.
He’d been denied what seemed like the inherent right of all American men. Denied something he’d deserved, and couldn’t get back. Exacting revenge would be sweet.

That’s what John was thinking about when the cops picked him up.
He was still sitting indian-style as though meditating.
A squad car had pulled up, lights flashing, and blinded him. Blinded, by blue, then blinded by red, he closed his eyes. He felt the cuffs. One form of cold metal coming into contact as another left his hand. Wasn’t his gun anyway. He felt himself pulled to his feet. But he didn’t open his eyes. Still hasn’t. Pisses the warden off, but he’s heightening his senses. Somehow that will allow him to escape. New York doesn’t have the death penalty, but they do have life imprisonment.

It’s not fair though. He just made a trade. The cop’s life for his son’s. That’s not such a big deal.

This reasoning has him determined not to fulfill his sentence. He can’t get parole, but he can escape. He’s just not sure how yet. He’s waiting for wisdom, and his senses really are getting sharper. Especially smell. He knows this because he hasn’t been able to take a shower (you have to see to do that) and the stench just about kills him. Before this he’d hiked the Appalachian Trail for 6 months, showering almost never and didn’t smell himself a bit.

With the sense-related improvement came not wisdom, but a single revelation. Wisdom wouldn’t do shit. It was determination he needed. He would find a way out by any means necessary. But first he’d have to open his eyes.

He couldn’t.

He returned to sitting indian-style. This time on the cold floor, where he’ll stay. He’ll spend a lot of time thinking now, because the internal is all he knows.

Suddenly the jail seems quiet.

Nemo

It was an interesting read..but I really believe in the "Show, Dont Tell" rule. There were several areas where the word 'was' came up. To me, it's just a very weak word to use, and I avoid it at all cost. I think if you were to go through and work the "was" word out of the sentences, it would really do a lot for this piece. I'm not exactly the one to be telling this though, just my thought .

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"Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness."

aliceedelweiss

I rather liked it. It was interesting but I think you should sprinkle hints through the story about the abortioned son, so that way it doesn't sound like its really random. the plot was nice though.

I'm not sure what nemo means by the word "was" its a verb and its needed...
I just have to say, so you know. Without plot there is no story

Alice

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Chris Miller

I agree with Nemo. I also think you should lose the waiver at the top. This will deter readers, and detered me from giving the piece serious attention, just as you claim you did not give the piece serious attention.

You're grammar and off-the-cuff writing skills are good. I'm a strong believer in channeled writing. But, after you've heard your muses, you have to do the work, show them some respect, or they will abandon you.

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Barcelona Review story: http://www.barcelonareview.com/64/e_cm.html

Strummer

Thanks...the reason for the waiver was because I didn't want it to be taken as my best effort.

Strummer

I know but the thing is that a lot of people want a plot packed with many events and lots of physical action, when in reality, whatever happens to the characters, and whatever they do is the plot. So I constantly hear people saying "that had no plot" when it's almost always untrue. I agree with you though. I should either put more structure around the abortion aspect or else scrap it. As I was writing, I thought I'd develop that part of it more, but the story took a different turn.

Chris Miller

Why not just give your best effort, and then post? No need for waiver then.

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the fairwriting blogs

Barcelona Review story: http://www.barcelonareview.com/64/e_cm.html