PDA

View Full Version : North Street Diner ( LANGUAGE)



Ziggy455
October 24th, 2010, 09:05 PM
Okay, well before you read this short two piece story I'd just like to say a few things. One of these things would be I am currently learning on how to become a better writer, I do not consider this my best or worst work. It was written directly from thought, kind of like a workshop practice. The story is low, the dialogue is cheesy and I understand these things. Just have fun reading it and I hope you give me alot of criticism. Like they say 'Rome wasn't built in a day' so read it, trash it. Please! :)


http://i52.tinypic.com/169eu8o.png



The cold December air was shrill; it’s relentless lashings of temperature coating the silver exterior of the 1950’s styled diner in the heart of the old British town of Rugby. The whole town was growing culture-wise and such but that tiny diner had never changed. It lay nestled just on the corner of North Street, close to a huge nightclub and opposite a Dominoes Pizza. The inside was simple, plain red seats, chrome tables and Betty, the familiar waitress pouring coffee for the regulars inside.

The regulars all sipped their coffees with blank, dazed or dull expressions. The cold air getting worse, causing the coffee bean bags to split as Betty opened up the third one. She filled up the machine and continued to give the few inhabitants their refills of steaming hot Joe. Her eyes were scanning slowly, confirming each Friday night regular, except for the young kid in the back on his fourth cup of guava. Betty had never seen him before. Cute kid, he looked like he was in his early twenties, scruffy black hair with attentive facial features. Not like most kids today who pierced every orifice available. The kid had sense.

The waitress headed over to him with her hands clasped gently on the mug of guava. ‘Refill,’ she said before pouring the piping hot fluid into the glass mug. This kid looked lonely. ‘on the house.’ The waitress gave with a smile. The kid looked tired as he took a sip-regardless of temperature- and placed the mug back down next to a overturned book which resembled the bible in width, but the words Stephen, King and Novel made it all clear. Smart kid...

The kid was Marcus, a twenty something year old aspiring writer. This was the first time he’d ever came into the North Street Diner. He’d spent the last couple of nights writing, sleeping and marking down how many times he’d wished for something better than being alone. His mother was a social worker. This meant she fucked off most of the time to ‘save the world’ which was what she was doing, so to speak. But that didn’t bother Marcus much, what bothered him was this was the last day he refused to be alone, to be the sadist with a pen in his hand. A beautiful woman walking her small Chihuahua breezed past the window in all her splendour. Would she like to meet a writer? No, she definitely would not want to meet a loser fuckin’ writer. Marcus’s hopes dissolved quickly.

Marcus had lived in Rugby for just over five years, he went to school here, and he made friends here. But to him, Rugby was just a backwater, incestuous arsehole of the world. The guys were small minded, mechanical gorillas, the girls were into mechanical gorillas and not one person knew what a book was. Marcus sipped his guava again, thinking back to the wonder years.

‘Excuse me,’ floated the voice of someone next to him. Obviously they’d gotten him mixed up with another person. He stared forward and sipped his coffee again. ‘Hello?’ This time Marcus turned to look out of annoyance. What he saw made his last sip of Joe shoot back into his mouth. Her bright green leaf coloured eyes staring directly at him, with beautiful creases of happiness as her bright perfect smile glared at him. Her hair was jet black, flowing down to the bottom of her back. It shone perfectly in the cold air. ‘What book is it?’ what fucking book was it? She knew what a book was?

The kid was knocked off guard, his eyes quickly shifting to the girl and back to the book. ‘Oh it’s err-’ the girl was wearing a large Victorian coat, the bottom of it just ending halfway across the thigh. High thermal socks ended by the knee. With Victorian fashion shoes placed neatly together. ‘Misery.’ squeaked the high pitched reply from Marcus. What a woman.

She smiled nervously, sitting down opposite the kid. She placed her finger onto the book and slid it over to her. ‘My favourite!’ she said with a grin. Marcus’s world slowed down. Where the fuck was he? The twilight fucking zone!? He felt it, a beautiful girl who knew at least one author on this planet was talking to him, and she wasn’t giving him a look of disgust or misunderstanding.

I enjoyed the dismemberment part of the book. This gave Marcus the willies. The antagonist of the book was obsessed with the protagonist writer, and to stop him running she cuts of his foot. The rest could be left to imagination. ‘Wow, aren’t you the masochistic type.’ Green eyes scoffed and gave another wide smile. ‘Okay, so tell me...’ her voice trailed off, beckoning for the cute guy to give her his name. His eyes widened quickly as he caught on. ‘Oh, it’s Marcus.’ The girl couldn’t stop herself smiling; the poor mess of a talker in front of her was cracking like a fat kid in the Wonka factory.

‘So, Marcus,’ he was cute, he didn’t seem like the other guys she’d spent nights talking to in spontaneous situations. The waitress came over with a half cocked smile; she was quite young, her flowing bleach blonde hair tired up in a cute bun. ‘Coffee?’ she asked kindly, causing Marcus to look up at her suddenly. ‘Relax Marcus, I’m not the only person who’s ever spoken to you, I won’t cut off your foot. I promise.’ The leaf eyed girl said calmly.

Marcus’s heart was beating fast, very fucking fast. ‘Actually, you kinda’ are.’ The girl showed a small hint of pity in her eyes. After that, the two began to rapidly talk. The seconds turned into minutes and the minutes turned into an hour, and then two. The regulars began to drift out as the two constantly spoke into the night. At about ten forty five, the conversation changed.

The girl’s name was Amber. She’d lived in Rugby for twice as long as Marcus himself. She lived with a foster family and she was also into, as it seemed from earlier, reading. For the last two hours the two had spoken about a lot, including Stephen King, horror, past experiences and anything interesting. The waitress occasionally eyed up Marcus as she came over to refill the coffee; making sure Amber saw her doing it. She shrugged it off with another grin at Marcus who was still drinking. ‘So what brought you here?’ he asked, placing the steaming cup next to The Stand which Amber had brought out to prove she really did enjoy King’s work. Her eyes glazed over for a few seconds, then her smile came back and she began to speak. ‘Sick of the house y’know, can’t stand my foster mom.’ She said trailing off with a sigh of sadness. ‘Least your mom is there to be a pain in your ass.’ Amber became alerted. Marcus caught on. ‘She’s alive, just working all of the time. And I mean all of the time.’ He said tapping the chrome table. ‘That’s good.’ Her green eyes flicked open wide, Marcus felt like he’d smoked a hundred cigarettes at once every time Amber gazed at him. Why was this beautiful girl here in the first place? Marcus was sceptical. She was probably waiting for someone who never showed up. Amber was looking out into the busy area of North Street.


As she noticed the eyes of the kid ahead gazing at her she smiled again and placed her hands around her mug for warmth. ‘So why are you here?’ Amber asked, cocking an eyebrow. The cutie smiled and then went serious. ‘Well...’ he took another sip, shaking a little as he did. ‘I know this may come as a big, big shock to you, but I had nothing better to do.’ He said before looking away in embarrassment.
Amber slid her hand across to his. ‘I –‘ as the beauty began to speak, two other teens jumped into the Diner, red faced and fists clenched tightly. Amber slid her hand away as well as Marcus.

‘FIND THAT FUCKING BITCH WAITRESS!’

J M Pumilia
October 27th, 2010, 06:38 PM
I think at least the majority of us are trying to become better writers here. I certainly am, so next time I suggest leaving that intro out and get straight to the story. We understand you want critiqueing for you posted it in this section.



The cold December air was shrill

Shrill is most often referred to as a high pitched noise or an extreme feeling of emotion. Perhaps you used it wrongly?



relentless lashings of temperature coating

How can something be lashed by temperatures? Perhaps by snow, hail, or cold wind but 'temperature' is a bit vague and dosen't leave the mind with a solid image.



The whole town was growing culture-wise and such but that tiny diner had never changed.

Try leaving out 'and such' because the phrase doesn't add meaning to the story.



‘Refill,’ she said before pouring the piping hot fluid into the glass mug. This kid looked lonely. ‘on the house.’ The waitress gave with a smile.

Maybe you mean to make it a statement but since I work at a resturant people usually asks if the guest wants a refill.
I thought when 'on the house.' was said that either the waitress or the young man could of said it. Perhaps you want to specify.
What did the waitress give with a smile? As is, that sentence is a fragment.



The kid looked tired as he took a sip-regardless of temperature- and placed the mug back down next to a overturned book

"sip-regardless of temperature-" Those dashes are suppose to be commas. Even if they were commas I don't think the temperature of the coffee is relevant to the story line and if left out I believe that part would read smoother and faster.


Smart kid...

This is a sentence fragment and it contributes nothing to the overall story. Consider takeing it out.


A beautiful woman walking her small Chihuahua breezed past the window in all her splendour.
I cannot picture this woman because 'beautiful' is subjective to the perceivers mind and it doesn't actually describe her physically. Tall, blonde, thin, and smooth legs can describe her and then the characters in the book, or the reader, may make the judgement that she is beautiful but that word is so overused it has no meaning anymore.



No, she definitely would not want to meet a loser fuckin’ writer.

How does the narrator know what the women wants from the simply act of her walking her dog? This seems more like a thought Marcus would have and if it is meant to be that, then please put qoutations around the sentence and specify it is his thoughts.



Marcus’s heart was beating fast, very fucking fast

You telling me that his heart was beating fast twice doesn't make it more real or vivid to me as a reader. If anything its redundant and the word 'fucking' doesn't add value to anything and is another word overused that no longer has any meaning outside the realm of sex.



The girl’s name was Amber

How does the narrator know her name when she hasn't said it yet? This information is easily explained with dialogue.

spider8
October 27th, 2010, 10:36 PM
[LEFT][B]



The cold December air was shrill; it’s relentless lashings of temperature coating the silver exterior of the 1950’s styled diner in the heart of the old British town of Rugby. The whole town was growing culture-wise and such but that tiny diner had never changed. It lay nestled just on the corner of North Street, close to a huge nightclub and opposite a Dominoes Pizza. The inside was simple, plain red seats, chrome tables and Betty, the familiar waitress pouring coffee for the regulars inside.
It's a terrible opening sentence - relentless lashings of temperature? It smacks of you trying to write. I'd ditch the whole thing and try and write the opening more simply.
After reading the whole post, this opening doesn't matter whether its set close to a huge nightclub, or if it's 1950's styled. Giving me all this info is fine if it helps you create the atmosphere I need. But I'd prefer you began inside the diner.



Not like most kids today who pierced every orifice available. The kid had sense.
You're in danger here of losing Writer's Authority by perhaps letting me imagine this is a prejudice of the author, rather than the character.


The waitress headed over to him with her hands clasped gently on the mug of guava. ‘Refill,’ she said before pouring the piping hot fluid into the glass mug. This kid looked lonely. ‘on the house.’ The waitress gave with a smile. The kid looked tired as he took a sip-regardless of temperature- and placed the mug back down next to a overturned book which resembled the bible in width, but the words Stephen, King and Novel made it all clear. Smart kid...

Why are we getting the waitresses POV here? Also why does Marcus just sit there doing and saying nothing? Why isn't he reading his book? Why have you given me all these questions so early in?

Don't show this situation so much from the waitresses POV (because you'll soon be switching to Marcus' POV). Have Marcus more active at this point, at least give him some dialogue. And with 'Smart kid.' , you once again make me imagine that it's the author's prejudices rather than the waitress'.

I won't go through and crit the whole thing like this. Overall it read a bit shallow and empty. I've no idea what the girl was doing in the diner.

There's no point in me saying all this if I can't be constructive. So here goes. I'd drop the whole thing. Bin it. Your problem is what you've chosen to write. If I, or anyone chose to write about this situation, it would be awful. So perhaps it's not you, it's what you're writing about.

I can't be more helpful I'm afraid.

btw, although I liked Stephen King's Misery, your story would suit a more, literary-considered, highbrow example of fiction.

spider8
October 28th, 2010, 08:22 AM
P.S. I can't agree with JM's comments about the intro. This isn't a buisness-only forum. Personally, I rarely read a book without a blurb, or a recommendation or sometimes looking at reviews on amazon. Also, I've been a bit harsher because of the intro. (Without your intro. I mightn't have even commented on it).

Also, I'd remind you that, although you're doing things that we're criticising, I see these things in published works too. (Maybe I even do them myself, on occasion).