Chapter One: Mister Dezab Bahaw

[avestHom]

1.Mr Dezab Bahaw
It was only in the exam room, when Dezab Bahaw remembered that boring boy who’d sit beside him. The class was still cold, and there were a few students.
Sitting back like a Mughal King, Mister Bahaw stared at his side, at an empty seat, at that geek’s seat. He would’ve chosen not to be in the same class with him, had he the power. But he didn’t even have as much power as the examiners, who insisted the class to be arranged as it had been on the first day.
As time ticked by, the hall became filled with sunlight and students’ noise. All seats were taken now, except a few. And guess what! That boring boy’s was one of them.
Mister Dezab Bahaw looked at his watch; only a minute to 9:00.
No student would be allowed in the exam room after that. He was thinking this when a noise came from the corridor.
His heart lit up with a tinge of joy. The four examiners were coming.
As the two ladies and two gentlemen entered, the class went silent and Bahaw breathed in relief. The boring boy wasn’t coming.
“Take your seat!” said one of the ladies, turning to her back.
A tall, slim boy with his head dropped appeared in sight. It was that boring boy.
For a moment, Mr. Bahaw thought he was imagining him. But then as the boy slouched all the way to take his seat, Bahaw was sure he wasn’t.
“THE EXAM WILL SHTART FIBE MINUTES LATE,” said the senior examiner.
Once again the room filled with noise of students speaking slowly yet non-stop.
Bahaw glanced at his side, at the boring boy. The boy suddenly turned round. Bahaw tried to look away, but it was too late. He had been caught.
He reluctantly smiled but before he could say anything, however, the boy said, “A man should either make a piece of art or wear a piece of art.”
Mister Dezab Bahaw didn’t know whether to be surprised or shocked. The boy barely moved his lips or his eyes, and he spoke in a low rumbling noise, like an Egyptian mummy. Yet he had said something, you could say, meaningful.
“Bahaw!” remarked Dezab like a James Bond. “Dezab Bahaw.”
“My name is iDas,” the boy mumbled.
This was peculiar. Was this boy acting to be speaking like a robot or was it his natural way of it?
To find out, Dezab asked more questions.
“Mathematics or Computer Science, I suppose?” Bahaw guessed with a look of certainty.
“Not the language of the universe, the manual of it. Quantum Mechanics, to be precise, though the name is funny. It’s like Ten Binary.”
Bahaw didn’t get what the boy said, but he supposed that the strange noise at the end was a chuckle.
“Physics!” the boy added after a long pause.
Mr. Dezab Bahaw had almost forgotten about the exam now, because the boy had said rubbish before coming back to the topic.
“TURN OFF YOUR PHONES PLEASE! WE’RE BEGINNING,” the examiners announced.
And so the boring boy turned away his face.
The exam was a surprise to Bahaw and his classmates. Three of the questions were from the last chapter – Psychiatric Disorders and Its Types. Mr. Dezab Bahaw had not read that chapter at all thinking since it was short only one question might come from it.
The third one of these questions was how psychiatric disorders affect a person’s language. This somehow brought to his attention the boring boy, especially the manner in which he spoke.
Dezab glanced at his side. The boy was sitting in silence without writing. He had finished. After all he was a geek.
For some unknown reason, Bahaw thought if the boring boy left, there would be no chance to see him again. It was not only the last exam but the beginning of a two-month summer break as well.
Glancing at his side every once in a while, Bahaw was now frantically writing on his paper.
He was in his second question when he heard a sound coming from the end of the class. Someone had risen to leave and Bahw knew that the boring boy would be the second person, just like the past four days in which he had been the first to finish, but the second to leave. He’d always waited for someone else to leave first.
Bahaw was so fast now that his handwriting was not only out of style, but as unreadable as a doctor’s. He noticed iDas rise and follow that other student out of the class.
Bahaw had now to choose either to forget his curiosity about this boy or to jeopardize his exam in order to find out more about him.
So he wrote the third answer in the shortest way possible and handing his paper, ran through the corridor. He almost had an accident with someone.
“Bahaw!” cried an authoritative lady in red sari and short hair.
“Sorry Professor Bhatia,” he cried loud without looking up. He ran out into the open air where a hot sun was blazing above. At a very far distance, someone was slouching like the boring boy. He was going to leave the campus.
Bahaw ran through bunches of students, ignoring their surprise looks and hushed snickers, all the way to gate, where the arch above it read FERGUSSON COLLEGE. Left and right, he checked! There was no one. He heard a noise and turned in time to see a rickshaw parked under a tree had just roared into live. He ran after it, but it had gained speed.
He gave up. It was only after raising his head with a deep breath that he realized he had done the second un-stylish thing of the day, after a bad handwriting.
Thirsty now, he crossed the busy street to get a bottle of cold water from a Café on the other side. He was coming back, when his eyes fell on something.
The boring boy was sitting in the terrace of the cafe, having a cup of tea at that odd hour of the day. Bahaw somehow found himself walking toward him, but the boy reacted as if he didn’t remember Bahaw from the exam room.
“Have you been pursuing me Mr. Bahaw?” he then asked, without moving his lips.
Bahaw didn’t know what to say to this nonsense! He then thought of a great strategy, to ask personal questions from the boy, but only after himself had answered them.
“I study psychology at Sinighad College. Wonder where you might be studying?”
“Fergusson College,” the boy said.
Bahaw smiled at the simplicity of his trick. He now had a clear-cut answer.
“Have you come from a planet where they don’t sit and stand all the time?” asked the boring boy raising his not-in-use eyes.
Bahaw knew this was a way of asking him to have a seat. He took a seat, though the restaurant wasn’t to his taste or liking, not even the seats.
“How do you define it?” the boring boy asked, with his head drooped to one side.
“Define what?”
“Psychology. How do you define that branch of science?”
“Well,” Bahaw said, sitting back like a Raja. “It’s defined as the scientific study of how human mind functions.”
“Dick!” said the boring boy, “the scientific study of how human mind and dick functions.”
Bahaw felt his cheeks going red. He was sure they had heard it, all the young boys and girls at the tables around them.
For the first time, Bahaw thought of his book Psychological Disorder in Modern Life – and this boy in the meantime. He then slapped it back, as he and his classmates had vowed to Professor Madhuri Bhatia on the first day that they’d never ever try her teachings on their friends and relatives.
The boring boy had risen now. He was speaking to someone on the other side of the hedge. He was telling someone to come in. Bahaw didn’t turn round. At most, it might be another boring boy.
iDas was gesturing with his hands, as if asking a baby to come to him!
Bahaw’s mind blanked out for a second as he couldn’t guess who it might! Then he almost had fainted when he got back his senses.
It was an old man, with a dark-skinned and ugly appearance. His clothes were dirty and his whole body filthy: he was a beggar.
iDas gestured him to the chair next to his.
Bahaw wanted to jump up and run away, but he couldn’t. From behind him came whispers, telling him people at the tables around were speaking about them. He even heard them laughing inwardly. And, worst of all, he heard the click smart phones, telling him some were even taking pictures.
The waiter had come running in the fuzz, and iDas ordered something.
Mr. Dezab Bahaw hadn’t even imagined that one day he’d see a low-class beggar in a restaurant where high-born students hang out, let alone that he’d sit with such a low-class person at one table. He only clenched his teeth at iDas who was galvanizing his meal like a pig.
Fortunately, the old man was slow and it took him a while to finish off his meal. By then everyone had left the restaurant.
It was only when the old beggar had gone, and the waiter was bringing the bill, that Mr. Bahaw spoke.
“What was the meaning of that drama!?” he demanded like king.
The boy, as if indifferent to his anger, lazily said, “The ghost of caste is still haunting the soul of India. I broke it today by inviting a Harijan, bracket open, a name meaning children of god given by Mahatma Gandhi to the untouchables, bracket closed, into a restaurant and ordering the same meal to him as to myself.”
Mr. Dezab Bahaw felt his jaws wide open. The boy had said bracket open and bracket closed, as if to quote something in writing, in a book. Why?
Thoughts had flooded into Bahaw’s mind and he had no control over them. Yet, Bahaw couldn’t conclude to anything.
The boy suddenly rose and, as if Dezab Bahaw didn’t exist, walked away. He was slouching so fast that Bahaw had to run to get to him. iDas crossed the busy street without even glancing at his sides. He was once about to be caught by a scooter, had not the fat driver dodged him.
“I recommend some more caution?” Bahaw said, when they were on the other side.
“Join the bewilderment, and let someone else care about life and the world,” said the boring boy.
Like a pint of color dropped in a bucket of clear water, the beauty of this last sentence dropped deep into Bahaw’s soul.
“That was a good debate Mr. Bahaw,” said the boring boy. “I hope we have another round in the future.”
Bahaw had not understood more than half of their conversation, but for the sake of formality, he said, “The pleasure was all mine!”
“Take my number,”
Bahaw pursed his lips. The boy was so assertive. He took out his phone, however, only when the boy insisted.
iDas got a rickshaw and without saying goodbye got in and it drove away.
It was only then that Mr. Dezab Bahaw realized that it was 1 pm. He had been in the city for longer than usual. He was about to get back inside the college, when someone shouted his name. He turned and saw somebody running like an ostrich. It was iDas, coming towards him.
“I feared…,” the boring boy said, short breathed, “…you might accuse me of plagiarism. Rumi.”
Turning round, iDas ran back all the way to his rickshaw parked at a distance, looking as small as a matchbox. Mr. Bahaw didn’t know what the boy had said, but had made the words Rumi and plagiarism. He thought the boy might have referred to something he had mentioned earlier.
He then told himself whatever the boy might be suffering, had affected his language and thought processes.
With a blink he forgot them all, and turning walked back to the parking. Thinking all the way why and how a simple boy had knocked him out of style: he had written the exam papers in a clumsy style; he had almost crashed to Dr. Bhatia; he had run through the campus in front of the whole college; and on top of all, he had been sitting with a beggar!
Ag! He could still not forget that disgusting smell of some public toilet and rotten onions from the beggar’s body. Perhaps others had left the cafe because of that.
When he got to the parking, the mere sight of his car cheered him. He forgot totally about the boy, and while driving back to Brahma Hill Avenue, decided to throw a big party tonight.

[Harper J. Cole]

Unusual opening! I'm a little puzzled in places; most particularly I'm wondering what's boring about iDas, who seems quite interesting to me.

One thing I will suggest is to put an empty line between each paragraph. It makes your work a lot easier to read on this website.

HC

[Jay Greenstein]

What you're doing is viewing a mental image of the scene, and describing what you see, in terms meaningful to you, with editorial insertions as you feel necessary. But that's a problem, because you, knowing the answers to the three questions as reader will have on entering scene, aren't providing the information that would provide context for the reader.

Remember, your intent dribbles from the words at the keyboard and never makes it to the page. The reader has only what the words suggest to them, based on their background and experience. And the odds say that reader is from a different geographical background, age group, and perhaps gender. So those words won't have the same meaning to the reader as they have to you. And of more importance, to your protagonist.

With that in mind, look at the opening from a reader's viewpoint, at the things—clear to you—for which they need context:
It was only in the exam room, when Dezab Bahaw remembered that boring boy who’d sit beside him.• The exam room? I was in one the other day, waiting for the doctor. Are you certain the reader won't take that meaning on seeing those words? Yes, you clarify, but your can't retroactively remove misunderstanding. Wouldn't placing the reader in a school, first, prevent that misunderstanding? And, don't most of your YA readers take their exams in the same classroom where they learn the subject? Remember, at this point the reader doesn't know who they are, where they are in time and space, or what's going on. Wouldn't opening with something like, "As Dezab settled into his seat he looked around the nearly empty classroom." Wouldn't that place the reader, and provide reason for him/her to think about what they see? It is their story, after all, so instead of telling it as a recitation, why not let the protagonist experience it for us, in real-time? That will involve the reader in a way that a voice whose emotion and tone we can't hear can't. Never lose sight of the fact that while you can tell the reader how a character speaks a line you cannot make them know how you would, rendering your narration that of an unemotional outside observer. And as a minor point, what's "it?"

In short, show, don't tell. And show what matters to the protagonist, not the storyteller. Your goal is to entertain the reader, not inform them. And as a minor but not unimportant point, why does the reader care what his last name is, at this point? If you want the reader to know, have someone call him that as part of their interaction. That happens in his world—to him. You're not there, so for every word of editorial comment from and explanation you the story is brought to a halt till you finish.

“To describe something in detail, you have to stop the action. But without the action, the description has no meaning.”
~Jack Bickham

• Telling the reader he remembered something, without the thing that triggered it, places them with you, listening, rather than on the scene where the action is happening. Telling the reader that the boy is boring without making them knowing why, is data supplied by someone not in the story. If he's boring, don't tell the reader, show them. Make him do something that your protagonist finds boring, so we will agree, and think he is, too. That's good for you, because it forces you to make that boring act one that is both natural for him and one we expect our protag to find boring. In other words, it keeps you honest and your character real. Beware info-dumps of backstory and editorial intrusion. They are pretty much a guaranteed rejection.
The class was still cold, and there were a few students.A moment ago he thought about the boring student. Doesn't the reader expect to learn why? Instead you tell us "the class" is stillcold. How can something we've just met "still" be anything? And cold? As in having frost on the chairs, or less comfortable than the character prefers it? Cold because there's a problem, or cold to a character used to a warmer clime? And what temperature have to do with the unnamed person being boring?

And as a not so miner point, what grade is this? Where the hell are we? And what does any of this mean to the story?

In short, you're talking to the reader about things you've not made them want to know—lecturing them. Do that for a single line when they're deciding is they want to buy or put the thing back on the shelf and they stop reading. Fair? No, we all deserve to be rich and famous, and to have people love our writing. But fair or not, it is the world we work in. As the great Sol Stein said, “A novel is like a car—it won’t go anywhere until you turn on the engine. The “engine” of both fiction and nonfiction is the point at which the reader makes the decision not to put the book down. The engine should start in the first three pages, the closer to the top of page one the better.”
Sitting back like a Mughal King, Mister Bahaw stared at his side, at an empty seat, at that geek’s seat.• He's "staring" at a seat? Reads like he has an ass fetish. Sorry, but it does. And, a moment ago he was boring. Now you talk abut a geek. Is this the chair on the other side or the same character. What why does it matter who sits next to him? it's an exam room and they won't be talking. And as an important point, spending this much time on why he doesn't like someone tells the reader that this character, and why our protag thinks of him is critical to the plot. But...if he knows he's boring, and a geek, he's obviously sat next to him for long enough to observe him. But if so, he would know his name, Yet from the way they behave. they're interacting for the first time.

Obviously, what the reader gets isn't what you intended. But that's always true when we lecture the reader, because the words will never suggest the same thing to a stranger as they do for you, unless you take steps to be certain the reader has the same viewpoint as the protagonist, and understands what's happening as that character does. More than they, they have to understand it as the character does in the moment they call, "now."

Obviously we can't do that with the essay and report writing skills we were given in school. They were meant to help us get and keep a job, and are nonfiction skills. To write fiction like a pro doesn't it make sense to acquire the skills the pros take for granted? They're not harder to learn, they just have a different goal: entertain the reader instead of informing them.

So the solution is simple, though not easy. All you need do is pick up a few tricks of the trade. Like any other field there are lots of things you'll wonder why you didn't see them when they're pointed out. And, there is the specialized knowledge if what our medium mandates that's different from other mediums. The not easy part comes into play when you think that it took us years to perfect our schooldays writing skills. But every profession has that same problem, and spending time, and perhaps a few dollars on acquiring your writer's education. makes sense. Right?

It's not a failing in you, a matter of bad or good writing, or talent. And pretty much everyone who comes to writing fiction suffers the same misunderstanding, because in our schooldays they don't mention that writing fiction for the page can't be done with the skills they're giving us. Obviously, you have plenty of company.

So hit the local library's fiction writing section. And while you're there, look for the names, Dwight Swin, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon on the cover. They're gold.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

[avestHom]

Thanks guys for your comments. This is a different version of the same.

1. Mr. Dezab Bahaw
Mr. Dezab Bahaw was dressing up, while from the window he could see the city’s tall buildings arranged side by side like cigarette packets.

He wore the least attractive style of the week, because he was nervous about the exam. Then with a fake smile at himself in the mirror, he picked up his keys and left.

He arrived late at college, and by the time he took a seat in the classroom, all chairs were occupied except the one beside him. The time by then was only a minute to 9:00 a.m.

No student would be allowed in after that he mischievously thought to himself.

Just then he heard a noise from the corridor. The examiners were coming. As two ladies and two gentlemen entered the class went silent, and Mr. Bahaw’s face curved in a smile. But it faded away when one of the ladies turned back and waved her hand as if speaking to someone. A tall boy with his head dropped limply appeared in sight. He was so markedly disheveled, that for a moment Mr. Bahaw thought he was imagining him. But then as the boy slouched all the way to take his seat, he was sure he wasn’t.

“THE EXAM WILL SHTART FIBE MINUTES LATE,” the senior lady announced.

Once again the room filled with noise of students speaking slowly yet non-stop.
Mr. Dezab Bahaw stared at his side, at the boy.

Who could be friend to such people? He thought with a self-satisfied smirk.

Suddenly the boy turned his head. Mr. Bahaw tried to look away, but it was too late. Caught now, he reluctantly smiled. But before he could say anything, however, the boy rumbled on.

“A man should either make a piece of art or a wear a piece art.”

Bahaw didn’t know whether to be surprised or shocked, because the boy didn’t move his lips or and didn’t show any expression on his face.

“Bahaw!” he remarked glamorously, to show him this was speaking. “Dezab Bahaw.”

“iDas,” the boy mumbled like a robot.

Bahaw was curious now. Was this boy acting to be speaking like that or was it his natural way? To find out he spoke more.

“Mathematics or Computer Science, I suppose?” he guessed with certainty.

“Not the language of the universe,” the boy said aloofly, “the manual of it.” – He paused with no apparent reason and then said – “Physics.”

Dezab had almost forgotten about the exam now, because the boy had a very interesting way of speaking.

“TURN OFF YOUR PHONES PLEASE! WE’RE BEGINNING,” the examiner announced.

The exam was a surprise to Mr. Bahaw. However, the last question amused him. It was about language and thought processes which fetched to his attention the disheveled boy, especially the manner he spoke.

Dezab glanced at his side. The boy was sitting motionless like a shut-down robot.
A string of thoughts circled round Dezab’s mind: The boy may be boring, but he has an alluring way of expressing himself; apart from barbarism, of course. For example,
he referred to Mathematics as the language of the universe and to Physics as the manual of the universe.

Suddenly the disheveled boy rose to leave. For Mr. Bahaw it was time now to make a choice; either to forget his curiosity about the boy or to jeopardize something as important as his exam for it.

It appeared as Mr. Bahaw made up his mind easily. Because he began scribbling so fast that his handwriting looked as unreadable as a doctor’s. When the boy was out of the class, Mr. Bahaw jumped up and handing his paper ran into the corridor where he almost had an accident.

“Ouch!” cried a lady in red sari and short hair.

“Sorry!” Mr. Bahaw cried, as he ran without looking back.

Outside, a hot sun was blazing above. Mr. Dezab saw someone like iDas slouching at the main gate. He darted through bunches of girls and boys, ignoring their chatter and laughter of about him. At the gate he looked left and right; there was no one. He heard a noise and turned in time to see a rickshaw parked under tree roar into live. He ran after, but it had gained speed.

It was when raising his head with a deep breath that he realized he had done the second un-stylish thing of the day, after a bad writing.

Thirsty now, he crossed the street to get a bottle of water from a café. He was coming out, when his eyes fell on someone.

The disheveled boy was sitting in the terrace, having a cup of tea at that unusual hour of a summer day. Mr. Dezab smiled; and then somehow found himself walking toward the boy who didn’t look up. Bahaw had thought the boy might not remember him, when he heard a mumble:

“Have you come from a planet where they don’t sit and stand all the time?”

Mr. Bahaw knew this was a way of asking to have a seat. He sat. Still the boy didn’t talk, and didn’t even raise his head, as if lost in something.

“I forgot to mention earlier,” Mr. Bahaw said, with a hideous smile. “That I study psychology at Sinigad College.”

“How do you define it?” the boy asked, raising his head.

“Define what?”

“Psychology,” the boy said, his eyes glistening. “How do you define that branch of humanities?”

Mr. Bahaw twisted his face at this unusual question.

“Wel….it’s defined as the scientific study of how human mind functions.”

“Dick!” cried the disheveled boy, “the scientific study of how human mind and dick functions.”

Bahaw felt his face going red. He was sure they had heard it, all the boys and the girls at the tables around. But then he was distracted by something.

iDas had risen and was speaking to someone on the other side of the hedge, gesturing with his hands to come in.
Mr. Bahaw didn’t turn to look back.

At most, it might be another disheveled boy, he imagined.

But, his mind jammed for a second as he saw who it was.

It was an old beggar - his skin dark, his appearance ugly. iDas was gesturing him to a chair.

Mr. Dezab wanted to jump up and run away. But from behind came whispers, telling him people around were speaking about the beggar and the boy. He even heard them laughing inwardly. And, worst of all, he heard the click of smart phones, telling him some were even taking pictures. The waiter had come running in the fuzz, and iDas ordered something.

Mr. Dezab Bahaw hadn’t even imagined that one day he’d see a low-class beggar in a restaurant where high-born students hang out. Nevertheless, here he was sitting with such a low-class person at one table.

He only clenched his teeth and stared at iDas galvanizing his meal like a pig. Fortunately, the old man took a while to finish off his meal. By then everyone had left.

“What was the meaning of that?” Mr. Bahaw demanded.

The boy appeared to be indifferent to his anger, because instead of answering the question he lazily said, “The ghost of caste is still haunting the soul of India. I lifted it today; I lifted a heavy burden from the shoulders of humanity. I broke all chains of caste by inviting a Harijan, bracket open, a name meaning children of god given by my acquaintance Mahatma Gandhi to the untouchables, bracket closed, and ordering the same meal to him as to myself.”

Mr. Dezab Bahaw felt his jaws drop down. The boy had said bracket open and bracket closed, as if to quote something in writing, in a book. Why?
Suddenly the disheveled boy rose and slouched away as if Dezab didn’t exist. So fast he was that Mr. Bahaw had to run to get to him. When crossing the busy street, iDas didn’t even glanced at his sides. He was even once about to be caught by a scooter, had not the fat driver dodged him.

“I recommend some caution?” Bahaw said once to the safety on the other side.

But the boy seemed to ignore him, and mumbled, “That was a good debate Mr. Bahaw. I hope we have another round in the future.”

Bahaw hadn’t got more than half of their conversation. But for the sake of formality, he said, “The pleasure was mine.”

“Take my number,” the disheveled boy said.

Bahaw was motionless for a moment. The boy was so assertive. He saved his phone number, however, only when the boy insisted. Without saying goodbye, iDas got into a rickshaw and it drove away.

Mr. Dezab was about to get inside the college, when someone shouted his name. He turned and saw somebody running like an ostrich. It was iDas, coming towards him.

“I feared…,” iDas shouted, “…that you might accuse me of plagiarism. Wilde and Rumi.”

Before Bahaw could say anything, iDas.

Mr. Bahaw had made the words Rumi and plagiarism. He thought iDas might have referred to something earlier.

Then staring at iDas running like an ostrich back to his rickshaw, he asked himself how a simple boy had caught his attention, so much that he had almost crashed to someone in the corridor!

With a blink he forgot it all, and while driving back to Brahma Hill Avenue, decided to throw a big party tonight.
888
He threw the big party at One Lounge, by the river. There was open air, nice music, and great food. His college friends were all present, and his girlfriend Bipasha was beside him. Mr. Bahaw, however, didn’t enjoy; not his wine, not the company of beautiful Bipasha, and especially not the conversations he had with all those people around. When everybody busy chattering away in small circles, Mr. Bahaw headed to the bank, where it was quieter.

With his gaze at the river, a beautiful black mirror reflecting the light of the buildings around and the moon above, he remembered the disheveled boy, particularly his words. There was some magic in his words. For example, he’d poetically criticized caste, saying the soul of India is still haunted by the ghost of caste. He’d beautifully defined psychology, saying it’s the scientific study of how human mind and dick functions, which was both accurate and funny. Mr. Bahaw even shivered a little with laughter as he thought about it.

When remembering he had the disheveled boy’s number, he took out his phone to call him, but then thought better of it.
What would my friends think if I invite him here? he asked himself.

Putting his phone back into his pocket, he stood still for a while. A warm breeze from the river was washing his face when he decided no way he could add iDas to the circle of his friends. Because iDas dressed in a funny manner and didn’t know how to behave in social situations.

[jable1066]

I got to here:

“THE EXAM WILL SHTART FIBE MINUTES LATE,” the senior lady announced.

And then stopped.

And that is not me being rude. It's exactly what I did as a reader. Some others may read on, because everybody has different tastes, opinions and preferences for style.

I shall start from the top - as is logical.

Mr. Dezab Bahaw was dressing up, while from the window he could see the city’s tall buildings arranged side by side like cigarette packets.

As a former Royal Marine reading this, dressing up to me means putting on my girlfriends clothes and going into town with my mates for a night of drinking. Be careful with your wording - see Jay's critiques for more information.

The word in bold doesn't sit right either. It just seems unnecessary.

The description of buildings being like cigarette packets...cigarette packets are pretty much all uniform, no? Is that what you mean? That the tall buildings are all uniform? If so, I've never seen a city-scrape with identical tall buildings. I've seen housing plots and new residential developments where buildings sit side by side in neat little, identical soul-less rows. When I look at my city I see buildings that are all different - there is a smorgasbord of architectural design representing the last 150 years. They're not identical. However if you mean to say they are in fact identical, then maybe elaborate or make the detail matter.

He wore the least attractive style of the week, because he was nervous about the exam. Then with a fake smile at himself in the mirror, he picked up his keys and left.

If he was so nervous about his exam, then why was he concentrating so much on picking out what is categorically his least attractive style of the week? I'm not even sure what a style is - do you mean his clothes? Personally, if all I could think about was an exam, which has been the case many times in my life, I couldn't care less about what clothes I wear. They're inconsequential to the outcome of my exam, which is what I'm focussed on...

He arrived late at college, and by the time he took a seat in the classroom, all chairs were occupied except the one beside him. The time by then was only a minute to 9:00 a.m.

I just found this really hard to read. The structure doesn't quite sit right. Also, how has he arrived late? He seems to be on time for the exam? I mean, yes, you're late unless you're 5 minutes early...but-techincally-if the exam starts at 9 and he has a minute spare...he's winning. Timed it perfectly in my eyes. Maybe something a little more simple would work though, for example:

Dezab arrived at college not a minute too soon; the teachers would often tell him that to be on time, you had to be five minutes early. In Dezabs eyes, this seemed like madness. He was exactly where he needed to be, at precisely the right time - even if it was by the skin of his teeth. As he charged through the doors to the exam room, he noticed that there were still two unoccupied chairs...

By no means perfect, but to me it reads better. It's got structure and you can at least get an understand of the type of person Dezab is. Of course, if this is not the type of character he is, then there's a problem...because I've misinterpreted him.

“THE EXAM WILL SHTART FIBE MINUTES LATE,”

I hesitate to talk about formating, however, is the exam lady screaming this fact?

You have two options - write in capitals, or don't. And the former shouldn't really be reserved for conveying a tone of voice - unless you're Terry Pratchett, and you're character talks in caps throughout a series of very successful books. However, because you've only got two options, if normal text is speaking normally, you could assume someone talking in capitals...has amplified their emotions. Now, if as the writer, you use capitals for a character who is screaming...then fine. However if you use them again for someone...announcing-as is true in this story-it gets confusing.

Look at it this way; you get in a fight at school. You face off with a bully and threaten to kill him. He isn't scared. You've just given him the ultimate threat you could possibly issue him. You have no where to go from here. You either kill him...or back away slowly. There has been no progression. Likewise, because you've used capitals and this lady has announced something...how can you now convey when someone is screaming something at the top of their lungs?

Relatively moot point I know...but just a thought. Not only that - but I felt like reading it you'd just made a spelling mistake. You haven't really mentioned the fact she clearly has a characteristic voice?

I don't mean to seem blunt. I like that you have thought about the character, and that is exactly what he will be; a character. He seems like he could be really interesting. Take on board the advice, read through the guidelines, leverage the tools that are available to you and really think...then post a revision for critique.

Keep it up!

JB