An Incomplete Short Story.

[beatnic]

I've been working on this story for the past few weeks, below is the first portion of it; which is all I have edited so far. I thank you in advance for reading it. Feedback is appreciated.
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Sitting on cold concrete outside of a dilapidated house, watching synthetic souls pass; watching old friends shoot dope in the the ally way. Never get between a junky and his high. Potheads are too friendly; makes me paranoid.

A blond caucasian women with bright red lip stick smiles at me as she steps into her red, convertible sports car; I spit in her direction. My saliva lands on her front passenger-side tire before she speeds off.

The sky is orange; dead leaves fill the street.
Junkies are everywhere; walking in and out of an abandon pharmacy; walking out and going into a nearby ally. One is passed out in the street.
I tolerate junkies for the simple reason that they mind their own business, unlike your average joe or every grass-freak. These people ask too many questions; when something goes down, the first two types the porks go after for information are the norms and the grasses for the simple reason that one is, for the most part, alert and the other never minds their business.
Junkies are the last people you want to get information from; it’s not that they don’t have any, but they never care enough to investigate anything further.
“Why do anything for free?” a junky once told me.

A prostitute walks up to me, asks if I want a blowjob. She wears a filthy black dress that has been torn in numerous places, most around the waist region. Her face appeared to be bruised and her arms were covered in track-marks.
I said nothing at first, hoping that she would leave. After some time, she lends in, a few inches from my face.
“Are you deaf or somethin’?” she said with a gap-tooth grin and a slur.
I give her a package of breath mints and told her to take a shower. She stared at the mints for awhile, then walked away.

It’s quite here; it’s the only place where I can be around people and be still be alone. Privacy and silence are hard to find nowadays. People tend to want to know everything and when they can’t achieve that they become defensive.
“What do you have to hide?” they ask, “Why do you have to be so mysterious and weird?”
Privacy is dead in the modern world.

An old man has been walking all over the street; he’s new, never seen him before.
After a few hours or so, he approaches me.
“Excuse me sonny, don’t mind me, but I was wondering if I could have your name?” he was holding a large cardboard box filled with papers that appeared to have writings on them.
“May I ask why?” I replied.
“Well, I can’t remember much, ya see? I’m want you could call an amnesiac. Use to be able to remember everything… like those… uh…” he paused for a few minutes. “Hang on, I wrote that down somewhere.” He places his down on the ground and start looking through it.
His face was covered in wrinkles and what little hair he had was a mixture or white a gray. He wore a stained, white tee shirt that seemed to be falling apart due to it’s age, as well as a pair of faded box shorts and torn slippers.
“I found it!” said the old man, “Right here, I use to remember phone numbers… and places… uh… and… people’s names!” he said, reading from an index card, “Now I really would like to know your name, sir”
“Oscar…” I replied.
“Hang on, let me find a blank page.” he said, flipping through a large note pad. “Alright, what was it again?”
“Oscar…” I said, “Oscar Hemming”
“Alrighty, thanks sonny.”

He shoved the note pad into the box and continued down the street, stopping and now and then in order to write something down.

I remember when I first told a friend of mine that I had tried H; accused me of being a junky. Said he would refuse be my friend anymore if that was the true; said he didn’t want to know a dead man. He was found dead six months later, overdosed on everything; heroin, cocaine, morphine, every barbiturate and capsule known to both man and junky. The official report said the cause of death was due to severe head trauma; partly because he had no head when he was found. Ran his father’s car into a solid concrete porch; body was ejected through the windshield at eighty miles an hour, head first into a telephone pole. He was so high that his heart kept beating nearly an hour after.
I went to the wake; it was a closed casket.
There was no mention of drugs.

[JacobF]

I've been working on this story for the past few weeks, below is the first portion of it, which I believe to be pretty good. Feedback is appreciated.
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Sitting on cold concrete outside of a dilapidated house, watching synthetic souls pass; watching old friends shoot dope in the the ally way. [This is a badly phrased opener.]Never get between a junky and his high. Potheads are too friendly; makes me paranoid.

A blond caucasian women with bright red lip stick smiles at me as she steps into her red, convertible sports car; I spit in her direction. My saliva lands on her front passenger-side tire before she speeds off. [You don't need to specify it was the front passenger-side tire; simply saying "I spat on her tire" has more effect.]

The sky is orange; dead leaves fill the street.
Junkies are everywhere [I think we get this by now]; walking in and out of an abandon pharmacy; walking out and going into a nearby ally. One is passed out in the street.
I tolerate junkies for the simple reason that they mind their own business, unlike your average joe or every grass-freak. These people ask too many questions; when something goes down, the first two types the porks go after for information are the norms and the grasses for the simple reason that one is, for the most part, alert and the other never minds their business.
Junkies are the last people you want to get information from; it’s not that they don’t have any, but they never care enough to investigate anything further [Pretty sure the junkies aren't investigating anything, it would be the cops].
“Why do anything for free?” a junky once told me.


A prostitute walks up to me, asks if I want a blowjob. She wears a filthy black dress that has been torn in numerous places, most around the waist region [Once again, let the reader imagine things. Don't force descriptive facts down the reader's throat.]. Her face appeared to be bruised and her arms were covered in track-marks.
I said nothing at first, hoping that she would leave. After some time, she lends in, a few inches from my face.
“Are you deaf or somethin’?” [Sounds like a demanding prostitute...] she said with a gap-tooth grin and a slur.
I give her a package of breath mints and told her to take a shower. She stared at the mints for awhile, then walked away.
[This whole section seems contrived. The prostitute's actions aren't believable. Not sure why she would vacantly stare at the mints. I'd think she be insulted... maybe even grateful yet inhibited... but staring seems a bit odd]

It’s quite here; it’s the only place where I can be around people and be still be alone. Privacy and silence are hard to find nowadays. People tend to want to know everything and when they can’t achieve that they become defensive.
“What do you have to hide?” they ask, “Why do you have to be so mysterious and weird?”
Privacy is dead in the modern world.

An old man has been walking all over the street; he’s new, never seen him before.
After a few hours or so, he approaches me.
“Excuse me sonny, don’t mind me, but I was wondering if I could have your name?” he was holding a large cardboard box filled with papers that appeared to have writings on them.
“May I ask why?” I replied.
“Well, I can’t remember much, ya see? I’m want you could call an amnesiac. Use to be able to remember everything… like those… uh…” he paused for a few minutes. “Hang on, I wrote that down somewhere.” He places his down on the ground and start looking through it.
His face was covered in wrinkles and what little hair he had was a mixture or white a gray. He wore a stained, white tee shirt that seemed to be falling apart due to it’s age, as well as a pair of faded box shorts and torn slippers.
“I found it!” said the old man, “Right here, I use to remember phone numbers… and places… uh… and… people’s names!” I'm pretty sure amnesia makes you lose memory of specific things, like as the man mentioned, phone numbers and names. The fact he forgot what he forgot about is a bit silly.]he said, reading from an index card, “Now I really would like to know your name, sir”
“Oscar…” I replied.
“Hang on, let me find a blank page.” he said, flipping through a large note pad. “Alright, what was it again?”
“Oscar…” I said, “Oscar Hemming”
“Alrighty, thanks sonny.”

He shoved the note pad into the box and continued down the street, stopping and now and then in order to write something down.

I remember when I first told a friend of mine that I had tried H; accused me of being a junky. Said he would refuse be my friend anymore if that was the true; said he didn’t want to know a dead man. He was found dead six months later, overdosed on everything; heroin, cocaine, morphine, every barbiturate and capsule known to both man and junky. The official report said the cause of death was due to severe head trauma; partly because he had no head when he was found. Ran his father’s car into a solid concrete porch; body was ejected through the windshield at eighty miles an hour, head first into a telephone pole. He was so high that his heart kept beating nearly an hour after.
I went to the wake; it was a closed casket.
There was no mention of drugs.


The major flaw in your story was that it most of it is hard to believe. The narrator says it's quiet in the bad neighborhood... wouldn't a neighborhood full of junkies be a loud and rowdy place? Also, the narrator is hard to like. He seems to hate everything and everyone for no apparent reason, almost to the point of being a hypocrite. He's paranoid by potheads, yet from what I understand he used to hang out with them.

Another problem is your story veers from side to side and loses direction occasionally. The whole incident with the old man: what was the point? There was no plot or character development/revelation there.

One more thing, your frequent use of semi-colons makes the whole piece pretty choppy and repetitive. Just look at how many times you use them.

But I will say that your theme of drug abuse is pretty well implemented. It was the thread that kept the story together.

Anyways, take my words with a grain of salt, but when you continue the story have something happen, because so far it's just a guy sitting on a sidewalk loathing everything.

[beatnic]

I thank you. Most people whom I showed this to only said it was good and nothing more. So I am happy to receive some good criticism.

[aBIGsheep]

I've been working on this story for the past few weeks, below is the first portion of it; which is all I have edited so far. I thank you in advance for reading it. Feedback is appreciated.
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It's a good start.


Sitting on cold concrete outside of a dilapidated house, watching synthetic souls pass; watching old friends shoot dope in the the ally alley way. Never get between a junky and his high. Potheads are too friendly; makes me paranoid.
You contradict yourself here. You say that Potheads are too friendly in this paragraph, but later you say that they stay out of your business.


A blond caucasian Capitalize Caucasian. It's a race. women with bright red lip stick smiles at me as she steps into her red, Try to find a new word for red. You should try and avoid using the same word twice. It breaks the flow. convertible sports car Take out 'sports car.' They know it's a car if you call it a convertible. ; I spit in her direction. My saliva lands on her front passenger-side tire before she speeds off. The last two sentences are bit inconsistent to me. While the former is short and to the point, the latter is as equally direct but a bit more detailed. Short and detailed or a long and detailed. Remain consistent.

The main character sure doesn't like all that many people that far. He/She sounds like an outsider. So far he dislikes the users and abusers and hates the rich. Does he have any friends? I find the piece to be a little patchy so far because the narrator says he has a lot of friends, but he doesn't exactly like anybody so far.


The sky is orange; dead leaves fill the street.
Junkies are everywhere; walking in and out of an abandon pharmacy; walking out and going into a nearby ally. You used a semicolon about 3 times in two sentences. Something just as efficient and less of an sour is a double dash. It serves as a shorter pause in the piece than a semi-colon. One is passed out in the street. What city is this? I don't think anybody is stupid enough to flaunt drug abuse so publicly.
I tolerate junkies for the simple reason that they mind their own business, unlike your average joe or every grass-freak. These people ask too many questions; when something goes down, the first two types the porks go after for information are the norms and the grasses for the simple reason that one is, for the most part, alert and the other never minds their business.Two types the porks? porks after information are norms? I'm sorry, but I don't understand this. Could you please clarify?
Junkies are the last people you want to get information from; it’s not that they don’t have any, but they never care enough to investigate anything further. So the Junkie is investigating?
“Why do anything for free?” a junky once told me.

You can only say 'junky' so many times before it gets redundant. User, Abuser, methead, druggie, street pharmacist. There are a ton of words out there. Don't be afraid to use them.


A prostitute walks up to me, asks if I want a blowjob. She wears a filthy black dress that has been torn in numerous places, most around the waist region. Her face appeared to be bruised and her arms were covered in track-marks. Hookers, although dirty as they are, want to make themselves as presentable as possible. Who wants a bad product? A black flimsy dress? Sounds like a bad indie movie.
I said nothing at first, hoping that she would leave. You don't need this sentence. It's assumed that after some time you haven't said anything. After some time, she lends leans in, a few inches from my face.
“Are you deaf or somethin’?” she said You don't need to say 'said.' If there's only two people talking the read can hopefully narrow down who the speaker is from the dialogue. with a gap-tooth grin and a slur.
I give her a package of breath mints Would someone on the street really pass up on a blow job? Hell, would you really give a tramp on the street a package of breath mints? and told her to take a shower. She stared at the mints for awhile, then walked away.


It’s quite quiet here; it’s the only place where I can be around people and be still be alone. Privacy and silence are hard to find nowadays. People tend to want to know everything and when they can’t achieve that they become defensive.
“What do you have to hide?” they ask, “Why do you have to be so mysterious and weird?”
Privacy is dead in the modern world.
I wonder if this is an alternate reality from the last line. Probably not, because there's still people enlightened enough to stay away and dissuade from drugs.


An old man has been walking all over the street; he’s new, never seen him before.
After a few hours or so, he approaches me.
“Excuse me sonny, don’t mind me, but I was wondering if I could have your name?” Who in the hell says Sonny? I've never heard anyone say 'sonny' before. It sounds like something straight from the 50's. You're in the modern world, right? Make it believable. Nobody is saying 'sonny.' Furthermore, he sounds like a cop. If you went up to people on the street asking for their name they'd automatically think you were a fed. Old man or not, approaching random people in the street seems stupid, but dangerous as well. he was holding a large cardboard box filled with papers that appeared to have writings on them.
“May I ask why?” The modern world? This seems too prim and proper for the modern world. Try something like: "da **** you want?" I replied.
“Well, I can’t remember much, ya see? I’m want you could call an amnesiac. Use to be able to remember everything… like those… uh…” he paused for a few minutes. “Hang on, I wrote that down somewhere.” He places his down on the ground and start looking through it.
His face was covered in wrinkles and what little hair he had was a mixture or white a gray. He wore a stained, white tee shirt that seemed to be falling apart due to it’s age, as well as a pair of faded box shorts and torn slippers.
“I found it!” said the old man, “Right here, I use to remember phone numbers… and places… uh… and… people’s names!” he said, reading from an index card, “Now I really would like to know your name, sir”
“Oscar…” I replied.
“Hang on, let me find a blank page.” he said, flipping through a large note pad. “Alright, what was it again?”
“Oscar…” I said, “Oscar Hemming”
“Alrighty, thanks sonny.”
The dialogue isn't convincing. This guy sounds like he's from the hood or the street or somewhere pretty low-income. No one is going to be walking around claming they're an 'amnesiac.' No one is going to call a prostitute a prostitute. Get down and and gritty, son. Get some slang in.

A whore offers me a blow job.

That right there seems more accurate of urban city life.

This piece tries too hard. It's a bit nerve racking because, really, none of it is accurate. There aren't junkies laying about in the streets. There aren't badly dressed hookers asking people if they want blow jobs. There isn't an idiot walking around the street, claiming to have forgotten his name, but remember the disease that he's diagnosed himself with.
It's a start.

[Silas Thorne]

Just looked at it a little, so can't give you too many comments. Need to get back to writing myself soon in a bit.

Just saw something that jumped out at me as a little confusing:

“Excuse me sonny, don’t mind me, but I was wondering if I could have your name?” he was holding a large cardboard box filled with papers that appeared to have writings on them.
“May I ask why?” I replied.
“Well, I can’t remember much, ya see? I’m want you could call an amnesiac. Use to be able to remember everything… like those… uh…” he paused for a few minutes. “Hang on, I wrote that down somewhere.” He places his down on the ground and start looking through it.
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I think you left out 'box' in the last line of the section above. There's too much of a gap not to refer to it.


Also you might want to go over this section more carefully for grammar and spelling mistakes. I guess your spelling and grammar were out to depict the speech of the old man, but there are a few typos and spelling mistakes elsewhere.

Eg. 'After some time, she lends in..'
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He shoved the note pad into the box and continued down the street, stopping and now and then in order to write something down.

Don't you mean, 'stopping now and then'?

Hope that helps. Keep it going. :)

Not quite sure how to multiple quote yet. :)

[beatnic]

I have to admit that I didn't know where I wanted to go with this story (as you could tell) and never realized how many times I used the word "junky" (haha). To be honest, I didn't intend for this to be a "drug story"; I did want it to be set in an abandon neighborhood where the narrator goes to reflect upon his past experiences. I guess I've been reading too much Burroughs.