cafe carpe diem

[Helga]

this is the first part of a short story I wrote a few years ago, if it sounds good I'll post more.. I'm never shure if my stories are interesting at all to other people... forgive me if my spelling is incorrect at times... by the way the title is supposed to be a bit ironic...


Cafe Carpe Diem


The table by the window.

That is were I sit all day and watch the people. Sometimes I read a book. They think I’m weird.
I smoke a pipe and I have a long beard, grey beard. They think I’m weird. Now I sit by the window and write.
I wonder what kind of a life these people lead. Some are sad and drink coffee and smoke all day. This
is not a good cafe so the people that sit here are all a bit different. Like me. We all have our secrets.
I sit here wondering what is bothering these people. I don’t know. I like to imagine what is behind all these eyes.
The owner is a young boy. He sits by the bar every day, all day long and drinks coffee. He dosen’t talk a lot
and seems fine with not making much profit of this place. There rarely come new people here.
Sometimes at lunch, but never at night.
We are all different, but sad. I come here at 8 in the morning, it opens at seven.
I don’t know why it opens so early, I am the only person here before lunch. I go home at eleven. They close at that time.
I live across the street. When I look at my house, I can’t believe I live there. I never planned to be like this.
The paint is falling off, it used to be yellow, now it’s kinda grey. An old lady lives downstairs, I live upstairs.
I have a balcony, but if I stand on them they start falling. The steel is so rusty and they are crooked.

[breathtest]

Yes i definitely want to read more.

[billl]

Yeah, me too. Short bursts of utterly realistic info. Sounds like an energetic mind, youthful--despite everything that's observed around it in the physical world.

[JacobF]

The tone seems unfitting for the main character. Your physical description of him leads me to believe he's an intellectual, distinguished, but he comes off sounding like an alienated adolescent. For instance "They think I'm weird," and "The paint... used to be kinda gray."

Also, a lot of the info is thrown out randomly without context. "I smoke a pipe and I have a long, gray beard." Why would the narrator tell himself this? Find a way to slip facts into the narration so that they fit instead of just chucking them at the reader.

Show, don't tell. "We are all different, but sad." That tells the reader something, sure, but it doesn't show how the people in the coffee shop are different but sad.

In general it felt overblown. The title is cliche, the main character is unrelentingly melancholy to the point where it is hard to have any ounce of sympathy for him, and the description of the environment is hard to believe (why would people in a coffee shop, a place synonymous with books, think someone reading at a table is weird?)

I don't mean to butcher you, for I make these same mistakes in my stories too. But just be aware if you continue this piece or start a new one.

[Helga]

thanks for your reply, I'd like to answer them before I continue

to me the main character was supposed to be intellectual but also like someone who got stuck in the same place and never bothered to get out of there.. I struggled with the title but to me it will fit better the more you read. the random info is because I love reading stories that are written like that and this was an attempt to do the same, maybe not the best one but I tried to have short sentences and some things just blurted out. another thing about the narration he is supposed to be teling us a story about him and the people around him, that is why he talks about his beard and the way he lives.

I'm gonna put more of the story in now hope it will make more sense...

[Helga]

The corner.

In the corner, where it’s darkest, a woman sits with a dog. The dog is big and has a slappy mouth. He is like a statue. She sits there all afternoon, every day. She always wears high boots and a short skirt. She has beautiful legs, thin. She wears a white sweater and no bra. I can see her flapping breasts. She is older than she acts.
With flapping breasts. She chain smokes and eats dry bread. She gives the dog too. She has a mouthpeace that she puts her sigarette in. She wears a lot of make-up with curly hair and alpine hat. She stares into the void. She dosen’t have family or friends. Just the dog. He is like a statue. She sits on a red leather bench. Alone. She thinks she’s pretty. But she’s not. She has wrinkles and is ugly. Empty. I understand her grief, I think she’s lonely. She is lonely. She has no one. But that dosen’t have to be bad. She thinks it’s bad. She is sad. The man she married ran off with her sister. A younger sister. Pretty. She has no one. He left the dog with her. He drewls. She dosen’t see anything else in the world except her own pain. What she went through. She can’t get over that. She has no life. Just a dog.

The Bartable.

The owner sits there. He’s tall and thin. Bags under his eyes. He drinks coffee and smokes. He eats three time a day. Always the same, meatsoup. He sits with his head in his hand and watches the door. He lookes up when they open and rubbes his eyes, then buries himself in his cigarettes and coffee. He wears blue jeans and a t shirt with a picture of some band. The picture is of a girl with black hair and lookes straight forward, with thorns around her face. He always wears this t shirt. He has dark hair, or brownish. He has two rings on his right hand and one in his ear. He dosen’t talk much. He sits with his head in his hand. Rubbes his eyes. He comes down at noon time every day and stay’s ‘till closing. He ownes the place, but dosen’t run it. He is waiting for the girl he loves. She never comes. He paints all through the night and sleeps ‘till noon. He has a broken heart. Denial. He writes long love letters, but never sends them. He dosen’t know were he should send them. Once in a blue moon he cries. She promised to come to him. She didn’t. He lives in the hope that she will come one day. Everything will be ok. He waits his whole life for the girl. Eats soup. He dosen’t live.



The kitchen table.

The girl that sits closest to the kitchen is so skinny. She wears wide clothes but you can tell. She wears black wide pants. They are thin. She wears striped stockings, black and red. They fall down her thin legs, but she always pulls them up. She wears a red shirt, but it’s too big. She is beautiful. But ruined. She comes at noon and stays past teatime. She eats. She orderes a steak when she arrives and drinks soda. After that, a chokolate cake. When she finishes the steak, she goes to the bathroom. Then she has the chocolate cake. She is ruined. She eats fast. But looks around every once in a while. She is pale. Beautiful. She has red hair but it’s getting thinner. She dosen’t feel good. She was abused as a kid, I don’t know in what way. Her father was a bad man. She eats because she loves food. Her mother used to yell at her for eating so much. She thinks she’s fat. Ugly. She’s mad at herself. The only thing she does is eat and stare. She cries all night, feels guilty. She dosen’t want to be like this. But she is.


The table by the door.

A young boy sits there. Athletic body. Blue eyes. He wears black boots with a sticker of Edgar Allan Poe. His black pants are to short and he wears a striped shirt. Yellow and black. He has a blue baseball cap. It says:Yankees, with white letters. He wears it backwards. He comes in the evening. Around 8 o’clock. Every weekday. Never on weekends. He always has a book of poetry by E.A.Poe on the table. He never openes it. He always gets coffee. Then a waffle. Nothing else. He writes in a thin notebook and stares out the window. He dosen’t know that he’s sad. He thinks he knows everything and that nothing is missing in his life. But deep down inside he is sad. Really sad. He put
this mask on years ago, so he dosen’t have to live. But he’s still alive. His twin sister died
as a teenager. She was really special. Weird. He was a model teenager. She wasn’t. It was a hit and run, they guy escaped. He became very sad. But not for long. He smokes. Sad. He left home and quit school. He took with him everything his sister had. He dosen’t know that he is living the life she had.

[JacobF]

Sorry, I'm still not getting it. The writing is more like random descriptions than a story, and it's hard to read because of the choppy, short sentences. And you abandoned the first person narration in part you just posted and took on a third-person omniscient, so unfortunately, no, it doesn't make any more sense since posting the new part of the story.

I understand the style you're attempting with the short sentences; I've tried it, too, in my story "Martin" (which is on here) which I wrote 3 months ago and I was not very successful. As AuntShecky told me in that same thread, you need to mix up your sentence structures just so it isn't so jarring and choppy.

But even before doing that, you need to actually write a story; a beginning, middle, end. Things have to happen. There are inklings of characters but there's no plot, so it reads like a diary and not a short story. As I already touched on, pick a narrative style and stick with it. You started out with first person, then suddenly it was third person omniscient.

That's all the criticism I can really give you at the moment in regards to your writing. The only other piece of advice I can give is read a lot of short stories. It won't magically make your writing better, but there's no point of writing if you never appreciate how others do it too.

[billl]

Well, I definitely don't agree with JacobF about the short, choppy style, per se. The first 'chapter' you posted worked great for me. But this next block of descriptions is a mixed-bag, for me. I really liked the kitchen table, and the last two are maybe OK for me. I didn't get into the first one (the corner) as much, though--but maybe I would have if had already been in "short-burst" reading mode.

Anyhow, the original chapter you posted jumped around playfully, and some of the sentences had a lot of info in them, the picture of things was filling up for me in a really interesting way. And the character was interesting, especially because of the way he was thinking, thoughts coming together, not in straight well-ordered patterns. I thought this latest entry was missing a bit of the magic and energy.

So I do think JacobF is right about the switch to 3rd-person omniscient. I miss the person who narrated the first chapter. This one almost sounds like that guy, but a little less spritely, and he knows way more than I'd think the bearded guy could have (about the dead twin sister, etc.).

You obviously are capable of great insight, and I think these could be good characters--but I am looking forward to hearing more from the guy in the first chapter. I know you have already written more of the story, and maybe some other readers think the second part is as good as the first part. Me, I liked the bit about the kitchen, and the old guy narrator of the first part you posted. If you ever have time, I think using a much different "voice" when the narrator isn't the old bearded guy might be something to try out...

[Helga]

thanks for the reply and the comments, I wrote this like I said a few years ago and I'm re-reading it for the first time now and I do get what you are saying. there are somethings I do agee with and some I don't, I'll make some changes I think in time when I've read it a few times but this is the rest of it so thanks again...



The table by the brown wall.


A couple sits there. They are in their thirties. They arrive at noon every week day and sometimes at night during the weekends. He sits and reads the newspaper, laughing. He sometimes turns to her and tells her that polititians are all stupid. He wears a black coat and black jeans. A white t-shirt. Rolex. Always has a half a smile. She. She has long blonde hair. In a long black coat and red pants. She wears a black shirt. He always gets a cafe latte and a salad, she drinks coffee, black with sugar. Nothing else. She stairs into the dead air, and at him. She dosen’t smile. He’s in denial. He wants life to be as good as everybody thinks. A perfect marrige. A good life. But it isn’t. He sleeps with his secretary. But he loves his wife. Sometimes. He knows she dosen’t want to be with him. He dosen’t want to know. He’s in denial because life isn’t the way he planned. She isn’t happy. She was forced to marry him. He dosen’t know that. He knows that she dosen’t love him. Her father told her that if she didn’t marry him he’d... She was supposed to be with someone rich. Not poor. Everyday she thinks about the love she lost. She thinks about the man she married and the man she loves. It’s been ten years. She’s sad. She can’t leave him, but she wants too. He dosen’t want to be mean. But he is. Sometimes. He knows she wants to be with someone else. He’s in denial. They are together.




Middle table
An old couple sit in there. In the centre of the room. He smokes thick cigars. She dosen’t smoke. They both have wrinkles. Gray hair. He has thick glasses. Like Neil Sedaka. He wears a blue jacket and a gray t-shirt. It has food stains. He has blue workman pants on. It has paint on them. White. She always arrives at three and reads. He comes around five. She is better dressed. She wears black tight pants. White shirt. She’s not pretty. She used to be. She reads romance novels. When he comes, they eat. They leave around seven. She reads the whole time. He works all day, a paint job. He’s boring. Pushy. Shouts all the time when he gets home. Yelles. He is tired of this life. He knows there is something wrong with him. He’s weak, no energy. He’s to scared to say anything. She knows it too. But she dosen’t say anything.he will die soon. They don’t love eachother anymore. Maybe they never did. They sit quiet in a small apartment. She reads. He dosen’t. Every now and then he yelles at her for reading these books. She dosen’t listen. Reads. Romance novels. They don’t know why they are together. Maybe they feel safe this way. Maybe.


The bartable

The waiter is a young boy. Homosexual. I don’t care. He’s always well dressed. He wears black pants. Straight. He’s thin. He wears a white shirt. Long sleeves. He watches the people. Makes sure that nobody needs anything. He opens and closes. He runs the place. He’s well paid. He often tries to cheer the owner up. He stands by the table and finds something to do. Wipes the counter. He feels for the owner. Watches him. He likes him. He dosen’t know what makes him so sad the owner. He’s here from opening ‘till closeing. All because of his love. He runs his cafe and does everything he asks and needs. He cries himself to sleep at night because he knows that his love is not returned. But he always comes back in the morning.






The couch.

The sofa in the corner is red. It’s darkest there. A girl sits there. She comes in every day. Never at the same time. She’s beautyful. Natural. She is always well dressed. Jeans and a t-shirt. A black jacket. She dosen’t really fit in here. Much like the waiter. She has a green back pack. Now, as I watch her she pickes up a letter from her bag. Smiling. I don’t know who sent it, but she’s smiling. Reading. She’s not smiling anymore. She’s crying. She drags her knees towards her face and cries. Alone. She feels alone in the world. She’s in a university. She always reads books here. But now she reads the letter. Mute. Crying. She smiled when she saw who wrote it, she cried when she saw what it said. She cries, but no one can see. She has a family and friends. She feels alone. Everybody’s nice to here, but she’s alone. She has nothing, and everything. The letter is from a friend. I don’t know what it says, but she’s sad. More than usual. Pretty. The sadness in her eyes breaks my heart. But no one can see. She’s here for two or three hours a day. Then leaves. She dosen’t smoke. Drinks soda. I want to know were she goes and what she does. Pretty. She’s sad. It suits her. Sadness lives in her eyes. She’ll never lose it.


The table by the window

I'm still sitting there. I often think about the name. Carpe Diem; seize the day. nobody in here lives according to that. carpe diem. I don't know what I get from sitting here all day wondering about the people around me. I am always the same. I sit here everyday as I have done for years. Things never change. Life goes by. I'm always on the outside, looking in.

[billl]

I think you could simply cut out the last 10 sentences of "The table by the brown wall" and it would be ten times better. (ie. cut from "She thinks about the man..." all the way to the end of that part)

I like "The Middle Table" a lot. The sentences are jumping around surprisingly, it's livelier, like in the very first part you posted.

"The bartable" is maybe even better! (But, for me, you didn't have to mention Why the boy cries at night. The character was already nicely developed, in such a short amount of time...)

The last two sections are terrific, and work great as the voice of the old bearded guy in the first part you posted! Really great ending. If you do decide to fix the (technically challenging) narrative voice problem in the middle sections (everything from "The corner" to "The bartable"), this could be a really great, really unique story.