English Ext 2 Short Story Pt 1

[LightandZhangy]

Hi everyone, so yeh if anyone would like to read the first part of my Eng Ext 2 Major Work and give me some constructive criticism then that would be greatly appreciated

The URL is http://grimangel93.deviantart.com/#/d2r4e4k

Thanks

[Pierre k31]

So why not post it right here? I'm not inclined to click on an unknown link.

P

[LightandZhangy]

Blinding colours. The overpowering smell of cologne. Laughter.

These were the first sights, smells and sounds to greet him, the first of many more which would acquaint themselves with the lone individual standing at the doorway to the ball chamber. Wilson tentatively beheld the spectacle before him. His vision blurred, having just walked along a narrow hallway submerged in shadow into an open area illuminated by dozens of nuclear-powered chandeliers. He squinted as his eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden change in light intensity, but as his vision returned, he was hit hard by the instantaneous assault on his senses. Wilson’s fine sensibilities as a member of society’s upper class should have meant that he was well attuned to the opulent display of extravagance, but in this situation they worked against him, amplifying the magnitude of the seemingly surreal display he had stumbled upon. His sight was assailed by the colours of magnificent dress robes worn by the men, and in particular the splendid, flamboyant ball gowns of the women, their necklaces and bracelets adorned with precious gems sharply delineated against the brilliant luminosity of the ball-chamber. His nose wrinkled in scant appreciation of the intoxicating smell of wine wafting towards him, partially masked by the yet stronger odours of the eau de toilettes and perfumes being used in more than liberal amounts by the party guests. And the deadening noise of excited chatter and light-hearted laughter drowned out all other sounds. The combined effect of all this served to desensitise Wilson, rendering him oblivious to all other physical stimuli.

Wilson fought the urge to turn tail and leave, his senses already highly offended by this luxuriously overbearing spectacle. He had never been truly reconciled to the sights, smells and sounds of upper class living, having been regrettably all too familiar with the tendencies of society’s elite to preoccupy themselves with leisurely pursuits. And so it was with a hesitant gait in his walk that he crossed the threshold between respectability and unbridled profligacy. He navigated his way through the ball-room with immense care, a single figure cutting a path through a treacherous sea of waltzing ball-goers. I must be in over my head. He was at the same time alone and not alone- while he was surrounded by revellers, he knew none of them personally. The scent of wine and musk were his constant companions, hanging haughtily over him like clouds of mist. Wilson made no attempt to refrain from judging the nature and character of these people based on the pervasiveness of these odours.
With his mind somewhat distracted, Wilson scanned the mingling guests in vain for the one man he had come all this way to meet, that man, whose stubbornness and insistence had required Wilson’s attendance at his ball. That man was George Antoine, notorious for his love of partying and riotous revelling. But in the eyes of his colleagues his extravagance was justified. He was Lord Mayor of Greater England, an administrative zone encompassing the entire British isles and home to some 3 billion people, a quarter of the worlds’ population.
“Ah, Mr Wilson, how good of you to join us at last,” came a voice with the cultivated accent of a Londoner.
Wilson turned to see Antoine striding towards him, while a small throng of people in deference to the fact that they were in the presence of the Lord Mayor parted swiftly to let him through. He was wearing a lavish cream coloured suit sporting a smart-looking tie and in his left hand he clasped a rod unusually shaped so that it doubled as a walking stick, encrusted with rubies and diamonds. Wilson had always secretly reviled Antoine’s over-pretentious show of wealth, wryly noting that Antoine’s grandiose appearance would have been further complimented by his wearing of a top-hat and monocle, symbols of a bygone era still kept alive and well within these very confines. Accompanying Antoine was his usual retinue of admirers. They were essentially sycophants, well-to do young men and women, and some not so young, who saw the obvious advantages of associating with the Lord Mayor.
“An hour late, I notice,” Antoine said again, casually looking at his watch. “How good of you to finally grace us with your presence, we’ve been missing your company...”
“Sir, I apologise. I’ve been caught up in other matters, business matters that required my immediate attention.”
It was a bold lie; abstaining from attending similar events in the past, Wilson had only in the last moment decided to go, because as much as he hated to admit it, he was actually here on official business. Such events as these put on by the Lord Mayor and other esteemed individuals were every bit as demanding of his time as work- Wilson usually ignored the fortnightly invitations, preferring instead to devote himself to business matters, while many of the guests on the other hand had made partying their official trade.
“I can imagine that your civil duties take precedence above all else, Mr Wilson. But tell me; would you dare to arrive as late to work as you have to this most important of state functions?”
Wilson was slightly discomforted by Antoine’s attempts at cross-examination, but the party host simply waved his hand dismissively and spoke again:
“No matter, now that you are here, I can make the necessary introductions.” He gestured towards his retinue. “I’d like you all to meet Mr Conrad Wilson, our Attorney for Public Affairs.” The men and women in the Lord Mayor’s company turned to face him. They smiled and murmured greetings; some stepped forward to shake his hand.
“How do you do Mr Wilson?”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance”
“It’s a real honour to meet you at last Mr Wilson.”
Wilson’s glanced over Antoine’s guests with little interest but one in particular caught his interest, an attractive young woman whose translucent, shimmering silver gown revealed her slim build and shapely physique. Her straightened, verdant blonde locks fell in lush cascades along the nape of her neck, striking a fine contrast with the more dishevelled tresses of the other party guests. She made neither conciliatory gestures nor any of the verbal pleasantries of the other guests, but her pleasant smile revealed a fine set of pearl white teeth perfectly arranged was enough to enchant Wilson. Wilson made no attempt to hide the fact that he was somewhat enamoured with this beauteous female. A flame had been kindled within the deep recesses of his soul- not one that would erupt into a raging inferno of passion, but a calmer flame burning quietly, representing the emotions associated with the most primal of mankind’s carnal desires, one that would smoulder for some time, weaken and then die.

“May I impress upon you all what a splendid job Mr Wilson is doing as Attorney for Public Affairs,” said Antoine, turning again to his retinue. “Because of this man, the crime rate has seen a decrease since my term in office, while homelessness has dropped significantly, thanks to the construction of higher density housing at a rate which has also done much to meet the needs of a growing population. They are impressive achievements for which this administration can be proud.”
The men and women in Antoine’s retinue responded with varying degrees of enthusiasm; some offered compliments, others, such as the focus of Wilson’s interest previously just smiled demurely, but all with thinly veiled indifference. Wilson’s attention however was arrested by Antoine’s choice of words and manner of speech. There was a trace of pomposity in his tone, but Antoine was after all the Lord Mayor and it would be his administration that would ultimately take credit for Wilson’s achievements, however insignificant they were. Yet Antoine’s words struck a dissonant chord with him. Wilson realised that he had just come across a case of déjà vu, and for a moment he was lost in thought. Then he remembered. The
annual report published by his office revealed that the drop in crime rate was so negligible that Antoine had conveniently chosen not to disclose the exact figure. And in regards to housing, Wilson himself had actually opposed the increased construction of higher density housing complexes on the moral grounds that it was inhumane and contributed to overcrowding and a multitude of other social problems. Antoine seems to have overlooked this, after all, flattery is his speciality. Because of the increase in construction of such housing units, homelessness was much reduced. But millions of people had been displaced, evicted from their slums, squatter settlements, and makeshift homes which were not recognised by the government as legally owned property. They had then been forced into overcrowded, state-run housing complexes, where their lives weren’t much better, if not much worse than before. The true extent of what Wilson saw as a humanitarian disaster weighed heavily on his mind. The economic cost had been minute; billions had poured into government coffers, much of which was later squandered by the upper class. But the human cost was nothing short of catastrophic. This became evident as he looked around him; the garish furnishings and decorations of the ball-chamber, the sumptuous dishes and fine wines, Antoine’s excessively expensive suit- the misery of millions had helped pay for all this. Why has it taken me this long to finally realise this?

No-one seemed to take any notice of Wilson’s speechlessness. The young men and women in Antoine’s entourage began to chatter amongst themselves, with Antoine himself politely eavesdropping in on their individual conversations. Wilson realised that he was no longer the centre of attention or the topic of conversation. He chose this moment to break the silence with a declaration of his intent to leave.
“With all due respect sir, as much as I’d love to join in tonight’s festivities, I’d love to get home and snatch a few hours of sleep before work tomorrow.”
He now desired nothing more than to part company with Antoine and his entourage.
“What’s this? Our friend Wilson hasn’t the stomach for late night parties?”
“No sir, I’m afraid not.”
“Am I correct in assuming that it’s because you’ve never been to many? Well then, I’ll be sure to put your name down on the guest roll for more of my parties in future. I daresay that over time you’ll get used to it. It’s just a customary part of our way of life.”
“I’m greatly honoured sir, but I must decline this most generous offer.” If I know Antoine, people like him love nothing more than to have their egos massaged. “But your Lordship truly knows how to organise the most lavish balls. The Sun King himself couldn’t have presided over a court of such refined elegance.”
“Hmm yes, your words speak the truth. What a shame for you to turn down such a generous offer, but I can respect your decision. Before you go, may I indulge you in a glass of my finest vintage?”
He clicked his fingers and seconds later a waiter came by with a tray of drinks. Wilson hesitated at first, but even he knew how far to push the boundaries. He scanned the tray of drinks with little enthusiasm. The agony of choice... At last he chose a pale pink cocktail, raised the wineglass in homage to Antoine and emptied his glass in one gulp. Antoine watched expectantly as Wilson smacked his lips, savouring yet also detesting the flavour. It tasted sweet but in a sickly sort of way. Like decadence and corruption.
“You are excused, my good Wilson though we should have desired your company a while longer. Well then, I bid you good night, or should I say, good day.”

Wilson hurried away from the ball-chamber, and his pace did not slow until he was well outside the confines of the Lord Mayor’s estate and back on the streets of London. It was then that a feeling of nausea and an urge to vomit suddenly gripped him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he sought out the nearest
rubbish bin and relieved himself. I never knew I had such a weak head for alcohol. A walk will do me a world of good. Afterwards he continued on his way, waving on a passing taxi. He welcomed the cool, moist night air, purifying his airways and nostrils of the odious smells from the ball-chamber, feeling that after scalding his feet on bright hot coals, he had at last dipped his agonising limbs into a tub of cold water. Yet it seemed that even the sensibility of the real world had been tainted by the long arm of commercialism and state enterprise. London, a ruinous city of slums, squatters and crudely constructed housing settlements, a place that members of the upper class seldom traversed and were never seen, appeared to be an ideal locale for the advertising of luxury goods. Bright neon signs and enormous placards were set in stark contrast to the ugly, bare brick housing blocks which stretched and sprawled indefinitely into the horizon. A gargantuan billboard advertising an expensive brand of perfume immediately lit up with a hundred neon lights as he walked past. The tagline read; “Every Night is a Masquerade.” Even though he didn’t fully understand the implications at the time, Wilson couldn’t shrug off the feeling that these words contained more than a hint of truth, given that night’s events. These words seemed to speak to him, springing from the lifeless canvas of the billboard. He had only just come to the conclusion that being born into the upper echelons of society had confined him to have only a partial, narrow-minded view of the world, one which did not extend beyond the walled mansions and gated luxury estates of society’s elite. They seemed to live in a microcosm of their own, seemingly unaware that while they were perfectly content to live out the rest of their lives in self-indulgence, the outside world carried on coughing and choking, crawling on all fours like an asphyxiation victim, desperately clinging on to the last vestiges of life.

[hillwalker]

You certainly have a skill with words - painting a brilliant picture of the story's setting, and the hero's disdain towards such opulence.

I did find the references to his opinions regarding such extravagance rather overdone -as were the descriptions of smells and visions. There is a lot of unnecessary repetition. If this is indeed a short story then there is far too much background detail - and no plot to speak of.

After reading the entire piece, even, I still felt you had hardly scratched the surface of the actual story. Most readers would have bailed out long before reaching the end; whether it's a short story or indeed a novel. You need to grab the reader's attention - cut to the chase while they are in your grasp.

Certainly your use of language is exemplary - it's just that the lack of any story left me cold.

Good luck, H

[Pierre k31]

Excellent critique, H:thumbsup:

P

[LightandZhangy]

You certainly have a skill with words - painting a brilliant picture of the story's setting, and the hero's disdain towards such opulence.

I did find the references to his opinions regarding such extravagance rather overdone -as were the descriptions of smells and visions. There is a lot of unnecessary repetition. If this is indeed a short story then there is far too much background detail - and no plot to speak of.

After reading the entire piece, even, I still felt you had hardly scratched the surface of the actual story. Most readers would have bailed out long before reaching the end; whether it's a short story or indeed a novel. You need to grab the reader's attention - cut to the chase while they are in your grasp.

Certainly your use of language is exemplary - it's just that the lack of any story left me cold.

Good luck, H

Thanks for the feedback, in particular for pointing out the flaws in my work, yeah I think I have dragged it out for too long, considering this is just the first 2300 or so words of my 8000 word short story; I initially thought of working on creating an evocative setting first and then consider plot and character development, but I guess it's best to deal with one thing at a time. This is only the first part of my major work tho so the plot doesn't become too apparent just yet

[hillwalker]

I'm pleased you accepted my well-intentioned comments with such dignity.

I was once told that a short story is meant to start after the real story has begun - and end before the whole story is finished. In other words, the reader knows other stuff has gone on before he is actually involved, and the characters will continue with their story after the writer leaves them in peace.
A short story is just one snapshot that the writer has created and wants to share. So the secrets are keep descriptions brief and engage the reader in the story from the very first sentence.

Best of luck, H