Open for Critique
Below is a fresh attempt at writing some longer fiction. It is, of course, © 2007 by Jason Arnett and all rights are reserved. However, if you take the time to read it, would you please give me some feedback, some kind of critique? I'm trying to get better, but can't do that in a vacuum. You won't hurt my feelings if you think it's crap, I'd only ask that you give me a reason why you think it's crap, or why it might be good if you feel that way, so that I can either fix what I've done or at least not slide backwards.
So, if you can give me a short crit, I'd be grateful. I'll continue to post when I cobble a thousand words or so together until the story's done. I don't have a target word count, but I'm working from a template/outline sort of thing. It'll be a novella at best, or just a long short story. Thanks in advance.
THE WELL part one
Bob Jurgens standing in my doorway like that threw me for a loop.
“Hi, Frank,” he said. “Can I come in?”
I stood aside and waved my hand in indifference. “What brings you to the Well? Slumming and decided to look up an old friend?”
He stopped, his back to me as I shut the door. I suppose I didn’t mean to sound as venomous as it came out, but I didn’t want to apologize for it, either. The last time I saw Jurgens, he was taking my badge and my gun.
“I deserved that,” he said, not looking at me. “If you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave now and never darken your door again.” I could see his fist tightening and relaxing in the pocket of his London Fog. He didn’t turn, to his credit, and try to make the silent appeal. There was something on his mind, something important.
“Relax, Jurgens.” I stepped past him and into the living room proper. “Can I get you something to drink?”
The tension in his gut was palpably evident in his voice. “No,” he said and shucked his coat off, threw it over the arm of the sofa. He rubbed his hands together and promptly stuffed them in his pants pockets. His tie was loosened, and his shirt rumpled. Not a good sign at noon on a Thursday. “This is a lot nicer place than the last one I saw you in.” He tried to smile a little. “You doing okay, then?”
The French bourbon poured easily into my glass and warmed the ice so it cracked a little, a sound I find reassuring. The drink was almost to my lips before I answered. “Yeah, I’m good,” and then drained it. “You sure you don’t want a drink?” I poured another and the ice didn’t crack this time.
Jurgens was turning circles when I looked at him again. Something was really wrong. Fifteen years working together on the force will tell you a little bit about how a man acts when he’s stressed, and what I was seeing that Bob was crazed about something, and it’s bad enough that he has to come to the one place on earth he doesn’t want to be in search of the one man in the world he doesn’t want to see. He finally noticed me studying him and sipping my drink. “Look,” he said, “Frank…”
“No,” I said sharply. “No, I’m done with all that, you finished me yourself.” I was trying to hide the bitterness that kept me in the Well, but seeing him again brought all the bad old feelings right back. “What are you, a captain now?”
He was always submissive when we worked together and I turned on him on like I just had. His spine was weak and at heart he was a pleaser. I always needed more than he did to feel alive, more information, more excitement, more liquor, more everything. Three years on his own, though, without me around to beat him down and he’d learned to stand a little taller when a subordinate was out of line. “Fuck you, Frank. You never gave one shit when all that went down.” He took a deep breath. “Look, I didn’t come here because I wanted to, you know that. You’re a better detective than that. You know I’m a captain, you know why I’m here. You know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.
“Jesus,” he went on. “You’re living in the fucking Well for Christ’s sake! Doesn’t that bother you? At all?”
The city wasn’t all bad any more, but the Well was the district at the center of a moral community where no respectable person was ever supposed to be seen. The convicted sex offenders, assorted harmless perverts and sex addicts had their own codes of conduct here, their own rules and regulations and penalties to go along with when they were broken. Mostly it was do as you’d like to be done unto, but don’t hurt anyone. The line was very gray, very hard to see and very mobile, but once crossed became a nearly impenetrable barrier. To be an outcast in the one section of the city where outcasts were allowed to stay was not something that made your life easier.
The only thing worse was being a resident of the Well by choice and having neighbors who you’d sent here because the law didn’t forgive them any more. “No,” I hissed. “Nothing bothers me except you showing up after three years and wanting me to solve a problem you probably created.” The fresh ice cubes dropped heavily into my now empty glass, more bourbon quickly floating them as though they were sugar plum fairies dancing in a dream.
“God damn you, Bob. Why couldn’t you have left me alone?”
I couldn’t feel the warmth of the bourbon flowing through me even though I knew it was there. My head was pounding and the rush I felt wasn’t the liquor, it was the chance to be useful again. My life was good now, but it wasn’t the same when I lived in the city proper. Fuck, I was scared.
“It’s bad, Frank.” He was pacing now, small steps and toe turns around the couch. “As cliché as it sounds, you’re the only one who can do this. I need you to do this for me.”
“There’s other cops here,” I said. “Lots of them.”
Bob just laughed. He stopped behind the couch and put his hands on the back of it, his shoulders rising up a little, his head hanging forward and his eyes looking straight into mine. “Do I need to say it?” I nodded. He looked at the floor. “You’re the best one here, Frank. Will you help?”
My glass was empty again, and I set it down quietly. I flexed my hands at my side, took the deep breath he knew was coming. “I need to hear the details first,” I told him. “I need to know everything you know, and all of it. I need to hear the politics of it. The ramifications of everything about this case start to finish. Can you do that?”
© 2007 Jason Arnett. All Rights Reserved.
So, if you can give me a short crit, I'd be grateful. I'll continue to post when I cobble a thousand words or so together until the story's done. I don't have a target word count, but I'm working from a template/outline sort of thing. It'll be a novella at best, or just a long short story. Thanks in advance.
THE WELL part one
Bob Jurgens standing in my doorway like that threw me for a loop.
“Hi, Frank,” he said. “Can I come in?”
I stood aside and waved my hand in indifference. “What brings you to the Well? Slumming and decided to look up an old friend?”
He stopped, his back to me as I shut the door. I suppose I didn’t mean to sound as venomous as it came out, but I didn’t want to apologize for it, either. The last time I saw Jurgens, he was taking my badge and my gun.
“I deserved that,” he said, not looking at me. “If you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave now and never darken your door again.” I could see his fist tightening and relaxing in the pocket of his London Fog. He didn’t turn, to his credit, and try to make the silent appeal. There was something on his mind, something important.
“Relax, Jurgens.” I stepped past him and into the living room proper. “Can I get you something to drink?”
The tension in his gut was palpably evident in his voice. “No,” he said and shucked his coat off, threw it over the arm of the sofa. He rubbed his hands together and promptly stuffed them in his pants pockets. His tie was loosened, and his shirt rumpled. Not a good sign at noon on a Thursday. “This is a lot nicer place than the last one I saw you in.” He tried to smile a little. “You doing okay, then?”
The French bourbon poured easily into my glass and warmed the ice so it cracked a little, a sound I find reassuring. The drink was almost to my lips before I answered. “Yeah, I’m good,” and then drained it. “You sure you don’t want a drink?” I poured another and the ice didn’t crack this time.
Jurgens was turning circles when I looked at him again. Something was really wrong. Fifteen years working together on the force will tell you a little bit about how a man acts when he’s stressed, and what I was seeing that Bob was crazed about something, and it’s bad enough that he has to come to the one place on earth he doesn’t want to be in search of the one man in the world he doesn’t want to see. He finally noticed me studying him and sipping my drink. “Look,” he said, “Frank…”
“No,” I said sharply. “No, I’m done with all that, you finished me yourself.” I was trying to hide the bitterness that kept me in the Well, but seeing him again brought all the bad old feelings right back. “What are you, a captain now?”
He was always submissive when we worked together and I turned on him on like I just had. His spine was weak and at heart he was a pleaser. I always needed more than he did to feel alive, more information, more excitement, more liquor, more everything. Three years on his own, though, without me around to beat him down and he’d learned to stand a little taller when a subordinate was out of line. “Fuck you, Frank. You never gave one shit when all that went down.” He took a deep breath. “Look, I didn’t come here because I wanted to, you know that. You’re a better detective than that. You know I’m a captain, you know why I’m here. You know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.
“Jesus,” he went on. “You’re living in the fucking Well for Christ’s sake! Doesn’t that bother you? At all?”
The city wasn’t all bad any more, but the Well was the district at the center of a moral community where no respectable person was ever supposed to be seen. The convicted sex offenders, assorted harmless perverts and sex addicts had their own codes of conduct here, their own rules and regulations and penalties to go along with when they were broken. Mostly it was do as you’d like to be done unto, but don’t hurt anyone. The line was very gray, very hard to see and very mobile, but once crossed became a nearly impenetrable barrier. To be an outcast in the one section of the city where outcasts were allowed to stay was not something that made your life easier.
The only thing worse was being a resident of the Well by choice and having neighbors who you’d sent here because the law didn’t forgive them any more. “No,” I hissed. “Nothing bothers me except you showing up after three years and wanting me to solve a problem you probably created.” The fresh ice cubes dropped heavily into my now empty glass, more bourbon quickly floating them as though they were sugar plum fairies dancing in a dream.
“God damn you, Bob. Why couldn’t you have left me alone?”
I couldn’t feel the warmth of the bourbon flowing through me even though I knew it was there. My head was pounding and the rush I felt wasn’t the liquor, it was the chance to be useful again. My life was good now, but it wasn’t the same when I lived in the city proper. Fuck, I was scared.
“It’s bad, Frank.” He was pacing now, small steps and toe turns around the couch. “As cliché as it sounds, you’re the only one who can do this. I need you to do this for me.”
“There’s other cops here,” I said. “Lots of them.”
Bob just laughed. He stopped behind the couch and put his hands on the back of it, his shoulders rising up a little, his head hanging forward and his eyes looking straight into mine. “Do I need to say it?” I nodded. He looked at the floor. “You’re the best one here, Frank. Will you help?”
My glass was empty again, and I set it down quietly. I flexed my hands at my side, took the deep breath he knew was coming. “I need to hear the details first,” I told him. “I need to know everything you know, and all of it. I need to hear the politics of it. The ramifications of everything about this case start to finish. Can you do that?”
© 2007 Jason Arnett. All Rights Reserved.