Flying Saucers and Pizza

  I was only a few glasses away from transforming into this wonderful social butterfly, a charming, desirable woman and a spectacular dancer. Or so I had hoped...I squeezed my eyes shut, threw my head back as I emptied the beverage into my throat. 

The world began to unfold before me in less than an hour. I chatted with the bartender until the lines of reality began to blur and soften. Then I stood up carefully to get accustomed to the lightness in my head. The dance floor was a steady ship, its deck slightly tilting and creaking. I slipped into the crowd and I twirled and spun like there was no tomorrow. There probably wouldn't be a tomorrow. A few boys and girls gestured for me to join their table. And I did. This was a good sign. 

"Where did you learn those dance moves?" one boy sarcastically grinned, his arm elbowed by his female friends sitting on his right and left. They asked him to leave me alone.

"Yeah, I mean," another boy said, "We've been watching you slaying it over there." a chorus of laughter sounded from another table. A girl studied my features and slyly smiled, "I love how confident you are. Just dancing out there without a care in the world."

Their faces smirked at me in the dark. Heads shook with either pity or disapproval. But it didn't hurt this time. 

"I guess it's the magic of alcohol." I shrugged casually and they laughed in agreement.

"The party has just started and you're drunk already?" someone said.

"Yeah, I know." I said fumbling with my earrings, "It's just that I don't have time. I'm going to kill myself tonight once I get home."

The faces around the table fell blank and pale. I really thought I had kept the last part to myself. But it seems I had blurted it out. I stood up with difficulty and made a screeching, incomprehensible noise so that every boy and girl in the club turned in my direction. The music stopped. Even the DJ was baffled.

"You heard me," I shouted, "You all think flying into space is only possible in a shuttle. I'm here to tell you that this is my last day on this miserable planet. And it's coming to an end." I made a gesture of a flying rocket with my hands.

"Who is that freak?" someone murmured. A few other girls sitting at a far table held their phone cameras at me with concentration. They made sure to turn on the flash lights for a higher quality recording.

"You want to know why?" I said, pressing a palm on the table to keep me balanced, "You wanna know whyyy I've chosen death over life? Noo, you don't," I shook a finger with a sad smile,  "I'm sure it's not that interesting to you. I mean, you don't know me."

A shadow lurked from afar. His face was not visible from that distance but I could feel it with every heartbeat. His eyes were on me. And he was listening.

"I have no true friends. None at all. I have failed my parents time and again at school. I was used by the boy I loved so much, and then he threw me away. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't think straight. I live my days as if everything okay. But inside," I held my hand to my chest, slowly twisting the fabric my dress, "Deep inside, I'm... I'm a ghost." my eyes teared up.

 I took a deep breath and resumed, "This can't be right. I wasn't born to endure all this pain and sadness. I had no say in this. And-and that's why," I looked around one last time. The shadow was still staring at me past the dance floor, near the emergency exit, "That's why I'm getting on a train and I'm leaving. I am finally unsubscribing... from life. Thank you for hearing me out. Please, continue what you were doing. It's a lovely party, by the way." I dropped on the armchair opposite the table and the entire crowd in the club clapped their hands and cheered.

"Oh, it's just an act, isn't it?" someone asked turning to their friend, "It's one of those YouTube shows that secretly record people's reactions toward a controversial situation."

"Really? I had a feeling she was faking it. Some people are so talented at this kind of thing."

Oh, good, they thought I'm part of a social experiment. A talented performance. I was slightly relieved, sinking in my chair, enjoying the new music beat.

The faces around the table relaxed and bubbled up again. I heard one girl ask the boy whose arm was linked with hers, "If you had one more night to live, how would you spend it?"

"With you, of course." he pressed his thumb on her chin and planted a kiss on her lips. "I would want to spend it with you."

"You're lying," she told him without getting angry.

I opened my small handbag and produced my inspiration notebook. I flipped the pages to my Deathbed Wish list and I crossed out:

3) Dance all night.

4) Start a conversation with complete strangers.

My next wish was to mend a broken heart. But my favorite wishes of all time were:

8) Make love to a complete stranger

11) Eat an entire box of pizza on my own.

I saw a hand press my side of the table, so I looked up to make eye contact with the owner of the hand only to meet a pair of dark brown eyes that reminded me of broken glass. He walked past and in the place of his hand I found a folded yellow note. I opened it and managed to read it with slight difficulty under the dim lights:

"Meet me upstairs by the space vending machine."

 My name is Candelaria Mccluskey. People call me Candle for short. But that's not very important because I'm going to die soon. 

It was no surprise to anyone that the author of the invitation note was the same lurking shadow that had pierced me with his stares as I was explaining why I had wanted to end my life.

It was 1:30 a.m. The boy introduced himself nervously. The space vending machine blurted out cheesy quotes from science fiction movies. 

He looked a few years older than I was. A college student, maybe. He was wearing a red and white polo shirt, a pair of faded jeans and his thick, shiny black hair was combed to the back.

Colin Hubbs was tall, thin and weary. He did not hold out his hand to shake mine. They uncomfortably sunk in his pockets instead. Initiating small talk was a challenge and I was thankful when he took a shortcut and asked me bluntly if I'd like him to come home with me. I said that I would like that but I was thirsty and he volunteered to buy us both drinks. 

"What would you like?" he asked,

"Um, ice-tea."

He tossed mine into the air and I didn't catch it, my hands clumsily floundering in the air. We sat on the wooden bench by the large, potted plant and the vending machine and we drank in silence.

 "Did you really mean what you said downstairs? About wanting to die?" he said in between the sips,

"Yes." I said with no hesitation. The cool drink was helping me sober up and it pleasantly quenched my thirst.

The space vending machine colorfully glowed and flashed in my marginal vision. 

"Then why did you want me to come?"

"Because having sex with you is on my wish list." 

We stared at each other. He looked away first and pretended to drink from the empty can.

Electronic beeps rang followed by a static and a rocket launching into space. 

I hoped he was nervous because I looked beautiful, not because I intimidated him. I wore an off-shoulder pink-pearl dress and a tiny silver necklace. I had straightened my ear-length dark-brown hair and wore it half-up with a twist held by a pin. 

The vending machine played another quote:

"Are you ready to leave this awful planet and blast off into space?" a man asked.

"You bet I am!" his lover answered enthusiastically.

"Let's explore the galaxies together. See how far we'll go."

Ironically, this quote was extracted from 'You Are My Home' an early 90's movie that tells the story of two lovers willing to commit suicide together. Hand in hand, they jump from the tallest building in the city only to get frozen mid-air by a spotlight seemingly falling from an unknown source in the sky. Much to their surprise, they are abducted by aliens. The couple are imprisoned and taken to a foreign planet as experimental subjects. Out in the cold space, in the hands of bizarre, savage alien monsters, the lovers finally learn to appreciate their lives on Earth and they long to return there. 

I looked at my wristwatch and I sighed. It was 2:00 a.m. The night was coming to an end. 

 We threw the drinks in the trash can and we left the club. But I was unable to find my fur jacket downstairs at the table where I left it and Colin lent me his own jacket before we walked to my car.

"So," I said, "Did I make it easy for you to approach a girl? Because I made a fool out of my self at the club?"

"Are you assuming I've never been with a girl before?"

"Yes. I am exactly assuming that." I glanced at him with a light smile.

"Is this something I need to discuss with you? Now?"

"Uhm, no. Not at all. You don't have to talk about anything you're not comfortable with discussing." I shrugged, "I hope you don't mind the mess in my room."

The wind outside was callous. I was very happy to return home and turn on the heater. Colin shuffled uneasily as we entered the guest hall and I assured him that my parents were out of town and they would not be home until next week. He waited in the living room until I gussied up. I raised each arm and sniffed my armpits. I brushed my teeth, changed my underwear and checked my legs for hairs I missed while shaving earlier in the afternoon. I dabbed a little bit of body spray on my collarbone and chest, moistened my hands with lotion and refreshed my make-up. I fluffed my hair and beckoned him in.

It was 2:55 a.m. He sat on the bed next to me and he had a hard time maintaining eye contact. I knew I shouldn't have put more mascara. I touched his face with my fingers,

"Are you alright?" I murmured, "We don't have to do this if-"

Colin violently pushed me to the bed frame, pinning my wrists in his hand. He neared his face to mine. I could feel his warm, unsteady breathing on my cheek. 

"I'm not here to make your suicidal wishes come true." he hissed, "I'm going to sleep with you and then I'm going to kill you."

My heart fell into an endless abyss. Blood raced through my veins. My face paled and I felt the room turn and spin around me. For the first few seconds, my body stiffened and my lips quivered and my entire system flipped and readied itself to flee or to fight. I was not ready to die just yet. And this time, it was not my choice. Not my way. I was scared.

"I'm sick and tired," his glare burned holes in my eyes, " of your stupid questions ever since I met you by that vending machine." his hands painfully squeezed my wrists and he began to observe the rise and fall of my breathing, the shape of my breasts under the fabric, "What are you so depressed about? All the money daddy and mommy deposit in your bank account? Do you still wanna die? Is this really better than living, you ungrateful, spoiled brat?"

Thoughts rushed and screamed and cried in my head. I reached an epiphany sooner than I had ever imagined I would. His hand coiled around my neck. His fingers surrounded my throat but he was not exerting any force. There was no pain.

"Answer me!" Colin screamed. 

"Yes." I managed to say between the shivering inhales and exhales, "It's okay. I don't want to start again.. I don't want to live the same day over and over. I want to end things now."

It would not have made a difference. To die now or to die a few hours later. To die by an overdose or to be brutally killed by him.

The scene from the sci-fi movie played in my head. The man briefly surrounded his woman in an embrace. He wiped away her tears. The linked hands, standing on the edge of a rooftop. They dived into the sky and a brilliant light flashed above them. The flying saucer.

"D****t! Damn you!" he threw me onto the carpet of the bedroom, "Damn you to hell!" I stared at him breathlessly from the foot of the bed. He broke down before my eyes. His form folded in on itself. Crumbling and falling. He masked his eyes, his face with his palms. His cheeks streamed with tears and his nose with snot. He swept his hair with his hands, gasping and sighing in between sobs. 

The feeling began to mature and surface in my mind; my legs had been paralyzed by fear, my hands shook and my chest expanded. The hair at the back of my head stood and every pounding heartbeat made me sharply aware that I was thankful for being alive.

He was no murderer. He was a big child throwing a tantrum in the bedroom of a stranger.

I steadied myself and approached him cautiously. His head lowered, back crouched and face buried in his hands, I could only imagine that whatever brought him to the edge of this cliff  was much worse than what brought me to that same cliff. I hesitated before my fingers met his his stiffened back. I stroked him lightly, feeling the vertebral bones through the fabric.

"It's okay," I whispered as his whimpers died down, "you're not the right guy for this kind of job."

"Get your hand off my back," he shot without uncovering his face, "Are you saying I'm weak?"

"No, what I mean is," I said, putting my hands in my lap, "You don't have it in you."

"It's the same thing!" he yelled, turning to glare at me with red eyes and a flushed face, " You don't know anything about me!"

"Stop screaming at me!" I retorted. He slapped me. I slapped him back.

We wrestled on the bed. His chest pressed against my breasts. I kicked and squirmed and he restrained my arms with clenched teeth.

"You're not a killer!" I managed to say in between the huffs, "that's what I've been trying to say!" he released me and leaned against the bed frame, closing his puffy eyes as he caught his breath.

"You lent me your jacket," I exhaled brushing a few hair strands behind my ear, "And you waited for me to fix my make up and brush my teeth and take a piss."

"What the hell are you blabbering about?" he muttered, his voice heavy and scratched from crying. He glanced at me from the corner of his eyes.

"You bought me ice-tea and you can't properly look me in the eye. When you tried to strangle me, it didn't even hurt." I added with a shrug, "You're a nice guy. If you were truly a killer-"

"You're such a naive, stupid little girl." Colin said, "Anyone can put up an act to get what they want. A stranger puts a jacket on your shoulders and you just let them into your f*****g house? If it were someone else other than me, you would have been raped and torn into pieces. Then he would hide your corpse and no one would ever find you to give you at least a proper burial.." I looked down at my hands and bit my upper lip.

"Thank God it was you, then." I raised my head and our eyes met. Colin looked away and wiped his forehead with his palm. I offered him a cool glass of water and he didn't refuse. Neither could he leave, head down, weighed with the shame of a failed murder attempt nor could I run out of the house to seek help. It was 3:26 a.m. I could hear the soft crackles of snowflakes falling with on the window sill. We were stuck in the blizzard together. 

I left Colin in my bedroom to let him simmer down and when he came looking for me, he followed the delicious aroma, the humming and sizzling coming from the open kitchen to the left side of the living room. 

"Breakfast at 4:00 a.m." I said as I placed the platter of omelette on the small round table. Colin eyed it with what I was hoping to be admiration.

"I thought, by now," he scratched one side of his face, "you would have called the police on me."

"Oh, no." I swatted the air with my hand, " I couldn't report two attempts of murder on the same night. It's too stressful for me."

"I tried to kill you once." he frowned.

I took a big bite of buttered toast, gesturing the number two with my fingers, "We are both guilty. You had been planning to kill me and I had been planning to kill myself." Colin didn't smile, but I was sure he was impressed. He made a small nod with his head, barely touching the food on his plate.

"Do you know what happens to people who commit suicide?" he asked me. Under the florescent light, his eyes showed a tinge of green within the brown.

I shook my head, both my cheeks full as a bunny's as I chewed.

"They're thrown into hellfire."

I threw my head back as I laughed, "That would have been wonderful."

He was a big child with long legs and a poor appetite, eyeing and picking the food on his platter with disinterest.

Life spared and stomach full, I decided to take a nice, hot shower and finally change into my favorite fluffy, purple pajamas. And as I had expected, the power went out during the last stages of my glorious shower. Good thing I managed to scrub and apply shampoo before it happened. The water fell on my head and back like icicles dropping from the roof of a cave in the remote north pole. I screamed from the shock of coldness and a minute later, I heard Colin's muffled voice behind the bathroom door. It sounded like he was saying: "I'm coming in, alright?" I sharply protested, keeping an arm enclosed around my chest and another between my thighs. I then embarked on a journey in the dark to find where exactly I had placed my towel. I wish I'd brought my phone as a precaution.

Once I had unlocked the bathroom door, I flinched, squinting at the phone flash elevated in the air like the light at the end of the tunnel. 

"Sorry I.." Colin said, his face flushed red as he locked eyes with me, trying not to let his sight fall downwards, "I heard you scream and I stood by the door just in case." I pressed the towel closer to my body. My mouth opened and closed. Water dripped from my hair and streamed along my neck and shoulders. A cool draft of air embraced me with welcome arms.

"You smell nice." he muttered, looking away.

I managed to mutter back a 'thank you' and I asked him to stay in the room with his back turned on me and his phone directed at the bed where I left my fresh clothes. The sheets, from the brawl earlier, were still wrinkled and twisted as if seared with the fire of passion. 

I changed my clothes, my teeth chattering from the lack of any source of warmth.

Colin had gone to sleep in the living room. I dried my hair with the towel and wrapped myself up with a fresh, velvet bathrobe. But the icy air somehow still seeped underneath my pajamas. My teeth chattered, my hands froze, the socks on my feet failed to prevent me from frostbite and my nose and ears almost fell off. I buried myself under the blankets and still shivered. Without electricity, I realized, humanity was doomed. I suddenly remembered the heat of Colin's skin when we wrestled on the bed. I put on my slippers and climbed down the stairs.

"Sleep with me. Lend me your warmth." I told him. Colin visibly rose from behind the sofa directing the blinding flashlight at my face.

"Have you lost your mind?" he asked with genuine concern, "Is the cold freezing your brain cells?"

"No and yes." I answered.

"I tried to kill you two hours ago." he exclaimed.

"One hour and thirty-five minutes ago. To be exact." I corrected looking at my wristwatch. 

As we neared the bed, standing opposite each other, I froze momentarily, his eyes flickering to mine anxiously in the dim street light streaming from the window. I recalled the way he pinned me to the bed frame. His frantic screams and tears. His threats.

 "This was your idea, Candle." he called me by my name for the first time, "You don't have to look so scared of me." a pause, "Do you want me to leave?" 

"No," I muttered, "no, please stay." I felt woozy and I hadn't realized that I was visibly shivering until he placed his hand on mine, his eyes meeting mine with a frown.

"You're as cold as ice!" Colin hissed, clicking his tongue, "Get under the sheets." I climbed the mattress obediently. He parted the fringes of my hair to feel my forehead and he pulled me closer to him. "I won't do anything you don't want me to do." he whispered with a stutter, "I won't touch you unless you ask me to." My lips quivered as I stared at him, his hand loosely holding my wrist. I nodded, allowing him to approach. He slowly engulfed me; his warmth, his smell, his breathing, heartbeats and his hands that rubbed my back, pressing me to his broad chest. I gradually caved in, unwinding, my eyelids as heavy as lead.

5:15 a.m. I stirred awake. Colin lay on his back and I snuggled under his arm and two layers of thick, soft blankets. He breathed steadily, his eyes open towards the magical, extraordinary view of the ceiling. 

"Aren't you going to sleep?" I said. He smelled faintly like the fried vegetables from our last dinner mixed with his own unique scent.

"Aren't you going to mind your own business?" he murmured, "It's enough that I have to be your radiator."

"What happened to you? What made you like this?" I asked, nestling closer to his chest. His calm breathing rhythm gave me the courage to request a bedtime story.

"I wanted to become a criminal and land in jail." he said,

"That's your dream job?" I asked,

"No," he answered, "My dream job is in the field of architecture. I wanted to graduate with honor and make my mother proud. I'd been studying pretty hard before I dropped out last month."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because God gave me a s**t of a father, that's why. A thief and a killer pretending to be a human being." his body tensed. My hand trailed down his chest and caressed his abdomen sympathetically.

"My mother meant the world to me. She raised us without once complaining of the hardships she went through. She carried our responsibility on her back and smiled. Her lowlife of a husband was good at one thing and one thing only, piling up debts that eventually my sister and I had to cooperate to pay. My mother died of all the misery he had caused her. She was poisoned by all his debts. He was charged with multiple felonies; theft, fraud and murder. The court is helping our family pay all his debts."

"But justice has been on your side." I said encouragingly, "That's good, isn't it?"

"It's not good enough," he said, "To lighten his sentence, my father confessed all his crimes except one. He never admitted to be the cause of my mother's death. And she..." a pause, "Now she's never coming back." 

 "I was angry and desperate for more justice. . So I planned to break the law, let out some steam, turn myself in and follow my old man to jail. Murder would have landed me in the same place as him, where all the scum of the earth lived behind bars.. The rapists and the pedophiles and gamblers. I wanted to go there and kill him with my own hands. He shouldn't be breathing." I could feel Colin's body slightly shudder beneath the blankets.

"Lifetime sentence is not enough. It's not remotely enough." he deeply sighed, his jaw tightening, "I'm angry, Candle. I'm angry and I don't know where to go with all this anger." his voice broke and we fell silent. My eyes stung and blurred.

"I'm sorry." I swallowed painfully, "I'm sorry." I buried my face in his chest and he wrapped his arms around me, resting his cheek on my head.

"I have never killed a man in my life." he finally admitted a few minutes later. I was half-awake.

"And you never will." I slurred, "You're a good man. I believe in you." He kissed my head and his fingers ran through my hair. My body slightly ached as a reminder of Colin's thrashing about, of his hysterical episode on this same bed but I wanted this embrace to last for a long time. Upon hearing his light snore, his chest rising and falling like the lazy ocean waves, I was able to properly drift into the world of sleep.

My hand fumbled over the nightstand beside the bed in search for my phone. 

It was 9:03 a.m. The other side of the bed was empty. I scanned the room with my sleepy eyes. He was gone. I stretched, put on my slippers and decided to make some coffee. In my marginal vision, a pile of something lay motionless at the foot of the bed. When I turned to look, I gasped upon finding Colin still asleep on the carpet. I hadn't heard him fall from his side of the bed. I pursed my lips and slightly shook my head.

Coffee brewed and drip-dropped, deliciously condensing inside the machine. I smiled at the return of electric power. I poured some coffee and gazed listlessly at the arabesque of smoke rising from the cup. I looked down at my hands. The girl who wanted to swallow a few pills last night and shoot into space like a rocket, far away from Earth. She was none other than me...

I poured a second cup of coffee and climbed the stairs back to the bedroom. I gently shook Colin awake. It was hard not to laugh when he woke up looking like a survivor of a shipwreck on an uninhabited island. He shot me a few glares, but that's okay. 

We sat on the carpet against the bedside and slowly drank our coffee. I checked my WhatsApp notifications only to find a voice message from Austin, the man who crushed my heart. I didn't mind if Collin heard. Austin apologized, declared undying his love for me, and refused to break up with me based on a one-sided decision after one silly fight. My hands slightly shook, and I began to sweat.

Colin snatched the phone from my hand and deleted the conversation.

"I just cured your depression for you." he returned the phone to me,  "You're welcome." I stared at him blankly.

"I'm-"

"Choose being lonely over being unappreciated." he raised one eyebrow and added before taking another sip of his coffee, "Always."

"I wish it were that easy," I sighed, "But that's not how depression works." 

 "Then get help. Please." he softly said, "I don't want you to die." 

I scratched my neck and Colin caught my hand, removing it so he could study the lines on my neck. He lightly frowned.

"I did this to you?" he was not asking me. He was certain of it.

"It doesn't hurt, Colin." I smiled reassuringly.

"This anger that's been eating me up," he looked down at his coffee cup, "I woke up this morning and it was gone. It vanished." 

 My eyes met his, brown tinted with soft green beneath thick, dark eyebrows. His hair was a mess. He needed a shower. Yet my heart skipped a beat. "You gave me hope. You are the reason I haven't killed anyone."

"Well, that was also on my wish list." I shrugged, unsuccessfully hiding my swelling pride in a grin and blushed cheeks.

It wasn't until later that I confessed to him that our meeting had changed my life also.

"You've been kind and sweet to me, Candle, and I hurt you." his eyes were glossed over with guilt,, "I hurt you and I lied to you. I'm sorry."

"Apology unaccepted." I calmly said. He looked up at me, puzzled, "Unless you take the money I'm going to lend you and go back to university."

"No."

"Yes. If you're truly sorry, that is." I parted my hair with my hand to remind him of the bruises on my neck, "And can I ask you another favor?"

"Anything." he said,

"Go visit your mother. I'm sure she would have been proud of you." I placed my hand on his. He stiffened, "And if you want me to go with you, I'm ready." he took my hand and pressed it against his cheek. 

Our foreheads met, eyes closed. We breathed in relief, in gratitude of being alive. 

It was 10:00 a.m. His life did not end behind iron bars and mine did not end in a grave.

A few days later, I decided to visit one of the nearby local colleges to look around. I had decided to become a healer.

The day I got accepted as a new student, I called two important men, so close to my heart: Colin and the pizza delivery guy.

I also changed my Deathbed Wish List to a new title: 

Congratulations, you didn't kill yourself Wish List. 

Two new wishes had been crossed out so far:

Mend a broken heart.

Eat an entire pizza box. No sharing.  

Author's Note

This was supposed to be a super short story inspired by an automated writing prompt.

"In the wake of our disaster may we gather what is left
May the morning be our our comfort, be the courage for what's next."
~David Hodges.''

The software that helped me create and organize the first draft of this story is lovely. Full of prompts, inspirational ideas and also various how-to notes for young writers.

Check it out if you're interested: http://www.writerscafe.co.uk/

Reviews

[Agyani]

Hey
I liked this story!
In the beginning, I was frowning, thinking this is like a drama that's all too familiar. But you put a nice spin to things and turned my preconception and judgement on its head. I really liked how you carried the story from the point Candle and Colin reach her house.
But I do think there are quite a few wrinkles to smoothen here. There are sentence framing errors in a few places. The writing and language shouldn't drag the story down! A little work on that will be great for this story.
Also, I think the transitions from one scene to the next, prior to the two of them reaching Candle's house are disjointed. A better flow and connection between the scenes would be beneficial here.

I particularly liked the beginning. It made me chuckle. :D
I also liked the ending. It made me smile. :)

P.S. - I think this line should be moved somewhere else in the story. Maybe begin with this?
"My name is Candelaria Mccluskey. People call me Candle for short. But that's not very important because I'm going to die soon."

[YouoweYoupay]

Thank you so much. Glad you liked the story.

[wordman]

damn,could this be true,i often wondered if i could get there,now i know that i can...

[YouoweYoupay]

Hi, Wordman, Please don't hurt yourself! We can all go to space and see the wonders of the Universe in our minds. We don't need to consider suicide like Candle did in the story. Thanks for stopping by! Stay well.

[wordman]

lol,you`re welcome

[Sir Robert Robbie Lord ..]

Good story i was kept excited as I went thru reading it, you well, putt it. Less dred as I read
It's a hole in one !

[YouoweYoupay]

Thank you for your kind words. :)

[JayG]

Well, you did ask...
• "The minute you start writing to please an audience, the beauty of the world you've created diminishes."

If you believe this you will never sell a word of your work. Your JOB, the thing you are paid to do, is to please your audience. They come to you to be made to live the story AS the protagonist, something not taught in our schooldays, or even mentioned, because professional skills are learned after we master the three R's. You can practice no profession successfully without taking the time to master the skills of it, because those skills, simple or complex, are not obvious till pointed out. We leave our school days no more, or less, prepared to write fiction than to work as an accountant, as a logic designer, a doctor, or... We polish our schooldays writing skills by writing reports and essays, almost exclusively. And the few fiction assignments are graded by someone who has probably sold not a word of their fiction. So unless we take meaningful steps to master our profession we are trying to use skills inappropriate to the medium and the mission.

Sure, if an English teacher saw this you'd get an A, because you're writing exactly as you've been taught. The reader learns everything that happens, carefully, and fully explained by the narrator. If an acquiring editor or reader in the bookstore saw it, though, they would reject it quickly, because, like anything written with nonfiction writing skills, it reads like a report.

Look at the opening lines as that acquiring editor would:

• It was 11:00 p.m. The crystal goblet on the bar counter was a well that I was about to drown in.

Does the time really matter to either a reader or the story? Would this story not be the same if the time was 10, or midnight? Unless it's critical, why give the reader the impression it is, by opening with it?

• A few expensive glasses gulped down is the price I had to pay to transform into this wonderful social butterfly, a charming, desirable woman and a spectacular dancer.

And this person hasn't the sense to do the gulping before walking into the expensive bar, if getting drunk's the goal? Or, why not slug down cheap vodka, there, if the goal is to get drunk? S/he doesn't seem smart enough to be my avatar. Yes, I know the character expects to die, but the reader-doesn't-know-that. And they expect what happens to make sense to THEM as-it's-read.

But that aside, Who are we, how old are we? Why are we there? Why at this expensive bar? And why do we want to be what you mention? Is the acquisition of dancing skill some sort of magical effect, or a side effect of being drunk (and it isn't As unsteady as you say the character is, they wouldn't be admirable as a dancer, they'd probably fall)

And, What's a crystal goblet in terms of this story? Since no bar I've been in uses expensive crystal I have no idea of where we are. You know. The protagonist knows. But the reader lacks context. And it's the reader you wrote this for.

What can the line mean when we don't know who we are, where we are, and why, or what the term "drown" means in context of this story? You know, of course. But you cheat. You know what's going on, who we are, and what motivates the character to speak this sentence. You have intent for how the reader is to take it. But intent doesn't make it to the page. And given that the speaker doesn't drown...

• "Thirty-six dollars and 5 cents." the bartender said,

Given that our protagonist never speaks in return, why do I care what the bartender says? We assume that drinks are paid for. And price is relative. If this unknown person, of unknown gender is rich, the price is trivial. If poor, why are they there? You know. But I have no clue of who this is, where they are, why they're there, or what's going on. How can the character's actions be meaningful, and make me care what happens to them if you give the reader no reason to care?

Is this person happy? Celebrating? Depressed? No way to tell. But which it is makes a vast difference in the feel of the story. Again, you know. But the reader has only what the words suggest based on THEIR background, not your intent.

• "Where did you learn those dance moves?" one boy sarcastically grinned, his arm elbowed by his female friends on his right and left.

How in the bloody hell can you grin words? Not what you meant, I know, but it is what you said. And what am I to take the elbowing to mean? And...why is a bar that serves alcohol filled with boys and girls?

And as a not minor point, think back to the last time you were in a bar where people were dancing. It's LOUD. No way in hell could the people involved held the conversations near the dance floor in the real world.

Bottom line: You have the desire and enthusiasm, but you lack the necessary tools, and the knowledge of how best to use them. In other words, the learned part of the profession. And that's not only fixable, it's not a matter of talent or potential as a writer. The problem is, as Mark Twain wisely observed: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

So hit the local library's fiction writing section and do some digging into the tricks of the trade. For an idea of the kind of things you want to dig into, the writing articles in my blog are meant to give an overview, and may be worth looking at. But in the end, go with the pros. And while you're looking for books on writing technique, keep an eye out for the names, Dwight Swain, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon. They're gold.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[YouoweYoupay]

Thank you , Jay G. I will check out your blog very soon. I do have the desire and enthusiasm as you said. I enjoy every minute of writing. But I also want to mature and evolve as a writer. Like you said, it's great to enjoy what you're doing, but it would lovely to share this work I enjoyed in a way that other people understand.

[StarNinja]

The minute you start writing to please an audience, the beauty of the world you've created diminishes."

"If you believe this you will never sell a word of your work."

I don't know about that. In my experience, writing for others can diminish your world's beauty without making a lick of difference if it'll sell better or not. People are going to like what they like. Chasing trends and trying to guess what's selling/going to sell in the near future is a sure fire way to drive yourself crazy. Just write what you like and if the fish bite, they bite.

[JayG]

• In my experience, writing for others can diminish your world's beauty without making a lick of difference if it'll sell better or not.

But in your experience you've sold no fiction. I'm sure you believe in what you say, but belief has nothing to do with the accuracy of that belief.

If you're going to advise someone how to write for publication, a sincere belief that you're right, without knowledge of the craft a working fiction-writer uses daily could provide advice that, if followed, will guarantee rejection.

• Just write what you like and if the fish bite, they bite.

If it was that easy, we'd all be successful writers. You and I spent many years in school learning the basics of nonfiction writing, as do we all. That means you're pretty good at writing nonfiction. Not much help when trying to write fiction, though.

[StarNinja]

"In your experience you sold no fiction."
Was this an assumption or do you think I sound like a guy who hasn't sold fiction? Genuinely curious.

"I'm sure you believe in what you say but belief has nothing to do with the accuracy of that statement."

I agree. I think there's even a Mark Twain quote about that. Beliefs are tricky things.

"If it was that easy we'd all be successful writers."

That's what I was saying with the fish observation. It is hard. They don't always bite. Sometimes they never do. To stretch the analogy a bit, trying to figure out what bait to use is a maddening process that's sent many a writer to the figurative nuthouse.

"You and I spent many years in school learning etc., etc."

I asked about this on another review and interested in the answer. We are taught non-fiction writing in school with an occasional free writing class here and there, but what exactly separates the two in your eyes? I know there are entire college courses dedicated to answering that question but what's your take on it?

[JayG]

• Was this an assumption or do you think I sound like a guy who hasn't sold fiction?

read more• Was this an assumption or do you think I sound like a guy who hasn't sold fiction?

A fair question. How do I know? You begin your story, Julio and the Girl, with: "Through the doorway there was a window and the largest pair of eyes he had ever seen."

Looked at as an acquiring editor would, there are several defects that would garner an immediate rejection with nothing more read:

a. Before you have "the" doorway, a doorway should be introduced, the reader should be placed in time and space, and they should know what's going on. That provides context to make the words meaningful. You're trying to begin with action—in media res—and that's good. But not having studied the issue of opening a story in a way that will hook the reader, you're literally starting it in the middle of action, as if the reader knows the backstory as you do.
b) In order for the reader to visualize the scene, before you present that doorway, the reader should have been placed in time and space—as the protagonist.
c) If the character isn't important enough to have a name, he's not important enough to be our protagonist.
d) Are those eyes beyond the window? In the room? Hanging on the wall? An artwork? That matters, but the reader has been given no context to make the words meaningful.

In short, there's strong evidence that you've not studied the skills of writing fiction. You can prove me wrong, though, with a link to your published work.

But given that this is is someone else's thread, and it's never a good idea to hijack someone else's thread. I'll just end with a wish for success with your writing career.

[StarNinja]

The read more button isn't working on my end and I can't read your comment. Can you send it my way via message or leave it on the Julio story? Thanks, and I appreciate your time.

[JayG]

Doesn't work here, either. Sorry.

[StarNinja]

Wow.
Powerful. Emotional.
A roller coaster ride of ups and downs and laughs and tears. I loved it! I want to see the continued adventures of Candle and Colin!
I was wondering if those two were going to get freaky in the sheets, but in the end I'm glad they didn't. If anything, what they did was more intimate. Great prose work. Two thumbs up!

[YouoweYoupay]

Hi Dan,
Flying Saucers and Pizza is my first short story after a long period of being terrified of holding a pen in my hand. I enjoyed every minute of brainstorming and writing. Then I posted this raw draft with very little editing, reviewing or polishing. There is enormous space for improvement in general. Initially, I was very uncomfortable with posting this story online. For some reason, it felt like being exposed or caught doing something embarrassing. I thought to myself: Oh, god, don't look at my work, it's not good enough! But reading your review a few days ago gave me a positive push.

Thank you so much,