June Challenge, Chapter 2: June 4-7
unedited, flash fiction, june challenge
Published on:
Jun. 5, 2008, 2:51amWord Count:
3211Last Edited:
Jun. 8, 2008, 12:47amWork Description
Month-long daily unedited flash fiction challenge.
See "June Challenge" circle or "June:A Challenge" thread on Community forums for details.
Chapter Description
The Box: A Dinner Meeting
The Typewriter: My attempt at writing something even moderately descriptive.
The Sentence: Skyler takes matters into his own hands
Carol: There's been an accident
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The smile on Johnny's face broadened. He picked up the box and opened it.
His grin immediately disappeared.
Inside the box was a pair of women's earrings. They weren't Sharon's.
"Who is she?" she asked flatly.
2244 6/4/08
The Typewriter
Wiseman's Pawn, I read to myself. I was finally ready go in. I had walked by the shop on the corner of First and Johnson about a hundred times. There was an old typewriter in the window I had my eye, but I hadn't been able to afford it until that day.
As I opened the door, a bell sounded as it fell back against the glass, alerting the clerk to my presence. A smell of oldness washed over me immediately. It was a pleasant mix of dust, leather, and oil. Having always loved all things nostalgic and meaningful, the second I walked through the door, I wanted to live in that smell forever.
"Can I help you?" asked the clerk. His voice was gruff, even coarse. It took my eyes a second to adjust to the dim store. With not-too-recently-brushed shoulder length greying hair, a worn denim jacket, and jeans with holes in the knees, he looked like he never left the store. Judging by that and the fact that he appeared to be the only person there, I guessed he was the owner.
"Yes, I'm sorry. I was interested in buying the typewriter in the window."
"Ah yes," he grumbled, and walked past me. He pulled it off the shelf, carried it back toward the register, and thumped it down on the counter.
"That'll be $75, son." No one had called me son since my twenty-first birthday. It was almost endearing, in an old man's disconnected from the world sort of way.
"Right," I said, pulling myself from my thoughts. I handed him the cash. It disappeared into the old-fashioned cash register surprisingly quickly. He pulled out a receipt book that was probably as old as the register. He took the carbon paper from the back of the book and inserted it between the next two pages. After writing and handing me the receipt, he gave me a good, calculating look.
"You sure you're going to be able to carry this thing, son? These old machines are a lot heavier than the ones you kids are using these days. Sturdier."
"Yes, sir. I'm stronger than I look." Why was I calling him sir?
"Alright then. Here she is." He pushed the typewriter toward me with considerable force. I picked it up off the counter (admittedly also with considerable force), and headed toward the door. As I turned around and pushed the door open with my back, the bells gave another jingle. I looked up to give the old man a nod goodbye, but he had disappeared.
By the time I had walked the five blocks home, I was distinctly out of breath. The clerk hadn't been joking: the old typewriter was no joke. I opened the door to my building and saw Bart, the complex's janitor, coming out of the maintenance closet.
"Whatchyou got there, 5B?" he asked, as he pushed the elevator button. Bart always called us all by our unit numbers. I'm not entirely sure why; he knew our names. It sort of made me want to call him Maintenance Closet,
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I agree with Laurie -- great work here! You have a lot of great ideas and they're all really welly fleshed out.
Cool. I want to see what you come up with next. ( :
Hey dnm,
"I'm not here alone, Stan. I'm Sharon. My boyfriend will be hear in(watch check)"about ten minutes. What brings you here all by yourself?"
Having always loved all things nostalgic and meaningful, the second I walked through the door, I wanted to live in that smell forever.
Whatchyou got there, 5B?
FInally, I thought. I can write.
I started to walk toward it-------------------and then I woke up.
The florescent lights were such a contrast from the black basement then I couldn't see anything.
By the time I reached the hospital, I was practically hyperventilating.
i really like what you've put together here. i think your story has grit. Which is something I rather like in stories. i want to know more about the characters and would like to read more of this if you keep the storyline going.
As far as your descriptive writing style goes, it reads pretty smoothly. There are a couple of things you could polish a bit, some has already been mentioned.
The word 'here' is sometimes written as, 'hear'
In the end, you change voice. It begins to read as a memoir rather than in character--if that makes sense. When you describe the door and the base of the typewriter, it is more of a reflection and not so much the characters real time experience of it. You added distance by some of the words you chose, at least for me...I would suggest adding the word 'own' to the 'my door' phrase and consider a slightly more direct and intimate description of the feeling the typewriter gives, the sense of the base...
Finally, in the beginning, knowing already that you are focusing on description with this piece, I would love to have learned more about the typewriter itself. What made you fall in love with it? What brand was it?
Again, the realness of the scene was definitely depicted for me, I could smell the old guy and his shop...even though you didn't mention smell, and I felt a thickness to the air that is usually found in such places...which in my opinion makes your descriptors just right (in other words you didn't over or under do it).
Louise
wow! i mean, really...wow! these daily stories are remarkable, and read as very polished even as first drafts. you've got some typos/misspellings, but those're easily fixed in edits. original ideas, smooth, engaging writing style, and a penchant for drawing readers in. i'll be back to critique when i have the appropriate amount of time, but i wanted to comment. really impressive work!