Post by potcgrrl on Sept 9, 2007 18:29:26 GMT -5
*Takes deep breathe*
Guys! Here is my second piece of creative writing. I've change the style somewhat. Not entirely done with it yet, but I hope posting it will force me to. Meanwhile, I'd love to hear your feedback, especially on any grammatical mistakes, which part didn't work for you, or if the whole style plain sucks. Feel free to PM me if you'd like, but please don’t hold back.
Title: ?
Rating: G (I think)
Archive: Not worth anybody's while
Credit: Everyone here who inspires me to write, and Mr. Linkletter whose brilliance forever changed my view on "indies."
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody. I make this stuff up as I go along to amuse myself and bore a few folks on this board. Didn't make any money from this, don't intend to, have no hopes to, and frankly think there are better ways to make money. Sooooo, that's just a long-winded way to say ... DON'T SUE.
A whiff of cool air brushes past him as the attendants swivel open the massive wooden portal upon his approach. The reception hall is a soothing mixture of off-white, sand, and beige, dotted with green and turquoise here and there. The interior smells like fresh sea-breeze and decadence. Dominica has certainly come a long way since the last time he was here.
There is only a handful of people in the place at this time of the afternoon, and he sizes them up quickly, automatically, with the wary eye of a man who has grown used to expecting paparazzi from unexpected quarters. He didn't think he had the reason to worry, but old habits die hard, and that’s one of the smaller ones. There are two elderly gentlemen engrossed in their chess game in the bar area, a teenage boy in tee-shirt and trunks sitting sullenly in the lobby. He doubts any of them are likely to recognize him on sight, though stranger things have known to happen.
One of the receptionists on duty didn’t look up from her monitor to see him enter, but the other one smiles at him expectantly. He nods his acknowledgment of the middle-aged black woman, flashes a friendly smile, but his confident stride does not falter. He knows hotels of this caliber only too well – a good part of his twenties was spent living in places like this – and knows the polite employees would never enquire a guest’s coming and going; all he has to do is to act as if he belongs here. He knows a thing or two about acting.
The receptionist wordlessly returns to her duty, and he releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He cannot afford to have her interfere with his carefully laid plan, needs the element of surprise as an advantage. He exits the hall from a side door, follows a pebbled path that eventually takes him across a small wooden bridge over a rushing brook. He pauses in front of the bungalow next to it, gathers his thoughts in order, before climbing the flight of stairs that leads to the door.
His knuckles rap on the wood twice, and he does his best Caribbean accent. “Housekeeping.”
A beat or two, then he hears faint rustling on the other side of the door. A lock is thrown back, the door swung open, as a familiar, crisp voice wafts towards him. “I am afraid there must be some mis ...” But the rest of her sentence dies on a sharp intake of breath, when she takes in his presence on the other side of the threshold.
He gives her his best smile. “May I come in?”
She considers him warily, but steps aside nonetheless, and opens the door a little wider to let him in. He drops his duffle, turns to watch her close the door, waits for her to give voice to the thousand questions in her eyes. And she does not disappoint.
“What are you doing here? When did you get in? How do you know I’m here?” She pauses, shakes her head slightly, then smiles. “Never mind. It’s good to see you.”
She leans over to kiss him on the cheek, and his arms reach out, one wraps gently around her waist while the other palm flat between her shoulder blades, redirects her motion into an easy embrace. There’s a sudden flood of memories when she stiffens for a fractional second before melting, into his arms, and he wants to kiss her like he did then. But that is not why he is here – he had the world in his hands once but hadn’t the brains or balls to hold on – and instead he buries his face in her hair, his voice comes on a shaky sigh. “It’s good to see you, too.”
Her quivering breath carries like gossamer in an autumn breeze and when he steps back to peer at her face, her eyes look suspiciously bright. But she says nothing, just beckons him away from the foyer with a smile. He trails her into the sunken sitting area, towards the sofa, his knees a little weaker than he’d like them to be. Talk about old habits, he mocks himself rather humorlessly.
“To track you down. Just now. Your mother.” He announces without preambles, as he sinks into the sinfully plush cushions.
“She told you I was here?” She sounds not too surprised, but maybe a little indignant. “The traitor.”
He regards her closely and when she shows no sign of ill humor, he relaxes a little. “Technically, she didn’t tell me where you were. I had guessed the location before she parted with the details. She was feeling sorry for a fellow thespian because I was in desperate need of help, and you might be the only one who could.”
She chuckles softly. “I see your charm still works on ladies of all ages. What seems to be the problem?”
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead he goes to bring over his bag, rummages through it to find a vanilla envelope, and lays its content flat on the coffee table. He chooses his words carefully.
“You know I have been looking to do an indie project for a while now, and this looks to be the right thing. I think you will agree once you read it.” He smiles encouragingly, pushes the stack of paper towards her. “I have spent the last few weeks setting the wheel in motion, and now most things are in place. I’m still searching for a female lead who can handle long takes, and pulls her own weight in the film. And I’ll need her as soon as possible because my own scheduling. So I thought of you. Surely, you would help an old friend and not ask his first born in return?”
He smiles cheekily at her, gauges her reaction. She hesitates, seemingly torn between a gentle rebuff and the reluctance to issue it, and he presses his advantage, his hands rise in supplication.
“Please. All I ask of you is to read it. You will be doing me a great favor.”
Her reach for the manuscript is accompanied by an audible sigh of defeat.
[TBC (maybe)]
Guys! Here is my second piece of creative writing. I've change the style somewhat. Not entirely done with it yet, but I hope posting it will force me to. Meanwhile, I'd love to hear your feedback, especially on any grammatical mistakes, which part didn't work for you, or if the whole style plain sucks. Feel free to PM me if you'd like, but please don’t hold back.
Title: ?
Rating: G (I think)
Archive: Not worth anybody's while
Credit: Everyone here who inspires me to write, and Mr. Linkletter whose brilliance forever changed my view on "indies."
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody. I make this stuff up as I go along to amuse myself and bore a few folks on this board. Didn't make any money from this, don't intend to, have no hopes to, and frankly think there are better ways to make money. Sooooo, that's just a long-winded way to say ... DON'T SUE.
Him
A whiff of cool air brushes past him as the attendants swivel open the massive wooden portal upon his approach. The reception hall is a soothing mixture of off-white, sand, and beige, dotted with green and turquoise here and there. The interior smells like fresh sea-breeze and decadence. Dominica has certainly come a long way since the last time he was here.
There is only a handful of people in the place at this time of the afternoon, and he sizes them up quickly, automatically, with the wary eye of a man who has grown used to expecting paparazzi from unexpected quarters. He didn't think he had the reason to worry, but old habits die hard, and that’s one of the smaller ones. There are two elderly gentlemen engrossed in their chess game in the bar area, a teenage boy in tee-shirt and trunks sitting sullenly in the lobby. He doubts any of them are likely to recognize him on sight, though stranger things have known to happen.
One of the receptionists on duty didn’t look up from her monitor to see him enter, but the other one smiles at him expectantly. He nods his acknowledgment of the middle-aged black woman, flashes a friendly smile, but his confident stride does not falter. He knows hotels of this caliber only too well – a good part of his twenties was spent living in places like this – and knows the polite employees would never enquire a guest’s coming and going; all he has to do is to act as if he belongs here. He knows a thing or two about acting.
The receptionist wordlessly returns to her duty, and he releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He cannot afford to have her interfere with his carefully laid plan, needs the element of surprise as an advantage. He exits the hall from a side door, follows a pebbled path that eventually takes him across a small wooden bridge over a rushing brook. He pauses in front of the bungalow next to it, gathers his thoughts in order, before climbing the flight of stairs that leads to the door.
His knuckles rap on the wood twice, and he does his best Caribbean accent. “Housekeeping.”
A beat or two, then he hears faint rustling on the other side of the door. A lock is thrown back, the door swung open, as a familiar, crisp voice wafts towards him. “I am afraid there must be some mis ...” But the rest of her sentence dies on a sharp intake of breath, when she takes in his presence on the other side of the threshold.
He gives her his best smile. “May I come in?”
She considers him warily, but steps aside nonetheless, and opens the door a little wider to let him in. He drops his duffle, turns to watch her close the door, waits for her to give voice to the thousand questions in her eyes. And she does not disappoint.
“What are you doing here? When did you get in? How do you know I’m here?” She pauses, shakes her head slightly, then smiles. “Never mind. It’s good to see you.”
She leans over to kiss him on the cheek, and his arms reach out, one wraps gently around her waist while the other palm flat between her shoulder blades, redirects her motion into an easy embrace. There’s a sudden flood of memories when she stiffens for a fractional second before melting, into his arms, and he wants to kiss her like he did then. But that is not why he is here – he had the world in his hands once but hadn’t the brains or balls to hold on – and instead he buries his face in her hair, his voice comes on a shaky sigh. “It’s good to see you, too.”
Her quivering breath carries like gossamer in an autumn breeze and when he steps back to peer at her face, her eyes look suspiciously bright. But she says nothing, just beckons him away from the foyer with a smile. He trails her into the sunken sitting area, towards the sofa, his knees a little weaker than he’d like them to be. Talk about old habits, he mocks himself rather humorlessly.
“To track you down. Just now. Your mother.” He announces without preambles, as he sinks into the sinfully plush cushions.
“She told you I was here?” She sounds not too surprised, but maybe a little indignant. “The traitor.”
He regards her closely and when she shows no sign of ill humor, he relaxes a little. “Technically, she didn’t tell me where you were. I had guessed the location before she parted with the details. She was feeling sorry for a fellow thespian because I was in desperate need of help, and you might be the only one who could.”
She chuckles softly. “I see your charm still works on ladies of all ages. What seems to be the problem?”
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead he goes to bring over his bag, rummages through it to find a vanilla envelope, and lays its content flat on the coffee table. He chooses his words carefully.
“You know I have been looking to do an indie project for a while now, and this looks to be the right thing. I think you will agree once you read it.” He smiles encouragingly, pushes the stack of paper towards her. “I have spent the last few weeks setting the wheel in motion, and now most things are in place. I’m still searching for a female lead who can handle long takes, and pulls her own weight in the film. And I’ll need her as soon as possible because my own scheduling. So I thought of you. Surely, you would help an old friend and not ask his first born in return?”
He smiles cheekily at her, gauges her reaction. She hesitates, seemingly torn between a gentle rebuff and the reluctance to issue it, and he presses his advantage, his hands rise in supplication.
“Please. All I ask of you is to read it. You will be doing me a great favor.”
Her reach for the manuscript is accompanied by an audible sigh of defeat.
[TBC (maybe)]
