This is not science fiction or fantasy, so I hope it's all right to post it here. I'm pretty new, and have been impressed by the opinions posters offer in this forum. Though I love reading science fiction, I doubt I could write it. I also have read a lot of hard boiled detective fiction, and writing a noir type novel with an extremely flawed main character appeals to me. Here's a start. I would love some opinions about the structure, the flow, description, grammar, just about anything. This is my first try at writing fiction in almost 25 years. Since workshops I took in college. This character will eventually end up trying to help the person banging on the door.
A rapid banging, and the rattling of the loose glass panes in the old front door of his small restaurant wake him. He is laying on the threadbare couch in the main room of the apartment behind the restaurant. It is hot and humid in the tiny space. He blinks his eyes, sits up slowly, pushing with his right arm. There’s pain. He looks at it, a purple bruise and bloody scrape near the elbow. The banging and rattling continue. His eyes will not stay focused. His head throbs. He reaches behind his head with his right hand, winces, rolls his head on his neck, digs his fingers in hard at the base of the skull, massaging.
Out front, the banging and rattling stops.. His vision clears. He glances around the apartment, the fingers still pressing the bottom of the skull. Besides the couch, the room holds a futon, an expensive sound system, a dirty white side by side refrigerator/freezer, an end table and lamp, and a small, round, wooden table stained with water rings and cigarette burns. The floor is a filthy maple, also burned by cigarettes. His pants and shoes lay together on the maple close to the end of the couch. A door opens to a tiny bathroom with a cracked tile floor and tub wainscoting, a wall hung sink. There is no kitchen, when he cooks for himself, he does it in the restaurant. On the table, a can of light beer on its side, an open bottle of vodka two inches from empty, a glass one third full with clear liquid, a too small ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, two lighters, a crumpled half full pack of Marlboro Lights, a set of keys, a wallet. The floor next to the table is puddled with the spilled beer, the smell strong mixed with the heat and the burned cigarettes. On the floor, a large unplugged box fan lies flat, one chair lies on its side, one other upright. Along two walls are homemade shelves lined with thousands of LP’s. They have not been disturbed.
He takes a tentative deep breath, wheezing, lungs roasted from dozens of cigarettes, the sourness of what he smells made more real by the taste in his mouth.
"Oh. Christ." Sighing. He stands, steps unsteadily to the bathroom, feeling the need to urinate. In the bathroom, the smell of urine in the heat, the floor wet around the toilet, splatters dry on the wall.. His face wrinkles at the new smell and the wetness on his bare feet. He fumbles himself out of his boxers, pees haltingly in the toilet. He wets a towel in the tub, wipes his feet, throws it over the wetness on the floor. Feet wiped and bladder empty, he moves to the wall hung sink, one hand on each side, head hanging. Three small dry coughs start it, heavy dry coughs follow, nothing loose in the tobacco ravaged lungs. The coughs become dry heaves. It lasts for minutes, tearing at the muscles in his sides and throat. Like the coughing, the heaving produces nothing. It subsides. He raises his head, looks in the mirror, face crimson, framed by muttonchops, cheeks wet with tears and sweat, the flesh of the nose swollen and mottled with thin purple veins, eyes bloodshot. There are red/black specs under the eyes from capillaries broken by the violence of the episode.
Shaking hands turn on the cold water, he bends, drinks deeply, his mouth on the spigot. In a basket on the toilet tank are aspirin. He fumbles with the cap, shakes a half dozen of the small pills into his palm, tosses them in his mouth, bends, and again drinks deeply. He straightens, and the banging and rattling at the front of building begins again in earnest. He thinks of his keys on the table, becomes concerned, thinking about cops. He leaves the bathroom, goes to the one small window looking out of the apartment and into a gravel parking lot. The window is painted shut, the panes a dull yellow from cigarette smoke. He sees his car is not there. He thinks he did not drive back the previous night. He typically walks home, gets his car in the morning. When he is not able to walk, Donnie brings him. He wonders what, or if, he had eaten.
"Please, go away." He says quietly to the banging and rattling, but mostly to himself. He keeps his breathing shallow, afraid of the coughing. "I am not ready for this friggin’ day to start." The banging and rattling stop. Relieved, he steps backs into the middle of living room. His hands are still shaking. His heart hammers in his chest. He picks up the overturned chair and sits at the edge of the table. He looks at the open vodka bottle, picks up the dirty glass, smells the liquid. Standing, he walks to the bathroom, dumps it in the sink. Back in the living room, he looks again at the vodka. His legs tremble slightly as he steps to and opens the freezer, takes ice cubes from an open bag, and fills the glass. He picks up the vodka, pours about an inch and a half on the ice, adds some water at the bathroom sink. Returns and sits again at the table. A small one to start the day, cure the shakes. He needs it to get the restaurant open. He takes a cigarette from the crumpled pack and lights it with one of the lighters, rights the beer can to use as an ashtray.
The nicotine calms his quivering lungs. Two big swallows from the drink, added to the alcohol still in his system, soon stop the shaking and slow his heart. Several minutes later, when the banging on the door again makes the loose windows rattle, he is feeling much better. He grins.
"Screw you," he says, louder this time, but still to himself. "I am having a cocktail, a cigarette, and then a shower. Read the sign on the door. Sloppy Joes opens at 11:00. You can talk to me then."
A rapid banging, and the rattling of the loose glass panes in the old front door of his small restaurant wake him. He is laying on the threadbare couch in the main room of the apartment behind the restaurant. It is hot and humid in the tiny space. He blinks his eyes, sits up slowly, pushing with his right arm. There’s pain. He looks at it, a purple bruise and bloody scrape near the elbow. The banging and rattling continue. His eyes will not stay focused. His head throbs. He reaches behind his head with his right hand, winces, rolls his head on his neck, digs his fingers in hard at the base of the skull, massaging.
Out front, the banging and rattling stops.. His vision clears. He glances around the apartment, the fingers still pressing the bottom of the skull. Besides the couch, the room holds a futon, an expensive sound system, a dirty white side by side refrigerator/freezer, an end table and lamp, and a small, round, wooden table stained with water rings and cigarette burns. The floor is a filthy maple, also burned by cigarettes. His pants and shoes lay together on the maple close to the end of the couch. A door opens to a tiny bathroom with a cracked tile floor and tub wainscoting, a wall hung sink. There is no kitchen, when he cooks for himself, he does it in the restaurant. On the table, a can of light beer on its side, an open bottle of vodka two inches from empty, a glass one third full with clear liquid, a too small ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, two lighters, a crumpled half full pack of Marlboro Lights, a set of keys, a wallet. The floor next to the table is puddled with the spilled beer, the smell strong mixed with the heat and the burned cigarettes. On the floor, a large unplugged box fan lies flat, one chair lies on its side, one other upright. Along two walls are homemade shelves lined with thousands of LP’s. They have not been disturbed.
He takes a tentative deep breath, wheezing, lungs roasted from dozens of cigarettes, the sourness of what he smells made more real by the taste in his mouth.
"Oh. Christ." Sighing. He stands, steps unsteadily to the bathroom, feeling the need to urinate. In the bathroom, the smell of urine in the heat, the floor wet around the toilet, splatters dry on the wall.. His face wrinkles at the new smell and the wetness on his bare feet. He fumbles himself out of his boxers, pees haltingly in the toilet. He wets a towel in the tub, wipes his feet, throws it over the wetness on the floor. Feet wiped and bladder empty, he moves to the wall hung sink, one hand on each side, head hanging. Three small dry coughs start it, heavy dry coughs follow, nothing loose in the tobacco ravaged lungs. The coughs become dry heaves. It lasts for minutes, tearing at the muscles in his sides and throat. Like the coughing, the heaving produces nothing. It subsides. He raises his head, looks in the mirror, face crimson, framed by muttonchops, cheeks wet with tears and sweat, the flesh of the nose swollen and mottled with thin purple veins, eyes bloodshot. There are red/black specs under the eyes from capillaries broken by the violence of the episode.
Shaking hands turn on the cold water, he bends, drinks deeply, his mouth on the spigot. In a basket on the toilet tank are aspirin. He fumbles with the cap, shakes a half dozen of the small pills into his palm, tosses them in his mouth, bends, and again drinks deeply. He straightens, and the banging and rattling at the front of building begins again in earnest. He thinks of his keys on the table, becomes concerned, thinking about cops. He leaves the bathroom, goes to the one small window looking out of the apartment and into a gravel parking lot. The window is painted shut, the panes a dull yellow from cigarette smoke. He sees his car is not there. He thinks he did not drive back the previous night. He typically walks home, gets his car in the morning. When he is not able to walk, Donnie brings him. He wonders what, or if, he had eaten.
"Please, go away." He says quietly to the banging and rattling, but mostly to himself. He keeps his breathing shallow, afraid of the coughing. "I am not ready for this friggin’ day to start." The banging and rattling stop. Relieved, he steps backs into the middle of living room. His hands are still shaking. His heart hammers in his chest. He picks up the overturned chair and sits at the edge of the table. He looks at the open vodka bottle, picks up the dirty glass, smells the liquid. Standing, he walks to the bathroom, dumps it in the sink. Back in the living room, he looks again at the vodka. His legs tremble slightly as he steps to and opens the freezer, takes ice cubes from an open bag, and fills the glass. He picks up the vodka, pours about an inch and a half on the ice, adds some water at the bathroom sink. Returns and sits again at the table. A small one to start the day, cure the shakes. He needs it to get the restaurant open. He takes a cigarette from the crumpled pack and lights it with one of the lighters, rights the beer can to use as an ashtray.
The nicotine calms his quivering lungs. Two big swallows from the drink, added to the alcohol still in his system, soon stop the shaking and slow his heart. Several minutes later, when the banging on the door again makes the loose windows rattle, he is feeling much better. He grins.
"Screw you," he says, louder this time, but still to himself. "I am having a cocktail, a cigarette, and then a shower. Read the sign on the door. Sloppy Joes opens at 11:00. You can talk to me then."
