Continuation

[yorelm]

Hope everybody had a peaceful holiday.
Here's the continuation for the horror snippet I posted earlier. Wondering if both the prose and dialog are flowing well.

...Welcome to nowhere, I thought. Life here probably matched the pace of the tide.

The slicked-up road cocked to the left. I made the turn and drove past Canston Tackle. There was just enough brightness from the lamps to make out the window display of mildewed fishing gear and rusted rods.

A house stood out just ahead, bigger than the others on the hillside, its lights glowed cool against the dark. A single-story brick home with perfect symmetry and four arched windows lined across the front. If it stretched upward instead of out, it could've been one of those grand Georgian mansions. Even squatting low, it held onto that old Southern dignity. I eased the Dodge to the curb where a cobblestone path snaked up to the door. Somebody there should be able to point out where a traveler could find a bed for the night. The engine ticked as it cooled, and I stepped into the night air.

A front sign read "Canston Museum," hand-painted in artistic script. A museum made sense for tourists, but why was it the only building showing life at this hour? Who runs a tour this late? The wooden steps creaked as I sprinted from the rain to the cover of the porch. The door had one of those old-fashioned knockers, carved from hardwood, worn smooth from use. I rapped twice, and the dull thunks echoed in a way that made the place seem empty.

A click came from the other side, followed by the groan of hinges, and a black man with a scruffy, peppered beard pulled the door open a crack. He stared with mantis eyes--big and far-set--for a second before speaking, like I was being assessed. He probably just wasn't used to strangers at this hour.
"Help you?" He spoke with a deep-fried, Southern accent through nicotine-stained teeth. I'd almost bet he rolled his own.

"Sorry to bother you so late." I pulled my jacket tighter. "I was wondering if there was some place for a traveler to stay around here. This rain's not letting up, and I haven't passed a motel in more than an hour. Maybe somewhere to get a decent meal too?"

"Don't have no hotel or anything like that. Even if there was, it wouldn't make enough money worth the upkeep. Hardly nobody stops here."

“Oh.” My shoulders dropped. "Then how far to the next inn? Like an idiot I let my phone run down."

From his look, he didn't make the connection. He let loose a sneeze that shook his whole frame. His fist caught most of the spray before wiping it on his jeans. "That depends. You headed north or south?"

"South."

"There's the Eavestone Motel 'bout forty-five minutes from here." He jabbed a thick finger past my shoulder, as though that would help put me on the right path.

He glanced past me at the downpour, again silent for a few seconds. "Listen, if you don't mind keepin' an old man company, I got an extra room downstairs. Nothing fancy, but you could stay here if you'd like, or at least wait for the pourin' to let up. I'll be honest--I don't get much conversation." He half-shrugged with a subtle smile.

 

[Misanthrophile]

Hope everybody had a peaceful holiday.
Here's the continuation for the horror snippet I posted earlier. Wondering if both the prose and dialog are flowing well.

...Welcome to nowhere, I thought. Life here probably matched the pace of the tide.

The slicked-up road cocked to the left. I made the turn and drove past Canston Tackle. There was just enough brightness from the lamps to make out the window display of mildewed fishing gear and rusted rods.

A house stood out just ahead, bigger than the others on the hillside, its lights glowed cool against the dark. A single-story brick home with perfect symmetry and four arched windows lined across the front. If it stretched upward instead of out, it could've been one of those grand Georgian mansions. Even squatting low, it held onto that old Southern dignity. I eased the Dodge to the curb where a cobblestone path snaked up to the door. Somebody there should be able to point out where a traveler could find a bed for the night. The engine ticked as it cooled, and I stepped into the night air.

A front sign read "Canston Museum," hand-painted in artistic script. A museum made sense for tourists, but why was it the only building showing life at this hour? Who runs a tour this late? The wooden steps creaked as I sprinted from the rain to the cover of the porch. The door had one of those old-fashioned knockers, carved from hardwood, worn smooth from use. I rapped twice, and the dull thunks echoed in a way that made the place seem empty.

A click came from the other side, followed by the groan of hinges, and a black man with a scruffy, peppered beard pulled the door open a crack. He stared with mantis eyes--big and far-set--for a second before speaking, like I was being assessed. He probably just wasn't used to strangers at this hour.
"Help you?" He spoke with a deep-fried, Southern accent through nicotine-stained teeth. I'd almost bet he rolled his own.

"Sorry to bother you so late." I pulled my jacket tighter. "I was wondering if there was some place for a traveler to stay around here. This rain's not letting up, and I haven't passed a motel in more than an hour. Maybe somewhere to get a decent meal too?"

"Don't have no hotel or anything like that. Even if there was, it wouldn't make enough money worth the upkeep. Hardly nobody stops here."

“Oh.” My shoulders dropped. "Then how far to the next inn? Like an idiot I let my phone run down."

From his look, he didn't make the connection. He let loose a sneeze that shook his whole frame. His fist caught most of the spray before wiping it on his jeans. "That depends. You headed north or south?"

"South."

"There's the Eavestone Motel 'bout forty-five minutes from here." He jabbed a thick finger past my shoulder, as though that would help put me on the right path.

He glanced past me at the downpour, again silent for a few seconds. "Listen, if you don't mind keepin' an old man company, I got an extra room downstairs. Nothing fancy, but you could stay here if you'd like, or at least wait for the pourin' to let up. I'll be honest--I don't get much conversation." He half-shrugged with a subtle smile.

I like this.
Your prose is definitive/decisive in description without being weighed down in detail. I find yours to be easy to read. The on-flow from observation to observation is simple to comprehend and excellently casts the imagery well into the mind of the reader.

The dialogue is concise. Capturing the Southern US accent in its delivery is good. The punctuation and expediency of it, makes one attempt their best at the type of unique drawl found in those few Southward States.

But also maintaining the air of seriousness in the character's tone. Slowly warming to their compromise with the arrived stranger.

From the short amount of detailing the world has in this excerpt I get a sense that the protagonist is long travelled. That their destination is still yet further away, and something is on the horizon that will interrupt this journey. The first person perspective written from lends itself to revelations along the way. Secrets kept by you until such time as events develop.

My half-penny worth.

 

[yorelm]

"

I like this.
Your prose is definitive/decisive in description without being weighed down in detail. I find yours to be easy to read. The on-flow from observation to observation is simple to comprehend and excellently casts the imagery well into the mind of the reader.

The dialogue is concise. Capturing the Southern US accent in its delivery is good. The punctuation and expediency of it, makes one attempt their best at the type of unique drawl found in those few Southward States.

But also maintaining the air of seriousness in the character's tone. Slowly warming to their compromise with the arrived stranger.

From the short amount of detailing the world has in this excerpt I get a sense that the protagonist is long traveled. That their destination is still yet further away, and something is on the horizon that will interrupt this journey. The first person perspective written from lends itself to revelations along the way. Secrets kept by you until such time as events develop.

My half-penny worth.

"I find yours to be easy to read" is the #1 driving force of my style, so that's great to hear! I purposely try to be simple and straight forward wo sounding "writerly." Something like Hemingway with a touch of Faulkner. But like any of us, no matter the level, I can have doubts as to how certain passages come off to other sharp readers. I hope I never become so arrogant and overconfident that I can't have doubts. That'll be the day I stop growing.
I really appreciate your feedback.

 

[Misanthrophile]

We all doubt our prowess wielding the tools of wordsmithsmanship.
If I borrow the metaphor of a blacksmith forging weapons, then you are utilising the hammer with the correct amount of force.
While also checking the heat of your material before shaping it further.

And like any self-respecting craftsman, smith or otherwise - growth is key.
Understanding this how you do, is forever going to keep you humble.
Arrogance is an unfortunate lack of perspective of self, amongst the dealings of others and theirs.

You won't fall into that trap.

 

[Karapace]

I agree with Misanthrophile. There is just the right amount of description to conjoure up the scene, but it is the choice of those words that makes it. "Slicked-up road", "mildewed fishing gear" "the engine ticked as it cooled" all simple phrases that say a lot about the place, the weather and the distance travelled.

 

[yorelm]

We all doubt our prowess wielding the tools of wordsmithsmanship.
If I borrow the metaphor of a blacksmith forging weapons, then you are utilising the hammer with the correct amount of force.
While also checking the heat of your material before shaping it further.

And like any self-respecting craftsman, smith or otherwise - growth is key.
Understanding this how you do, is forever going to keep you humble.
Arrogance is an unfortunate lack of perspective of self, amongst the dealings of others and theirs.

You won't fall into that trap.

I love that analogy. And just from your comments, I really like how you express yourself. I noticed you just joined--WELCOME! Looking forward to seeing some of your work.
Clever the irony of your name.

 

[yorelm]

I agree with Misanthrophile. There is just the right amount of description to conjoure up the scene, but it is the choice of those words that makes it. "Slicked-up road", "mildewed fishing gear" "the engine ticked as it cooled" all simple phrases that say a lot about the place, the weather and the distance travelled.

Thx Karapace. I've learned to imply more than outright state when dealing with description, though 'outright stating' can be just as useful in the right spots. You should have seen my stuff from a couple of years ago. Whew boy! Cringe city. Thank goodness for persistence.

 

[Misanthrophile]

I love that analogy. And just from your comments, I really like how you express yourself. I noticed you just joined--WELCOME! Looking forward to seeing some of your work.
Clever the irony of your name.

I do have a deep, uncompromising resentment of the human race.
So the name is more honest than it is ironic.

Though that particular negative worldview is never advertised online beyond the name, I do practise it through isolation and introversion.
Ignore or acknowledge that how you will.

 

[Swank]

I like it. At first I questioned some of the details, but they are in no way excessive. I like the allusions to other kinds of houses and the description of the man. Good flow, no clunkiness. I would spend no time refining it and plunge on into writing the rest of the story.

 

[yorelm]

I like it. At first I questioned some of the details, but they are in no way excessive. I like the allusions to other kinds of houses and the description of the man. Good flow, no clunkiness. I would spend no time refining it and plunge on into writing the rest of the story.

It's complete, but not this third round. Once this is done I think (hope) the next will be cleaning up and proofing. Thanks Swank.

 

[wazz]

Again, no useful notes, only praise. You certainly do seem to achieve that easy to read style you're going for and I suspect I could read you rewriting the phone book. A sense of place and time, you have both an economy of words and richness in word choices.

 

[yorelm]

Again, no useful notes, only praise. You certainly do seem to achieve that easy to read style you're going for and I suspect I could read you rewriting the phone book. A sense of place and time, you have both an economy of words and richness in word choices.

I appreciate that, wazz, but believe me, it was a journey. I started years back with the "trying to be writerly" approach. Thought I was hot sh*t...just to later see it was awful. Then I took a stripped back approach, which turned out to be more of what was aiming for, but it was sterile. Then, after many many thousands of words writing and rewriting stories I like too much to let go, I started seeing something new with each revision. Until I was finally struck by that "AHA!" moment, and started to like how the stories began to feel. Best feeling ever to say, "I'm happy that I'm at a comfortable place to improve upon." Where before it was an excruciating place.

Fun note: I sent this story to Drabblecast, and it made it out of the slush. They wrote a kind email and said their first readers liked it and would pass it on to the final selection round.
It was eventually rejected, but that was a year ago. This version you see now is the identical story, but revised "up" to my present style. (I think all that "revising up" over and over is what brought on the improvements.) Gonna try again...