An excerpt from a big project I have been working on. I would like to see how it fairs in the real world and possibly get some comments and improvements. I understand that the story is not very apparent (or really there at all), but I would like to know how it reads as a first pager. All criticisms welcome, but constructive criticisms most. I hope you enjoy, and if you do or want to read on please comment and let me know!
Stepford Wives and Truffle Queens (Tentative title, but hey it gives you an idea of what it’s all about. Everything about this is fiction: characters, hotels, and crimes etc.)
It was a rancid summer night with the sun already set beneath the moon. The big city had been hung out to dry since noon but like Grandmama used to say, it was too little too late. Everything was still damp. It wasn’t like anybody had a choice about it; it was the weather after all. And after all the complaining and mopping up with handkerchiefs, whether silken opera cravats or cheap denim coveralls, every man, woman, and child had no choice but to be soaked through with sweat and city juice.
It was the city that made nights muggier, darker, danker. Everything stank. Cigarette Man had just passed his seventh light tonight. He seemed just about to pass out from heat. Over there, Baby Mama coddled her overgrown child and gave Cigarette Man a powdery stink-eye. They appear here every few nights on the clock. I’ve watched them, from my street corner that links Old Joe’s Cobbler’s with the shiny Tiffany’s. I’ve watched them in their spats, calculating the exact moment their washed up marriage will bleach itself dry. It was a marvelous game. And I’ve quite a knack at it, too. Give me a mark, and I can tell you exactly where they are going, what their dreams are and what are their deepest desires. My only secret is to hold my breath and become very very still. So still until I am nothing but two bulging eyes poking through the black. Then I don’t do anything at all. Because all I have to do is watch them. Watch them believe so hard that no one is watching, that whatever rage, guilts and secrets they’ve been saving up all day just comes tumbling out all bare and shimmering into the muggy, obscure air.
She was doing something bad tonight. Baby Blue Kitten Heels that is. She had marched resolutely across the soggy pavements, into my alley, and straight to the back entrance. She wobbled up the steps of the Hotel called Giovanni, and a bit of mud splashed itself onto the neat silk line traveling up her calves. Nevertheless, Baby Blue was a sight for sore eyes. Neat legs, neat hair, neat gloves holding a neat little wicker basket. Swinging in full motion up above her knees was a cloud of matching baby blue summer cotton and taffeta. She would have been a solid girl if it wasn’t for the dreadful smell. It came from the basket she held so tightly that her gloves cut into her pretty fingers. The stench made something of a sink that wrestled any curious bystanders to the side. Even I couldn’t bear it. Had to cover my nose holes and eye holes with my shirt like some criminal; it was so bad. How’d it smell? Well, nothing like you upstanding citizens of the state will ever bear wits to encounter. Nasty, it was. Like rotting organics, gym socks, and day old sex all rolled up into one. It was like something past its due. Something dead.
Baby-Blue knocked on the door three times on top and one time down. Then she stood there with her kitten heels tap-tap-tapping away against the moldy concrete. Cigarette Man gave her a wink then, but that just made her tap even harder and faster. It was a shame I didn’t take a chance to wink at her either. Cause Baby Blue. She was cute nervous.
Note: Shorten Baby Blue Kitten Heels to B.B. Keels.