Post by areis on Jul 8, 2011 11:18:01 GMT -5
I am done (I think 
) revising this story for now. I have no idea if it is any good, because only a few people have read it, and I haven't really gotten a critique on it yet. I really want to get some unbiased opinions. I mostly want people to be honest, and tell me what I need to change, without being mean, of course. If you don't like it, you don't like it, and thats fine. Having said that I always like a compliment! 
Ok, I have reformated it and I think I will spit it into 2 parts so it isnt to hard to get through. I also attached the whole thing to this post (not sure how that works). Should I post the second part on this same thread later? Or should I start a new thread?
Thanks!
**************************************************
The centimeter long scar through the musician’s eyebrow made strange shadowy shapes around his left eye.
I tried not to stare, even though the darkness surrounding his face intrigued me.
It must have been the lack of lighting in the bar that had drawn his facial features so deeply, making him seem like he belonged in a different world then me.
Another class altogether.
I averted my eyes to my hands.
I already felt like an imposter sitting on the rickety wooden barstool at the bar facing the endless array of intoxicants. I was just past my 21st birthday and this bar on Jasper St was the first I had ever been in since then the day I turned.
Unfamiliar smells and darkness surrounded me, almost drawn to my newness. As if they were surprised to find such virgin senses among the discerning nostrils and urbane observations of the regulars.
The dull lights scattered around the room didn’t illuminate the dark, they intensified it. Crowding the brightness of the bar lights into submission, and adding to the unknown quality the bar seemed to posses.
It was warm, and I felt sticky under my armpits. I was gross; hot and damp all over. I looked back at the musician. As I watched him all these feelings were intensified. I tried not to stare at him, and instead watched the “u” flicker in the lighted Budweiser sign above the bar.
The bartender asked me slowly, for the second time, whether I wanted something to drink. I shook my head at his words and at the disorientation of my thoughts.
A moment later I swallowed my nerves through a dry throat, realizing I hadn’t had much to drink that day. I turned to tell him I had changed my mind, but he had already left to attend a bosomy blonde with a huge shoulder bag on the other side of the bar.
I became aware of the musicians movements across the room. He settled two barstools away, and I could hear him as he talked to a man about the merit of one kind of guitar string over another.
As I discreetly stared from behind my long side swept bangs he looked over in my direction and caught my eye.
I wanted to smile, to assure him I belong here.
Instead, I looked at my hands again, measuring their smallness against the grains of wood in the bar.
I looked bashfully through my eyelashes a minute later. He had looked away.
I relaxed.
I had heard about the bar from a coworker at the coffee shop where I mixed mocha’s and brewed aromatic coffee beans all day.
She hadn’t really been talking to me, but I listened anyway as she told her weekend adventures to the assistant manager. I watched as he nodded slowly, a subtle but approving smile on his lips.
She complained with a knowing air about a bar on Jasper St. The drinks were too expensive, she had said, but at least there was nightly live music.
I remembered the feelings she evoked in me as she recalled venturing into worlds that I could tell she belonged in. The tiny fissure in my mind leftover from the few times I had seen music live as a teenager widened. It left a gap; a quiet need.
Earlier that night I had decided to go to the bar on Jasper St. To fill that crevice full of memories so it wouldn’t ache as much.
I listened to the music, and it had felt too alive for me to even fathom. It burned at me like freezing skin slowly taking on heat.
It still burned.
It competed with a different kind of heat. A wet fire that ignited my nerves, dampened my spirit, and collected wetness in the creases of my body. It slowly spread through my veins and zapped me of my already sputtering courage.
I stretched my fingers on the bar, fighting the feelings by remembering the earlier nights music. I recalled the feel of the percussion aligning with my heart beat.
) revising this story for now. I have no idea if it is any good, because only a few people have read it, and I haven't really gotten a critique on it yet. I really want to get some unbiased opinions. I mostly want people to be honest, and tell me what I need to change, without being mean, of course. If you don't like it, you don't like it, and thats fine. Having said that I always like a compliment! 
Ok, I have reformated it and I think I will spit it into 2 parts so it isnt to hard to get through. I also attached the whole thing to this post (not sure how that works). Should I post the second part on this same thread later? Or should I start a new thread?
Thanks!
**************************************************
The centimeter long scar through the musician’s eyebrow made strange shadowy shapes around his left eye.
I tried not to stare, even though the darkness surrounding his face intrigued me.
It must have been the lack of lighting in the bar that had drawn his facial features so deeply, making him seem like he belonged in a different world then me.
Another class altogether.
I averted my eyes to my hands.
I already felt like an imposter sitting on the rickety wooden barstool at the bar facing the endless array of intoxicants. I was just past my 21st birthday and this bar on Jasper St was the first I had ever been in since then the day I turned.
Unfamiliar smells and darkness surrounded me, almost drawn to my newness. As if they were surprised to find such virgin senses among the discerning nostrils and urbane observations of the regulars.
The dull lights scattered around the room didn’t illuminate the dark, they intensified it. Crowding the brightness of the bar lights into submission, and adding to the unknown quality the bar seemed to posses.
It was warm, and I felt sticky under my armpits. I was gross; hot and damp all over. I looked back at the musician. As I watched him all these feelings were intensified. I tried not to stare at him, and instead watched the “u” flicker in the lighted Budweiser sign above the bar.
The bartender asked me slowly, for the second time, whether I wanted something to drink. I shook my head at his words and at the disorientation of my thoughts.
A moment later I swallowed my nerves through a dry throat, realizing I hadn’t had much to drink that day. I turned to tell him I had changed my mind, but he had already left to attend a bosomy blonde with a huge shoulder bag on the other side of the bar.
I became aware of the musicians movements across the room. He settled two barstools away, and I could hear him as he talked to a man about the merit of one kind of guitar string over another.
As I discreetly stared from behind my long side swept bangs he looked over in my direction and caught my eye.
I wanted to smile, to assure him I belong here.
Instead, I looked at my hands again, measuring their smallness against the grains of wood in the bar.
I looked bashfully through my eyelashes a minute later. He had looked away.
I relaxed.
I had heard about the bar from a coworker at the coffee shop where I mixed mocha’s and brewed aromatic coffee beans all day.
She hadn’t really been talking to me, but I listened anyway as she told her weekend adventures to the assistant manager. I watched as he nodded slowly, a subtle but approving smile on his lips.
She complained with a knowing air about a bar on Jasper St. The drinks were too expensive, she had said, but at least there was nightly live music.
I remembered the feelings she evoked in me as she recalled venturing into worlds that I could tell she belonged in. The tiny fissure in my mind leftover from the few times I had seen music live as a teenager widened. It left a gap; a quiet need.
Earlier that night I had decided to go to the bar on Jasper St. To fill that crevice full of memories so it wouldn’t ache as much.
I listened to the music, and it had felt too alive for me to even fathom. It burned at me like freezing skin slowly taking on heat.
It still burned.
It competed with a different kind of heat. A wet fire that ignited my nerves, dampened my spirit, and collected wetness in the creases of my body. It slowly spread through my veins and zapped me of my already sputtering courage.
I stretched my fingers on the bar, fighting the feelings by remembering the earlier nights music. I recalled the feel of the percussion aligning with my heart beat.
Attachments:
