Z PYRO

K i have a class called Fiction Writing, and I have a 10-page paper due on wed. The story is supposed to give believeable dialogue, ground the reader in the setting, etc. It's still rough, so don't worry about pointing out the little mistakes and whatnot. The board wont let me post it all in one post, so it'll be in 2. And there will be no tl;dr, you don't want to read a lot, don't bother.


EDITED 2-28, 10:34



Just Drive

The engine turns over and over, but won’t start.
“****,” I mutter under my breath. I pull the keys out of the ignition, and get out of the car. The car that refuses to start is a 1966 Ford Mustang. I had picked the car up for $500, and I think that have been a little too much. The outside of the car is about every ugly color possible. There’s gray primer, red primer, black primer, and some patches of off-white, pastel yellow and dark green here and there for some variety. There was one car here, but it had parts from just about every wrecked Mustang in the state. The interior is not much better off. The tweed seats are torn to hell, so that the yellow foam pad is more visible than the actual tweed covering it. The dash has more cracks than the salt flats in Nevada, and the rearview mirror is duct taped to the window. While I couldn’t do anything about the looks of the car yet, I did improve upon the mechanical aspects of it. The stock 289 cubic inch motor was pulled out faster than you can say “horsepower,” and a “slightly” bigger 351 cubic inch engine was put in its place. A friend of my uncle’s had helped me modify the engine compartment to seat the big block engine, cutting and welding the shock towers to compensate for the exhaust headers. Everything was going well until I tried to start it. For some reason, the damn thing just didn’t want to run. So here I am in my driveway on a Saturday morning, wondering what the problem was. My blue shop jumpsuit is covered in black splotches of oil and other car fluids from projects past. I step over the huge mess of tools on the ground, and get tripped up by a small red toolbox.
“This piece of **** runnin’ yet?” I hear behind me.
“Here, lay down behind it and I’ll show your smart ass,” I reply, and turn around to see my best friend, Ernie. Wearing baggy blue jeans and a black t-shirt with a rock band on it as usual, in this case Slipknot. He’s a kinda chubby Mexican guy, not much taller than I am. That means he’s short too.
“Ha, the only thing you’d do is put it in neutral and let it roll over me. I thought you were good at workin’ on cars? What the hell’s takin’ so long?” He kicks one of the old, worn out tires.
“Hey watch it, you’re going to make the damn thing fall apart. So what the hell do you want, to bug me and distract me?”
“You know it, loser.”
I bend back over the fender of the car to find out what the problem is. Ernie reaches in front of me and grabs the loose wire that’s supposed to connect the coil to the distributor.
“Kinda need spark to run a car, smart guy.”
“Yeah yeah, kiss my ass,” I retort, and grab the wire from him. I push the end onto the coil where it should have been, and check the engine compartment over to see if I had any other simple problems. “So where’s your truck? I would’ve heard that thing pullin’ up.”
“My blue one? It’s in the shop.”
“I thought you already had it in the shop.”
“I did, but the thing fell off the lift.”
“What? How in the hell does a big ass truck fall off of a lift?” He shrugs his shoulders.
“I dunno, they’re dumbasses. But now it’s getting turndowns put on it, so it’ll be even louder. Like yours should be, if you ever start the thing.”
“Well if you weren’t here distracting me,” I mumble, and open the door of the car. It squeaks in protest, like an old man’s knees on a cold morning. “Damn thing is gonna fall off now, watch.” Ernie laughs as I put the key in the ignition. “Here goes,” I say, and turn the key to “Start.” The engine turns over and over, but still doesn’t start. Then I realize I had forgotten to turn on the fuel pump. I flip the switch on the dash. “Fuel would help too,” I say and roll my eyes at my forgetfulness. I try to start the car again, and the big block engine roars to life after two rotations. Exhaust roars from the tailpipes, and after a short while the engine comes to a low, loping idle. The engine makes the entire car shudder, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. The smell of fuel-rich exhaust reaches my nose, and I step out of the car.
“Sounds nice!” Ernie says, having to raise his voice over the thunder coming out of the exhaust pipes. I grab a screwdriver from the tool-cluttered ground, and lean back into the engine compartment to adjust the carburetor. I turn the adjustment screw until the idle smoothes out, then start to pick up the mess of tools on the ground. I pull off my shop overalls and throw it into the garage, revealing my standard attire; black muscle shirt, black jeans. Ernie helps me put the tools in the old, beaten-up toolbox in the garage, and I close the garage door.
“Let’s go for a drive,” I say with a smile as I slam the hood closed. He and I get in the car, doors squeaking all the way. I push the brake and clutch pedals to the floor, and release the emergency brake. I let off of the brake, and the car rolls backwards into the street. I turn the cracked old steering wheel and face the car down the street. The wheel requires a bit of effort, due to the lack of power steering. The car is shaking with the engine, and I push the shifter into first gear. I look over at Ernie with a grin as I push on the gas pedal while releasing the clutch. I accidentally give it too much gas and let the clutch out too fast, and spin the tires a little bit. “Oops,” I say as we both laugh at me, and the car speeds down the street. The wind rushes in through the open windows, and it blows through the hairs on my arms that are raised on the goosebumps. I get chills from the feeling of having hundreds of horsepower at my command, and from the special connection between man and machine.
I make the turns to get out of my neighborhood and reach the freeway. I give the car full throttle on the onramp, and the engine screams as we’re forced backwards into our seats. My heart is pounding, and I feel euphoric. I shift gears and the car jerks when I release the clutch. I watch the speedometer needle in my peripheral vision, and it climbs so fast that it scares me. I realize that I’m going 30 miles per hour over the speed limit, and let off of the gas pedal. I shift into overdrive and cruise down the freeway at a safer speed.
I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket, and I fish it out. I open the clamshell-style phone, and the screen tells me that it’s my ex-girlfriend Natalie calling me. This name gives me mixed feelings. We’ve had a long and tumultuous relationship, and our feelings for each other are complex, to say the least. I press the green OK button on the phone, and bring it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” she says. The sound of her voice triggers emotions in my mind, some good, some bad.
“Hi. What’s up?”
“Just bored. What are you doing?”
“Driving my car with Ernie.” I look over to him and he gives me a look that seems to say, “Hey, you know what she does to you, why are you still talking to her?”
“Oh, you got it running finally? You hafta come over and let me see it.”
“Oh, I guess,” I mutter.
“So you comin over now?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Kay, I’ll see you in a bit. I love you,” she says. I slightly hesitate to reply, unsure of myself and how sincere these words are now.
“Love you too.”
“Bye.” She hangs up, and I close my phone. I look at Ernie, and he looks out of his window.
“Shutup,” I say to him, and he just laughs. “She wants to see the car now that it’s running.”
“Oh,” he says. He sticks his arm out of the window and idly lets the wind blow his hand up and down. “Why do you still talk to her?”
“I dunno. I mean, I love her to death, that’ll never change. She just gets pissed at me for such stupidass things, so I get pissed at her, and we’re always arguing. I love being around her when we’re not fighting, just makes me feel happy and wanted.”
He just nods his head, as if to say “I see.”
I get off of the freeway at the exit to go to Natalie’s. While stopped at a stoplight, a guy in a riced-out Honda pulls up next to me. He has the typical erector-set wing, fart-can muffler, ridiculously huge tachometer, and false sense of speed. I look over at him, and he revs his engine at me. Both Ernie and I laugh at him, and I rev back, the thunder of my engine drowning out the flatulent sound of his. I yell at him, “Sounds like you’re missing a few cylinders there, big guy!” He doesn’t respond, simply scowls at me and stares at the red light. I look at Ernie and hit him in the chest with the back of my hand in a “watch this” gesture. The light turns green, and he takes off. I decide to be nice and give him a little head start, then drop the clutch, push the accelerator in, and take off like a bat out of hell. The car feels like it’s been shot out of a cannon, and the engine’s roar is nearly deafening. I fly by the Honda like it’s standing still, and as I pass him, I lean out of the window and act like I’m paddling a canoe past him. After going nearly twice the speed limit, I let off of the gas, and a few seconds later the Honda flies by. Ernie and I are still laughing at him as I turn onto Natalie’s street.

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Z PYRO

. I coast down the street because most of the people who live on it are old people, and they don’t take kindly to people hot-rodding it through their neighborhood. We pull up in front of Natalie’s house, and I give the engine a few shots of gas to get her attention. I shut the car off and we get out to walk to her front door. The front yard has a few garden areas, and her mom has stuffed them with various flowers and other plants. Her house looks a lot better than mine, which has more weeds than actual plants in the garden.
Natalie opens the door and comes out to greet us. She’s in her typical around-the-house look; gym shorts and a tank top, hair in a ponytail. While not as attractive as she is when she’s dressed up, I’m still awed by her beauty. This is one thing that makes it so hard to move on and let go of our failed relationship.
“Well it still looks like crap, but at least it runs,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say and roll my eyes at her typical comment. She comes to me and hugs me, and it feels good. The embrace reminds me of good times, of times past, and makes me forget her remark about my car. Her dog comes bounding out of the door, a little Dachshund wiener-dog named Mickey. He runs to Ernie, his tail wagging so fervently that he wags his entire rear end. He’s carrying one of his chew toys, a plastic neon green squeaky-ball. The squeaker had long been rendered squeakless by Mickey’s constant chewing. Ernie grabs the slobbery toy and throws it across the yard, and chases Mickey as the dog runs after it. Natalie and I are left standing in her driveway, and we look into each other’s eyes. Hers are a mixture of green and brown, mine are just plain ****-brown. When I look into her eyes I feel an overwhelming sense of security and love.
“So what have you been up to?” she asks.
“Same ****, different day. School, work, that’s about it.”
“Yeah, same here, except my job is the stables and my horsies. I can’t believe you got your lip pierced!” I had forgotten about the piece of steel going through my lower lip, I had already gotten used to it being there after only a week. She grabs my jaw and moves my head to the side to examine me. She’ll probably be some kind of veterinarian some day.
“Yeah, I always wanted one, and I when I got my tattoo filled at the place I had originally gotten it, the guy said he’d pierce my tongue for fifteen bucks. But everyone has their tongue pierced, so I got this instead. It’s called a labret.”
“Oh,” she replies. I know she doesn’t like it at all. I hadn’t gotten it while we were together because she had an ex-boyfriend who had facial piercings and he physically abused her. She said getting my tongue pierced would remind her of him, so I didn’t get any piercings.
“I miss you.” This makes her smile and blush.
“I miss you too, hun. But you know we were having troubles, and we don’t have any time for each other.”
“Yeah, I know.” I don’t say it, but in the back of my mind I doubt her sincerity. “K, well I should get goin’, I have a ten-page paper that’s due Wednesday, and I haven’t written a thing yet.”
“Ok. Call me later?”
“Sure, if I ever finish my paper.” We hug again, and I watch her turn and walk back into the house. Ernie throws Mickey’s ball through the front door, and the dog comes running from the front yard, his short little legs nothing but blurs. I wave goodbye to her, and Ernie and I walk back to my car. We get in, and I start the car up. Dust and fallen leaves are scattered by the gust of exhaust that shoots from the tailpipes, and I drive away.
We drive to the local Sonic Drive-Thru, a retro-style burger joint. I park in a stall and roll down the window to order. While waiting, I turn on the CD player in the car. I hadn’t tried to listen to it while driving, because the car was just too damn loud and I didn’t feel like buying new speakers anytime soon. The CD in the player is that of the band Taproot, a very kick-ass band.
“Heh, I listened to Taproot the last time Nat and I broke up,” I say to Ernie. “Good times,” I say sarcastically.
“I don’t know why you put up with that ****, Mike. You deserve better.”
“I know. I guess I’m just a glutton for punishment or something. But at least I’m not going all emo and cutting myself and ****.”
“Haha, yeah good point.”
We get our food from the waitress on roller skates, and begin stuffing our faces.
“You got a sourdough burger again? Jeeze, you get the same thing every time.” Ernie says to me while eating his plain-Jane cheeseburger.
“Hey, sourdough burgers kick ass. At least I get something a little more exciting than a cheeseburger.” We eat silently for a few minutes, as the music changes from Taproot to an Italian opera song, La Donna e Mobile, sung by the famous Pavarotti.
“What the hell is this?” Ernie says with a bewildered look on his face.
“It’s good music, shut up and eat.”
“Heh, you’re weird Mike.”
“Yeah, I know I am. Who else do you know gets a Punisher tattoo and a lip piercing, just for the hell of it?”
“Yeah, good point,” he laughs. We finish our burgers and leave the trash on the tray for the waitress to pick up when she rolls by again. I drive out of the lot, making sure to rev my engine up enough to make everyone’s heads turn. We drive back to my house, and I park the car in the driveway. Ernie stretches when he gets out, as if we were driving for hours.
“You need to get more sleep, you’re always tired.” I tell him.
“Well look who’s talking, Mr. I-can’t-stay-up-in-my-morning-class.”
“Yeah, and I’ll be up ‘til 3 in the morning writing this dumb paper.”
“Well I’ll let you get started on your homework. Call me later.” He went to his truck, a pewter S-10 pickup. It was a lot smaller than his big blue truck, but he still drove off in it like it had the same amount of power. I laugh at his trying to show off, and walk into the house and into my room.
My room is a mess, as usual. Dirty clothes are thrown on the floor, various papers litter my desk. I grab the armful of clean clothes off of the office chair in front of my desk, throw them on the bed, turn on my computer and sit down. As soon as I begin to type my essay, my phone rings in my pocket again. It’s Natalie again, and I wonder why she’s calling me again.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” she replies. “We need to talk.”
If there are four words that strike fear into the heart of a man in love, it’s those words. They never mean anything good, and conversations started with them almost always end in a broken heart. I immediately start to worry, and all of the worst-case scenarios run through my head.
“Um…ok,” I say with reluctance. I want to hang up the phone, to prevent myself from hearing what comes next.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore. Like, at all. I can’t hug you and kiss you without feeling like I’m getting myself into the same destructive situations all over again, and I don’t like it. I’m sorry babe.”
“Oh,” I reply, not knowing what to say. There are a million things running through my head, but I can’t seem to figure out what I want to say to her. Then it comes to me, the only thing left for me to say to her. “I love you.” I close the phone and hang up before she has a chance to answer. I put the phone on my desk, grab my keys, and walk out to my car.
My drive gives new meaning to the word “freeway.” I feel free from the problems of teenage and young adult life, and it gives me a feeling of total control. I forget about girlfriends, essays, jobs, and all of my stress goes away, if just for a short while. Sometimes I wish navigating life were as easy as driving a car down a straight, open highway; just set the cruise control, and make tiny corrections every so often. But it isn’t, and it won’t ever be. So when I need to get away, I’ll just drive.

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Christian

tl:dr

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Christian aka STUDCAKES

Z PYRO

lol, come on you have nothing better to do, READ IT!

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sNoW PIrAnHa

that aint 11 pages and it aint fictional. You have a labret and a tattoe and you know it. You made a thread about it so it must be true! Rawr I'm tired, good luck with your assignment.

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"I have no mercy or compassion in me for a society that will crush people, and then penalize them for not being able to stand up to the weight"- Malcom X

Z PYRO

lol, it's only 9 pages right now (double-spaced)

and it's fictional cuz none of that stuff actually happened well, it kinda did, but not like that

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braka

didn't read it, but when i do, there better be some manlove!

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I wear my scars like rings on a pimp.

Rest in piece little one...

Z PYRO

just to clear things up...
the point isn't to be fictional like aliens and monsters and stuff. that's genre fiction. this is supposed to be literary fiction, it's "character driven as opposed to plot driven. Literary fiction studies the human condition--the examination od a particular character within a specific situation, the choices made of that character within a specific situation, the choices made of that character, why those choices were made, and how those choices change the character." that's why everything isn't fake. the situation is kinda real, but the actual circumstances are fictional

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Ch3f

I got as far as the plumber's crack metaphor and quit.

BakerSkate

OWWW it hurts my eyes

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Shocker.
Virtue
Hedlox 2
CP trig
HE bolt
Ton Ton Frame

Alias Timmy
Contract KillerR.I.P Tanner, kant_think's brother

Z PYRO

I should have known to post it somewhere other than where most of the people who try to read it are of the 6th grade reading level....

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Phantom13

I'm in AP english and I have to tell you, it's good but your introduction sucks. I hate it and hate it when people use those amateur introductions. Like "The gun shot a bullet" use something that grabs attention, but eases into the story more

Ch3f

If you seriously want me to critique your story, I'll do it. But to be honest, you aren't going to like me after I get done, because I'm most certainly the strictest editor you'll ever find. The good thing is, you'd get an A on your paper...bad news is that you'd have to rewrite a good bit of it.

mike

rory096

Nice story. Your teacher accepts curses?

NYY

a lot of good writing teachers do because some characters are better developed by the way they speak, and cursing is a good way to show certain traits in a character

ElementPB126

Hey I read the whole thing and I think its pretty good but i'm curious as to what the climax / ending is going to be b/c it doesn't seem to be going anywhere. Other than that its good. Post the rest when you are done.

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rory096

Yeah, I agree, but I didn't know teachers allowed it.