Excerpt from a book I'm working on.

[Gobbo]

I realize you don’t know the context, but any criticisms would be appreciated. I think what I write is usually amazing so I need someone to break the bubble if they can

***Whip it, whip it good

Of course the only thing on my mind was the reason I had been called by the Executives, I figured it must involve Chad as they had never inquired for weed before.

I ‘hmm’ed out loud to myself as I watched the ascending numbers being illuminated on the elevator’s interior positional indicator. Once again in the Dasderry building of the Hatefire complex I watched as ‘12’ was illuminated and then darkened again as the elevator passed Chad’s floor. The Executives were on the top floor – 26. When the elevator came to a stop at 26 and the doors didn’t open I gave the ‘open doors’ button a press.

No luck.

“Please Stand by…” a neutral voice said over a speaker hidden somewhere.

“Stand by where?” I asked, jokingly and received no response.

After a couple minutes the doors finally opened to reveal the luxurious penthouse office of the Executives. The entire floor was basically one big room with the only two other doors besides the elevator’s located on the left hand side. I presumed these were the private offices of the two Executives who were seated on a large couch which was located in front of about 8 different flat screens suspended on the far wall directly opposite of the elevator. The right hand wall is a ceiling to floor window overlooking Los Angeles, a simple bar with a couple stools was placed near the far corner.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick, come on in” said the same Executive who had spoken at the Caveman’s Club as he heard the doors opening. Both of the men stood from the couch and made their way over to me. “Care for a drink?” the suit said, alluding to the bar. The other just watched me; he didn’t seem overtly evil or suspicious – simply silent. His coal black eyes glistened with an interesting intensity befitting of such a demeanor.

“Umm…no thanks” I said taking a few steps into the room and looking around non-threateningly. I noticed a small coffee table in front of the couch and saw a few joints lazily sitting around, half smoked. “I’ll go for a smoke though…” I said making my way past them. It occurred to me I was being a little rude but I didn’t particularly care for these men and had the feeling I was being used anyways.

“Go for it…” the one Executive said glancing to the other for a second.

I walked over and bending down slightly, I picked up the fattest of the dead cylinders. I took a lighter out of my pocket and engaged in some recessitation; the unconscious plant pieces coughed up a bit of smoke before starting to breath again. I took a few hard puffs and as my eyes started to water a bit I nodded in the direction of the suits, holding up the joint. “Not too bad!”

“Glad you approve” the old man responded. He, like his silent partner didn’t seem to be saying much; both of them remained standing, watching.

“Listen, fellas” I started, setting down the slightly more finished joint back into the ashtray on the coffee table. “Why am I here exactly?” I finished the question as I started over towards the large window serving as the right wall. “Nice view” I added; the different structures in the city below pulsating with electricity and unison in the evening light.

The suits followed me over to the window. “You’re here… admittedly as a pawn of sorts, but the end purpose is because we care about Mr. Richards. We want you to see that.”

“You want me to believe that you really care about Chad, I think that’s bullshit. Sorry… just being honest.” I studied the Executives closely; despite the joints on the table I could not tell if they were high. Even now, I cannot recall their appearance other than the fact that they are old men in suits. Elusive and deceptive, the end goal of their intelligence bothered me.

“You may see us as uncompassionate…” he said, gesturing at his partner before continuing, “But we can still appreciate things, ideas… lives even.”

I glanced out the window again, unconvinced. The fading natural light was being replaced by artificial; details were being replaced by shimmering fascination. I found the high odd; the darkness behind the night seemed to reach up from the background to tease with my mind, hinting at things unknown.

”You see, Chad is going down a path that has no future for him, at least as far as his career is concerned.”

“Why is that?”

“I think you have a pretty good idea why, but the new album pretty much sums it up.”

“Is this about money?”

“Exactly”

“But I don’t understand, this album is selling better than any of J2’s previous ones. The city’s rap scene was stagnant before this; it had been for quite some time in fact.”

“As Mr. Richards would say, you have to think long term. You see if we can effectively tell people what good music is, rather than let them decide for themselves, we know we’ll be the ones the public is buying from. The thing you don’t realize is that once J2 has gained enough popularity Mr. Richard’s ideals would eventually cause him and James to leave the Hatefire group and start his own independent record label.”

“And the powers at be – our bosses, they would never let that happen.” the other executive said very cautiously, as if these powers themselves were around. His intense eyes stared into mine as if to force the information into my thought process.

I refrained from speaking for a moment, slightly shocked at the first vocalization from the other suit. “So you’re trying to save Chad’s career, but really you just want to continue exploiting him.”

“Everyone gets exploited” the second suit had fallen silent again as the first one resumed his usual talking. “Chad is a very smart man, but he is not exempt from this rule. His idealistic freedom of speech intelligence shit is not going to become a reality. Anyone in power knows that a dumb public is a predictable public. Unfortunately for him we hold all the keys to all the doors. We will either make him give up his ambitions in the end, or he will end up dead.”

“You would kill a pillar of brilliance and motivation just for money? You can live with that?”

“Like I said, it’s out of our hands.” The Executive motioned for me to follow him and his partner to the flat screen TVs on the wall. “Mr. Richards is going up a force so fierce there is simply no possibility of success. Behind all of the shootings and award show theatrics there is a media system that is too complete for one man to take on by himself.”

The mute suit reached down to the coffee table to pick up the television remote. Pressing a button the eight screens flashed into existence. The HHN news network desk was displayed with one of the prototypical anchors spouting off 24 hour news, or lack thereof.

“You’re about the witness true power. Perhaps then you can convince Mr. Richards of the futility in his quest.”

I listened to the newscaster:

“…and in breaking news, mastermind producer Chad Richards has been arrested this afternoon. In a strange twist it seems that Mr. Richards was picked up by police for harassing a young woman with a loaded gun in downtown Los Angeles. This comes just weeks after the launch of hip hop artist J2’s new record which deals with a more intelligent, spiritual approach to life compared to some of his past records. Some are claiming that this new music trend was nothing more than an empty publicity attempt…”

[tentative]

The plot flows OK, but your protaganist doesn’t seem quite real. On the one hand, he is obviously a lowly employee, on the other, he is a bit too ‘familiar’ with the execs. His conversation is perhaps too peerish? It just seems out of place when talking to obviously life-and-death powers. Maybe create a back story that allows him the freedom to be casual with the execs?

[Gobbo]

Tent,

Thanks for your comments.

He doesn’t actually work for the company, he’s a drug dealer.

The main character is privvy to a fair amount of stuff so the whole casual thing isn’t so odd. He knows he’s just being used as a messenger and so doesn’t care about how he acts so much. Maybe I should add that in a bit better…

hmmm

[tentative]

Oops, the lack of a back story caused me to make assumptions. So, what is the connect between Chad and the dealer? Drugs? brothers-in law?

I’ll assume a preliminary chapter where the main characters are introduced and their relationships are given a little structure. It sounds like Chad is going to have some ‘buck the sytem’ issues to face. The creative license issue: risk all to create something new or suck up to the system with clever innovation? Forge the soul or sell it? I’ll root for the creator - but I’ll put my money on the innovative whore.

JT

[someoneisatthedoor]

Gobbo,

I can see some similarities between this and another piece of yours that we’ve discussed - about the TV presenter. Like me you have an interest in media culture and a lot of motivation to write about it so I do appreciate at least some of what you’re doing here. I have a few comments, as per usual you can take them or leave them.

“Umm…no thanks” I said taking a few steps into the room and looking around non-threateningly. I noticed a small coffee table in front of the couch and saw a few joints lazily sitting around, half smoked. “I’ll go for a smoke though…” I said making my way past them. It occurred to me I was being a little rude but I didn’t particularly care for these men and had the feeling I was being used anyways.

Something about this doesn’t ring right - this drug dealer is meant to be quite aloof - no? This last sentence is a little long and uncomfortable, I’d rewrite it something like ‘it may have been rude but I didn’t really care, I felt that these men were probably using me anyways.’ If the protagonist is aloof then he wouldn’t give away his feelings so blatantly and clearly, or so I’d think.

The suits followed me over to the window. “You’re here… admittedly as a pawn of sorts, but the end purpose is because we care about Mr. Richards. We want you to see that.”

“You want me to believe that you really care about Chad, I think that’s bullshit. Sorry… just being honest.” I studied the Executives closely; despite the joints on the table I could not tell if they were high. Even now, I cannot recall their appearance other than the fact that they are old men in suits. Elusive and deceptive, the end goal of their intelligence bothered me.

2 things

1. Much better composition of the character revealing his feelings in this final sentence. Sums up motive, context, implication with very few words.
2. I wouldn’t have the character actually say ‘sorry’. Maybe have him shrug apologetically, not like a Parisian mime artist, obviously, more subtle than that. You’ve set up the execs. effectively but your protagonist’s responses could do with being more physical and less verbal, according to my taste/way of writing this sort of thing.

“As Mr. Richards would say, you have to think long term. You see if we can effectively tell people what good music is, rather than let them decide for themselves, we know we’ll be the ones the public is buying from. The thing you don’t realize is that once J2 has gained enough popularity Mr. Richard’s ideals would eventually cause him and James to leave the Hatefire group and start his own independent record label.”

I’m not sure about the exec being so straightforward as to say ‘if we tell people what to buy’. I think that an exec would probably mask it in other language, talking about ‘constructing public demand’ or some similar euphemism for telling people what to like. I think that you’re making it a little easy for the audience to understand what you’re doing and also doing your own vocabulary a disservice. Again, this is an issue of taste and if you like it as it is then leave it alone.

“And the powers at be – our bosses, they would never let that happen.”

Again, I’m not sure an exec would use such a centre-Left journalise term as ‘the powers that be’. Again, it’s up to you.

The interruption of the newscast at the end is a good full stop on the scene, reminiscent of Wag the Dog…

[Gobbo]

Siatd,

thanks for the comments.

I agree with pretty much all that you said. I’m definately going to need to go through and do a bit of editing.

Tentative,

Here’s another chapter that might give some some context a bit better.

As you can see I use ILP members names for most characters besides gerald and chad

***Present Context

He sat there in a stereotypical large swiveling armchair smoking a very large marijuana cigarette.

“A hundred and fiddy bones and they’re just gonna keep crackin into my wallet. I’m the truth, that’s what it’s all about bitches, I’ll put you in stitches, jealous of my rhymes so your blood itches. See I think, in the rhyme that’s why they’re always on time, once I smoke this down I’ll be shut like a mime.” The smoke from the joint poured down the young rap superstar’s body, a river of herbal dust that hazily reflected the image of this particular fellow known as J2.

“Are you done, Jason?”

“Eat a fuckstick nigga, read the headlines! We just dropped another bomb, we are the game right now!”

I sat on the couch which rest against the corner of the office; mildly amused at another one of J2’s all too familiar self proclamations. The office was not in fact J2’s but that of his manager, Chad, who was standing and pacing about the room with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes, we are but we won’t be for very long if you don’t learn to settle down a bit” the Hatefire employee lectured to the both of us as he paced about the room, stopping every now and then to pick a nonexistent piece of something off of his emasculate suit. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re involved in a pretty big game right now, why do you think they call it the rap game, James? The weed is fine, it helps with rhyming but I mean the all the coke the other week? You were fucked for 2 days after that, and for god’s sake get off the E because if you start feeling my Buddha statue one more time I’m going to tell Tina that photo is altered and that you don’t have a 10 inch cock.”

“Fuck that nigga, that shit helps me cope mang. I mean how am I supposed to bang all these hoes without the coke? The E helps me with the crowd. So long as I got my mouth we’z all set boi. I’m the truth”

“So don’t bang so many women. It’s time to get over the whole celebrity thing here James, if you want to stay in this game you need to stay sharp and level headed. If you play your cards right, stay on good terms with the press and let me do the rest I’ll make you the millions you want to eventually retire with… I mean you do want to retire at some point right?”

James paused at this question for a moment before putting down the joint and standing from Chad’s armchair. The young rapper’s baggy clothes were so baggy they almost looked like robes; NBA apparel for protection from the urban elements. “Lemme tell you something son, there ain’t ever gonna be a day while I’m still breathin this hear smokey breath when this game ain’t gonna need me. I ripple oceans at a time with my rhythm and tongue, get out the spotlight cause I’m the chosen one”

Chad shrugged, “James, I’ve said this countless times but you are the present, you speak as the ideas scroll through your mind in clever verses, and while I can appreciate your gift, it alone does not pay the bills.” He tilted his head down slightly to look J2 in the eyes. “And you know it”

“Fuck you nigga, why you gotta hate like that… cold ass shit” J2 pouted, turning back to the chair to lean down and pick up the enormous joint.

“Heh, you couldn’t provoke a fight if you actually tried, most people can’t even understand what you’re saying anyways” Chad went on, starting to make his way back around to his armchair. “Now, why don’t you pay Gerald for this fine chronic he has delivered as always.” The taller of the two men exchanging paths in front of the armchair, Chad Richards had gone to College with me. From a particularly rough part of Vancouver he was, quite simply the most determined man I had ever known. He always seemed to ‘get’ the world; I never recalled him having a trouble with the white, or any other culture. He fit in everywhere. He was an athlete but also a business/philosophy double major. Chad was quite good at what he did, and this was, apparently, manipulating the minds of the public.

“Yo Nigga, das dat bills for you” J2 told me simply before tossing me a rolled up pile of bills held together by an elastic band. He stood there, continuing to look at me, puffing away on the joint. I had known James for almost as long as Chad had, which was probably about 5 years or so at the time. Me and Chad had always stayed in touch because he often bought off of me. Despite the amount of time he spent with the rapper they were never all that close, let alone me with J2. “Yo, where do you get this shit from anyways? I smoked a whole lot of light grizzle in my day but I ain’t never come across anything like dis right dare” he said exhaling some smoke and staring at it, transfixed.

I stood, placing the roll of money into one of my inner pockets. “I grow it actually, I won’t get into the operation, but I stumbled across the recipe when me and some friends were tripping on acid down in South America. A farmer found me talking to one of his chickens about the nature of being and perspective so he…decided to give me his recipe - said he liked my style.” I let my mind return to the event for a second, “Yeah… he was a very wise man.” I said with a small shrug, satisfied enough with the description.

Chad glanced over for a moment before going back to looking through different documents on his desk.

“Yo this shit, is fit for my mouth to salivate some spit. I smoke out the soul, I toke on this pole, this shit is serious like a cancerous mole.” J2 said as he turned on his lyrical tap for a moment, inhaling on the joint and dancing about the office. “Yo C-money, Gerald’s tripping on rainbow molecules down in the south, and you trippin over a few dozen lines” the undersized rapper said absently as his oversized clothes flailed around him, his undone dew rag twirling about his head leaving momentary trails in the smoke cloud around his body. He continued to dance, rapping under his breath to himself.

Chad was about to answer but I decided to save him the trouble. “Well, that was a while ago, J” I started as I began to walk towards the door, my flip flops making little clicks as the sweat that had been accumulated on my feet while I was sitting down suctioned on every step. “Things have changed now that we’ve all officially entered the work force. This isn’t like back when we’d watch you perform at the club, we have careers to worry about now.” I explained, reminiscing a bit. I reached the door and putting a hand on the knob I turned back to Chad and J2, “Alright fellas, take care. You know where to find me”

“Later G”
“Talk to you later Gerald”

[Gobbo]

Siatd,

thanks for the comments.

I agree with pretty much all that you said. I’m definately going to need to go through and do a bit of editing.

Tentative,

Here’s another chapter that might give some some context a bit better.

As you can see I use ILP members names for most characters besides gerald and chad

***Present Context

He sat there in a stereotypical large swiveling armchair smoking a very large marijuana cigarette.

“A hundred and fiddy bones and they’re just gonna keep crackin into my wallet. I’m the truth, that’s what it’s all about bitches, I’ll put you in stitches, jealous of my rhymes so your blood itches. See I think, in the rhyme that’s why they’re always on time, once I smoke this down I’ll be shut like a mime.” The smoke from the joint poured down the young rap superstar’s body, a river of herbal dust that hazily reflected the image of this particular fellow known as J2.

“Are you done, Jason?”

“Eat a fuckstick nigga, read the headlines! We just dropped another bomb, we are the game right now!”

I sat on the couch which rest against the corner of the office; mildly amused at another one of J2’s all too familiar self proclamations. The office was not in fact J2’s but that of his manager, Chad, who was standing and pacing about the room with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes, we are but we won’t be for very long if you don’t learn to settle down a bit” the Hatefire employee lectured to the both of us as he paced about the room, stopping every now and then to pick a nonexistent piece of something off of his emasculate suit. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re involved in a pretty big game right now, why do you think they call it the rap game, James? The weed is fine, it helps with rhyming but I mean the all the coke the other week? You were fucked for 2 days after that, and for god’s sake get off the E because if you start feeling my Buddha statue one more time I’m going to tell Tina that photo is altered and that you don’t have a 10 inch cock.”

“Fuck that nigga, that shit helps me cope mang. I mean how am I supposed to bang all these hoes without the coke? The E helps me with the crowd. So long as I got my mouth we’z all set boi. I’m the truth”

“So don’t bang so many women. It’s time to get over the whole celebrity thing here James, if you want to stay in this game you need to stay sharp and level headed. If you play your cards right, stay on good terms with the press and let me do the rest I’ll make you the millions you want to eventually retire with… I mean you do want to retire at some point right?”

James paused at this question for a moment before putting down the joint and standing from Chad’s armchair. The young rapper’s baggy clothes were so baggy they almost looked like robes; NBA apparel for protection from the urban elements. “Lemme tell you something son, there ain’t ever gonna be a day while I’m still breathin this hear smokey breath when this game ain’t gonna need me. I ripple oceans at a time with my rhythm and tongue, get out the spotlight cause I’m the chosen one”

Chad shrugged, “James, I’ve said this countless times but you are the present, you speak as the ideas scroll through your mind in clever verses, and while I can appreciate your gift, it alone does not pay the bills.” He tilted his head down slightly to look J2 in the eyes. “And you know it”

“Fuck you nigga, why you gotta hate like that… cold ass shit” J2 pouted, turning back to the chair to lean down and pick up the enormous joint.

“Heh, you couldn’t provoke a fight if you actually tried, most people can’t even understand what you’re saying anyways” Chad went on, starting to make his way back around to his armchair. “Now, why don’t you pay Gerald for this fine chronic he has delivered as always.” The taller of the two men exchanging paths in front of the armchair, Chad Richards had gone to College with me. From a particularly rough part of Vancouver he was, quite simply the most determined man I had ever known. He always seemed to ‘get’ the world; I never recalled him having a trouble with the white, or any other culture. He fit in everywhere. He was an athlete but also a business/philosophy double major. Chad was quite good at what he did, and this was, apparently, manipulating the minds of the public.

“Yo Nigga, das dat bills for you” J2 told me simply before tossing me a rolled up pile of bills held together by an elastic band. He stood there, continuing to look at me, puffing away on the joint. I had known James for almost as long as Chad had, which was probably about 5 years or so at the time. Me and Chad had always stayed in touch because he often bought off of me. Despite the amount of time he spent with the rapper they were never all that close, let alone me with J2. “Yo, where do you get this shit from anyways? I smoked a whole lot of light grizzle in my day but I ain’t never come across anything like dis right dare” he said exhaling some smoke and staring at it, transfixed.

I stood, placing the roll of money into one of my inner pockets. “I grow it actually, I won’t get into the operation, but I stumbled across the recipe when me and some friends were tripping on acid down in South America. A farmer found me talking to one of his chickens about the nature of being and perspective so he…decided to give me his recipe - said he liked my style.” I let my mind return to the event for a second, “Yeah… he was a very wise man.” I said with a small shrug, satisfied enough with the description.

Chad glanced over for a moment before going back to looking through different documents on his desk.

“Yo this shit, is fit for my mouth to salivate some spit. I smoke out the soul, I toke on this pole, this shit is serious like a cancerous mole.” J2 said as he turned on his lyrical tap for a moment, inhaling on the joint and dancing about the office. “Yo C-money, Gerald’s tripping on rainbow molecules down in the south, and you trippin over a few dozen lines” the undersized rapper said absently as his oversized clothes flailed around him, his undone dew rag twirling about his head leaving momentary trails in the smoke cloud around his body. He continued to dance, rapping under his breath to himself.

Chad was about to answer but I decided to save him the trouble. “Well, that was a while ago, J” I started as I began to walk towards the door, my flip flops making little clicks as the sweat that had been accumulated on my feet while I was sitting down suctioned on every step. “Things have changed now that we’ve all officially entered the work force. This isn’t like back when we’d watch you perform at the club, we have careers to worry about now.” I explained, reminiscing a bit. I reached the door and putting a hand on the knob I turned back to Chad and J2, “Alright fellas, take care. You know where to find me”

“Later G”
“Talk to you later Gerald”

[Gobbo]

Alright, this is late in the story where the character is beginning mount the climatic hill. Heh… what he doesn’t know is that it’s rigged and the chips are explosive.

Bang! Materialistic point!

Anyways… criticisms appreciated. Especially in the first couple paragraphs… my descriptive motor wasn’t running too well there.

Also, as a sidenote: Wouldn’t it be cool if books were published with the colored dialogue? Especially for lengthy paragraph writers…

***Let It Ride

I hung up my cell phone with a graceful tap of the end button. Despite the rather voluptuous effects from a special strain I had saved for the event I was furious that I couldn’t get through to Chad or J2 somehow. After slamming my index into the small quadrilateral at the end of each of my previous failed attempts however, I had learned to accept that they likely were not going to pick up. I surmised that perhaps the Executives had implanted some sort of blocking device, or perhaps had even gotten to Chad already. As for J2, I could never get a hold of him in the first place – still though, I had to try.

The rain that night was particularly heavy; the clear liquid was elastic, ends weighted by gravity. With no wind to disturb them each droplet followed the next in pursuit, eager to meet their destiny with some surface or another. Whatever cloud that hung overhead had been waiting quite a while to use the bathroom and it did so with silent intensity.

“That’ll be 17.01” the cab driver asked, looking back to me for a second with his hand still on the wheel. He brought the car underneath the large parking balcony of the Broca Hotel, ceasing the onslaught of water onto the top of the car which came to a rest beside a valet attendant. Behind him the influx of people arriving were clearing the security gates and beginning up the red carpet into the hotel itself. I saw a few familiar faces amongst the differing bodyguard details. I had to laugh as a few of the massive men with painted on seriousness held elegant lace umbrellas for their star employees as the human aesthetics reached for award show passes in purses and got out of limousines and cars.

“Thanks” I said, handing him some bills and climbing out of the cab. I paused to observe the different cars slipping into the dry haven from what seemed like a literal wall of water. The wound up, inexperienced attendant took a step towards me before stopping mid-stride and returning to his previous position as the cab pulled away and he realized his error. I grinned slightly at the big game jitters and moved to the outer most security gate, pulling my pass from my inside tuxedo pocket I flashed it to the large man who nodded silently, giving me a brief stare in my narrowed eyes before pulling back the red rope to allow me access.

The Broca Hotel and Casino was one of the finest in the city and its large seating room made it ideal for the awards show this year. The media crowded around everyone, intertwining the scene with microphone garland and flashbulb lights. This was a nationally covered broadcast. I took a moment to stand and look up at the towering cement Christmas tree this whole event would revolve around through a rectangular pane of glass which comprised the half of the balcony closest to the hotel itself. It seemed to have a few floors above the initial, massive base which narrowed in size as the levels ascended. On top of this ziggurat foundation the building finally just turned into an even tower which rose fifty stories or so. Like any social decoration there were those angelic ornaments which seemed to shine so much brighter; I was not one of those and thus was able to slip through the press commotion and make my to the end of the red ribbon and through the large, gold rimmed set of doors into the Casino floor.

With some time to kill before the awards and with no real idea of what to do in general with regards to my situation I headed for the roulette table. This particular one was vacant except for the operator. She was a tall, skinny redhead; boney arms reached down to grip the padded edge of the table with an aged intensity.

“Heya Stranger” she said in an odd manner, giving me a wink.

“Uh…Hello” I responded, giving a generic smile to, who to me at the time seemed like, an authentic stranger.

“You don’t remember me do you?” she more or less stated, laughing a little.

“I suppose not…” I shrugged, trying to breach the wall to my memory with no avail.

“You’re the dealer, Gerald right?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, you sold me some weed a while ago. It’s funny that you should come here because I smoked before this shift. I don’t usually get high at work but with the awards and all…” she trailed off, shrugging and glancing around the bustling atmosphere powered by the hypnotic batteries of the casino sounds.

“I’m fucking ripped” I declared, establishing a consensual psychological base in which to communicate from.

“So what brings you to my table?”

“I don’t know, you know?” I reached into my tuxedo breast pocket again and pulled out my wallet from which I pulled out a couple bills. “More and more I’m finding that question to be irrelevant” I told her, putting the money down on the velvet. “It’s more about the moment, and what you do with that conceptualization.”

“Change, 100” she shouted out, taking the money and replacing it with a couple chips. “How long is a moment?”

“As long as it needs to be I guess…” I responded, picking up a chip and pondering the question. The clay circle was animated with a glimmering Broca Hotel design.

“So then how can you live in the moment? I mean, if you never really know when it will end?”

“Maybe the same way we live without knowing when we will die?” I explained, pondering the markings on the velvet surface even though I knew them well.

“Everyone does that regardless though.”

“Like I said, what you do with that conceptualization.”

“Hmm…life is about how you live, before you die. Sounds easy enough” she nodded slightly, half pursing her lips and half grinning at the half joke. “So you gonna make a bet?”

The thought of a bet seemed to halt me. “It seems to me that an obvious question now becomes: Can you ‘engage’ gambling? Or Luck as it were.”

“No more than the moment I would imagine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, luck isn’t an employee at the casino, it’s everywhere; it’s what drives the universe.”

“The roulette wheel drives the universe? I would have thought it was the other way around…”

“Make a bet, find out” she coerced in an almost instructional manner.

“Alright…” I breathed, looking over the grid. After a couple seconds of pointless deliberation I decided on 26.

“Order out of Chaos” she stated putting the small metal ball against the grooved wood and launching it around the circumference of the device. “You can’t get into gambling any more than you could get into driving a car. There’s always going to be things beyond your control” she explained as we watched the ball circle around. “It’s what you do with your body – the car, that is important to the ride.”

“So what sound I be doing with my body?”

“Hey, you brought this up. I think you’re doing an alright job yourself.”

“You think?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes…when you actually realize you’re within a car to begin with you can poke your head out the window for a second, to get a better look.”

The ball started to slow down and she waved her hand over the table, protecting it with a secret Casino force, “No more bets.”

“Hey, wanna bet it lands on 26?” I asked, eagerly, joking. “So what kind of ‘better looks’?”

She laughed. “Well, maybe that guy pulling out of his driveway ahead…” She paused as the ball was about to come to rest.

26. I stared at the number, expressionless. It was almost anticlimactic.

“…or the next turn on luck’s road.” She finished, her eyebrows raised. “Very nice Gerald, very nice.”

“How Pragmatic”

“Think of luck as a stopsign on the highway. The road you’re on never changes but for that brief instance, you can catch a glimpse of your speed. At any moment your car could lurch forwards with incredible acceleration but it doesn’t”

I nodded in agreement as I glanced over to another table where a middle aged man let out a brief exclamation of angst before getting up from his chair and walking away, staring at the intricate design of the psychologically soothing carpet.

“For some, snake-eyes” I said, more to myself than anyone.

“Indeed. Some allow their windows to get too smudged…” she started, but just sort of trailed off. “Alright, here you go Gerald. All changed up.” She had replaced my small pile of chips with another pile of a different color; black with yellow and white stripes. “Feel like testing your luck again?”

“Nah, I should be getting to the awards.” I laughed a little. “Surprisingly enough, I think my friend’s life is in danger and I need to go save him from the thread I’m ignorant to.”

“Only at the Casino…”

[PhilosophyGirl]

You lost me when you named one of your characters, Chad.

[Gobbo]

So that’s why you’ve never made it through a book…

Chad is easy to type, I can always change the names.

[Impenitent]

@Old_Gobbo

Chad is easy to type, I can always change the names.

just like the democRATS tried to change the chads in florida.

-Imp

[Gobbo]

Imp,

What are you going on about now?

[Impenitent]

the 2000 election that the democRATS tried to steal

-Imp

[Gobbo]

What are you talking about?

I don’t know where you’re going with this… but the democrats didn’t steal anything. They didn’t do anything and just let Bush and his brother go about their business as they actually did steal the election. Unless in your twisted mind ‘trying to steal’ means trying to get legitimate votes to be counted, even if it was half assed.

If you’re not kidding I’ve love for you to show me some sort of evidence that shows that BOTH the parties in a Presidential Election tried to illegally undermine the electoral process, cause there’s enough incriminating evidence against the Repubs for days.

But this is creative writing…

[Impenitent]

you were going on about changing chads… the only chads that were a problem were the chads that the democRATS couldn’t count as votes for algore

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U.S._presi … tion,_2000

answers.com/topic/united-sta … ction-2000

thegreenpapers.com/News/20001204-1.html

but you are right, this might be better done in social sciences…

-Imp

[Gobbo]

So are you merely pointing this one aspect by the democrats, or are you asserting that the Republicans didn’t really do anything wrong and won fairly?

I find that events like this, and 9/11 are flooded with so many different occurances and sources for debate and misinformation that this choas gives rise to a order. The media can shape this confluence of forces into whatever truth they so desire. Those backing Bush are simply more adept at this than Gore, and so we saw the public acquiescence towards the ‘truth’ that Bush won the election. We don’t know who won because of all the stuff that happened that day… and that’s my point – it was planned out.

Truth is no longer a hazey rhetoric circling around a conception, (IE: Imp farted today), but, at least when it comes to politics, the very approach to information processing itself (IE: Gobbo’s View of the world).

There are no democrats and there are no republicans. There are just people content to be labelled as such. It’s all the same system. A unified mass and politics just doesn’t work, there has to be these divisions, but it doesn’t mean we should we be weary of each other moreso than that which drives politics more than the people – money. That is what you need to understand.

[someoneisatthedoor]

@Old_Gobbo

So that’s why you’ve never made it through a book…

You had me in stitches with this. A frying pan to the face response.

Also, as a sidenote: Wouldn’t it be cool if books were published with the colored dialogue? Especially for lengthy paragraph writers…

Yes, it would be very cool. A trick I used in my infinished cyberpunk novel about VR was to have all the normal narrative in one font, the dialogue in another font, periods in VR in another font, reflections on the past in another, moments from the future being described before they happen in another. You could always use that to create a similar sort of impact - there are a bucketload of free fonts available.

“That’ll be 17.01”

• seems an odd amount for a taxi fare - surely the guy would round it up or down…

I had to laugh as a few of the massive men with painted on seriousness held elegant lace umbrellas for their star employees as the human aesthetics reached for award show passes in purses and got out of limousines and cars.

• very long sentence, essentially two sentences masquerading as one. I think that you should consider splitting it.

The media crowded around everyone, intertwining the scene

• perhaps ‘infiltrating’ rather than ‘intertwining’, implies a little more suspicion, a little more ‘edge’.

This was a nationally covered broadcast.

• just a bit of a clunky phrase. ‘Coast to Coast’ is one suggestion that comes to mind, but I just think you can do better than this sentence, which stands out because it is short.

I was not one of those and thus was able to slip through the press commotion and make my to the end of the red ribbon and through the large, gold rimmed set of doors into the Casino floor.

• should read ‘made my way to the end of the red ribbon’

With some time to kill before the awards and with no real idea of what to do in general with regards to my situation I headed for the roulette table.

• why ‘no real idea’? That’s a bit of a cliche, and I think that you can come up with a phrase that tells us a bit more about the specific mindset of the character.

---

From then on until the end, i.e. the dialogue at the roulette table, I think that it’s fine. I’m still not sure what is actually happening in this book, and how this relates back to the previous sections, but I’m enjoying it and fully expect a complimentary copy when it’s finished.

[Gobbo]

@someoneisatthedoor

@Old_Gobbo

So that’s why you’ve never made it through a book…

You had me in stitches with this. A frying pan to the face response.

Also, as a sidenote: Wouldn’t it be cool if books were published with the colored dialogue? Especially for lengthy paragraph writers…

Yes, it would be very cool. A trick I used in my infinished cyberpunk novel about VR was to have all the normal narrative in one font, the dialogue in another font, periods in VR in another font, reflections on the past in another, moments from the future being described before they happen in another. You could always use that to create a similar sort of impact - there are a bucketload of free fonts available.

“That’ll be 17.01”

• seems an odd amount for a taxi fare - surely the guy would round it up or down…

Google 1701

I had to laugh as a few of the massive men with painted on seriousness held elegant lace umbrellas for their star employees as the human aesthetics reached for award show passes in purses and got out of limousines and cars.

• very long sentence, essentially two sentences masquerading as one. I think that you should consider splitting it.

yep, you’re right.

The media crowded around everyone, intertwining the scene

• perhaps ‘infiltrating’ rather than ‘intertwining’, implies a little more suspicion, a little more ‘edge’.

Intertwining because I refer to the hotel as a christmas tree, with the garland and ‘stars’. I wanted a bit of a religious feel to the awards.

This was a nationally covered broadcast.

• just a bit of a clunky phrase. ‘Coast to Coast’ is one suggestion that comes to mind, but I just think you can do better than this sentence, which stands out because it is short.
  
  Yeah this one bothered me… it think I just wrote it so I could move on. I’ll fix it up.

I was not one of those and thus was able to slip through the press commotion and make my to the end of the red ribbon and through the large, gold rimmed set of doors into the Casino floor.

• should read ‘made my way to the end of the red ribbon’

nod

With some time to kill before the awards and with no real idea of what to do in general with regards to my situation I headed for the roulette table.

• why ‘no real idea’? That’s a bit of a cliche, and I think that you can come up with a phrase that tells us a bit more about the specific mindset of the character.

[b]Gerald is actually a borderline static character. Throughout the whole thing he’s actually quite dumb to ‘what should be done’. It’s a bit hard to explain precisely but his life is a metaphor for the catalyst nature of information (drugs included). They are just stagnant thought without the will and consciousness.

The whole thing is an allusion for the individual mind with Chad as a willpower of sorts, J2 as societal conception of truth.
[/b]

From then on until the end, i.e. the dialogue at the roulette table, I think that it’s fine. I’m still not sure what is actually happening in this book, and how this relates back to the previous sections, but I’m enjoying it and fully expect a complimentary copy when it’s finished.

[NoelyG]

Hi OG,

Overall I liked it. The only thing I have a problem with is that sometimes you become overly descriptive and to me it seems a little forced. In particular:

The rain that night was particularly heavy; the clear liquid was elastic, ends weighted by gravity. With no wind to disturb them each droplet followed the next in pursuit, eager to meet their destiny with some surface or another.

I tend to prefer more subtle descriptions and sometimes your descriptions come across as kind of jarring. That’s just my personal taste though, and others may like it.

[Gobbo]

jarring

Hey Noely, thanks for your comments. Can you elaborate on jarring?