La ville-lumiere
Aug. 19th, 2008 12:55 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
zonkapasser.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writers_loftHey. So I just joined and I'm going to post the first little bit of what I'm writing currently. Have also written a bit more, but won't post that until I'm entirely happy with this - there's a lot of work needed doing on both sections I think! Any comments/criticism greatly appreciated. Thanks! :)
We were sat at the bar, in the bar, a mere speck on the Parisian map, overshadowed by la tour Eiffel; l'Arc de Triomphe; le musée de Louvre. Metaphorically speaking, of course - the dingy back street on which we found ourselves was miles from the centre of the city, dark and cobbled and dappled with moonlight. Vastly different to the near-luxury (for English backpackers, anyway) we had spent the two previous nights in. Inside the bar was much the same, though a reddish glow hung in the air, and instead of the slightly stirring sound of the wind a French track crackled quietly in the background. I recognised the song. Clay Phillipe, perhaps. My companion hummed absentmindedly.
...a une poule dans un bar, offrait champagne et caviar... After sitting restlessly for half an hour or so, nursing our drinks (my sixth decidedly lukewarm French beer, his fourth decidedly small measure of gin and tonic), talking idly about something I can't remember, a girl approached us. She wasn't conventionally pretty; rather, she had pretty features. Her nose somewhat resembled a razor blade, while her large, almost moon-like eyes seemed to significantly soften it. Her voice, too, was a little unorthodox; slightly gravelly and deep, but undoubtedly feminine nonetheless. She said: "Excuse, you can buy me a drink?"
Jack said: "What?"
She said: "You can buy me a drink please?"
Jack said: "Er, okay." He began to (rather reluctantly) fish his wallet from his pocket, when she placed her hand on his, and held up her purse in her other hand. He looked at her blankly, and mumbled a "Je te ne comprends pas. I don't understand."
The girl smiled at him, waved at the barmaid (who, unlike this girl, was astoundingly attractive - I had subtly been trying to catch her eye for a while now, but she refuted my predatory advances, pretending to be more interested in serving the other customers), and ordered two whiskies, before extracting a five-euro note from her purse and handing it over.
"I didn't want one anyway," I muttered sulkily, as the girl pulled up a barstool, which was made of wood and had a red leather-esque seat like all the others; we had noticed that most of the barstools in Paris were designed similarly, and it struck us as odd. English barstools were usually made from some sort of shiny metal (steel, maybe? Aluminium?) with a black seat that portrayed the utmost in cool. Somehow, though, these seemed nicer. More honest, perhaps? I couldn't say why, only that it was so. Jack gave me a grin and a wink as the girl turned her back on me and began speaking to him. The barmaid, to my surprise (and slight annoyance) gave me a pitiful half-smile. I shrugged and smiled back regardless. Smooth.
The bar began to empty, until only the four of us remained. Miss Barmaid began stacking chairs onto the tables around us, in an obvious hint that it would be nice of us to leave, in order to let her get home early for once. I glanced at the clock. One-forty five. I looked into the bottom of my beer vessel. A dirty white froth lined the glass; light brown translucent dregs lay at the bottom. I tipped it down my throat, replaced the glass on the counter and pushed it back. The next second, Miss Barmaid came and retrieved it, this time with no hint of a smile and no intention of serving me another. I looked over at Jack, where he was kissing the girl, as he had been doing for the past hour or so.
"Jack mate," I slurred. It was the first thing that had been said for this amount of time. It sounded a little weird. "Time to go?" He held up one hand behind Fabienne's (that was her name, we'd learnt) back, before gently pushing away from her. She leant forward into him, clearly not having had enough.
"I've got to go. We'll probably drop in here another time, tomorrow? See you later." He kissed her left cheek, then her right one, and swung his bag over his shoulder.
"You leave?" she enquired, somewhat dumbly, or so I thought.
"Yes." Jack nodded. "Thank you for the drinks."
"Yeah, thanks for the drinks." He elbowed me in the ribs. I said, "Bugger off. Are you really going to let her get home by herself now?"
"Come on, she's fine."
"How do you know?"
"I thought you wanted to go."
"Right. Let's go then. You're still a bastard."
"Never bothered me before."
We left the bar, and strode down the uneven stones, shuddering in the abrupt darkness as Miss Barmaid switched off the lights in the bar behind us. Our individual drunken states almost required the helpful propping-up of a (sober) friend, but our companionship was not quite at that stage yet. Instead, we stumbled along awkwardly under our own strain, feeling uncomfortable enough to maintain a metre distance between us, but inebriated enough not to have to make small talk. We blundered through the streets towards the hostel. It didn't seem to me that we'd be continuing much more of our journey together.
We were sat at the bar, in the bar, a mere speck on the Parisian map, overshadowed by la tour Eiffel; l'Arc de Triomphe; le musée de Louvre. Metaphorically speaking, of course - the dingy back street on which we found ourselves was miles from the centre of the city, dark and cobbled and dappled with moonlight. Vastly different to the near-luxury (for English backpackers, anyway) we had spent the two previous nights in. Inside the bar was much the same, though a reddish glow hung in the air, and instead of the slightly stirring sound of the wind a French track crackled quietly in the background. I recognised the song. Clay Phillipe, perhaps. My companion hummed absentmindedly.
...a une poule dans un bar, offrait champagne et caviar... After sitting restlessly for half an hour or so, nursing our drinks (my sixth decidedly lukewarm French beer, his fourth decidedly small measure of gin and tonic), talking idly about something I can't remember, a girl approached us. She wasn't conventionally pretty; rather, she had pretty features. Her nose somewhat resembled a razor blade, while her large, almost moon-like eyes seemed to significantly soften it. Her voice, too, was a little unorthodox; slightly gravelly and deep, but undoubtedly feminine nonetheless. She said: "Excuse, you can buy me a drink?"
Jack said: "What?"
She said: "You can buy me a drink please?"
Jack said: "Er, okay." He began to (rather reluctantly) fish his wallet from his pocket, when she placed her hand on his, and held up her purse in her other hand. He looked at her blankly, and mumbled a "Je te ne comprends pas. I don't understand."
The girl smiled at him, waved at the barmaid (who, unlike this girl, was astoundingly attractive - I had subtly been trying to catch her eye for a while now, but she refuted my predatory advances, pretending to be more interested in serving the other customers), and ordered two whiskies, before extracting a five-euro note from her purse and handing it over.
"I didn't want one anyway," I muttered sulkily, as the girl pulled up a barstool, which was made of wood and had a red leather-esque seat like all the others; we had noticed that most of the barstools in Paris were designed similarly, and it struck us as odd. English barstools were usually made from some sort of shiny metal (steel, maybe? Aluminium?) with a black seat that portrayed the utmost in cool. Somehow, though, these seemed nicer. More honest, perhaps? I couldn't say why, only that it was so. Jack gave me a grin and a wink as the girl turned her back on me and began speaking to him. The barmaid, to my surprise (and slight annoyance) gave me a pitiful half-smile. I shrugged and smiled back regardless. Smooth.
The bar began to empty, until only the four of us remained. Miss Barmaid began stacking chairs onto the tables around us, in an obvious hint that it would be nice of us to leave, in order to let her get home early for once. I glanced at the clock. One-forty five. I looked into the bottom of my beer vessel. A dirty white froth lined the glass; light brown translucent dregs lay at the bottom. I tipped it down my throat, replaced the glass on the counter and pushed it back. The next second, Miss Barmaid came and retrieved it, this time with no hint of a smile and no intention of serving me another. I looked over at Jack, where he was kissing the girl, as he had been doing for the past hour or so.
"Jack mate," I slurred. It was the first thing that had been said for this amount of time. It sounded a little weird. "Time to go?" He held up one hand behind Fabienne's (that was her name, we'd learnt) back, before gently pushing away from her. She leant forward into him, clearly not having had enough.
"I've got to go. We'll probably drop in here another time, tomorrow? See you later." He kissed her left cheek, then her right one, and swung his bag over his shoulder.
"You leave?" she enquired, somewhat dumbly, or so I thought.
"Yes." Jack nodded. "Thank you for the drinks."
"Yeah, thanks for the drinks." He elbowed me in the ribs. I said, "Bugger off. Are you really going to let her get home by herself now?"
"Come on, she's fine."
"How do you know?"
"I thought you wanted to go."
"Right. Let's go then. You're still a bastard."
"Never bothered me before."
We left the bar, and strode down the uneven stones, shuddering in the abrupt darkness as Miss Barmaid switched off the lights in the bar behind us. Our individual drunken states almost required the helpful propping-up of a (sober) friend, but our companionship was not quite at that stage yet. Instead, we stumbled along awkwardly under our own strain, feeling uncomfortable enough to maintain a metre distance between us, but inebriated enough not to have to make small talk. We blundered through the streets towards the hostel. It didn't seem to me that we'd be continuing much more of our journey together.
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Date: 2008-08-19 01:19 am (UTC)2. I'm not really sure what you're trying to say or establish here, but I didn't really get a feel for much of anything (granted it is a fairly short piece). If you're attempting to establish the charaters or get the reader at all intrigued about this girl that's buying them drinks, you might want to include some of what actually happens between them. You've skipped over what would potentially be the most interesting and informative part