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Posted By: Magus Jan 26, 2005 - 06:47 pm

This is the beginning of a fantasy novella I'm working on. I'm unsure of how it's going and so have decided to put this part up for critique.

It takes place in a bar in Illinois during a large blizzard. It may not seem like fantasy, but it becomes that later on. The patrons slowly begin dying due to the cold and being trapped in the building. As they die they have dreams or, rather, visions. They see scenes and events from other stories I have planned (some short stories, some novellas and some novels). They see these things and are given fantastical views into other worlds. I thought it was kind of a cool way to tie in all of what I have planned.

So bear with this first part, if you would, that has no bearing with fantasy but, when the other parts are posted, will. It's 1,190 words long. And I'd like to know how I've done so far. Thanks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was nine o’ clock on some miserable Saturday in January. The regular crowds been there since five, the early crowd since before noon. And then there was the third crowd, the one that never seemed to leave at all.

A flickering neon sign outside of John’s Tavern promised “Everything except the Gin is hot!” But it was the middle of the coldest winter Illinois had seen since time out of mind. The gin was practically frozen while everything else was simply “On ice”.

Twilight had begun to set in on the outside world. The sky had grown soft with mixing golds and crimsons. At least, that’s how those inside the pub imagined it behind the whipping snow and frozen sleet.

Truth was, those in the bar knew nothing of the outside. They hardly registered that it was snowing at all, let alone that the sky had become a billowing vortex of white death.

John’s was a small bar in a small speck of a town, Gossamer’s Creek. There couldn’t have been more then a dozen people living in the town as a whole. Half worked in the post office while the other half lived off of Uncle Sam’s generosity.

John’s consisted of a small, cramped “Common” where patrons would drink their troubles down and forget about life for a while. It also had a backed up bathroom that badly needed a plumber.

The ceiling hung perversely low. Patrons would have to bend their heads practically horizontal while walking. Even when they sat most couldn’t keep their heads vertical.

The windows were all made of dark stained glass arranged in a checkerboard pattern of dark, bronzy maroon and an even darker navy blue. A thick film of dust coated the inside glass. Thee outsides were too badly weather stained to be of any use.

The light of day, even in the peak of summer, refused to enter the drab establishment. It would stand outside all day in angry protest and would conspire with the moonlight to do the same.

There was, as a matter of fact, only one light in the entire pub, the one directly over the bar. And what a light that was! It was a colossal beast of iron framework that hung from a tarnished brass chain. The monstrosity gave off a dim light that seemed more appropriate for archaic candles then modern electronics. As a consequence the corners of the bar belonged to darkness and the bar itself belonged to the shadows.

Jonathan King was the owner of John’s Tavern. He was a middle-aged man whose hair was beginning to hint of his advancing age. His cold blue eyes saw everything in his bar while his sharp ears picked up everything from the mundane footfall to the not so rare catcall. He leaned on the bar, more and more favoring his right leg, and filled orders from bears to bisques.

The ancient jukebox in the corner of the room skipped a verse, the another, then another. Dave Roberts turned around on his stool and gave it a hard kick and got it back on track.

“Stop it Davey! You break it you buy it.”

“It’s already busted, John! Why don’t you get a new one?”

“Maybe it’s ‘already busted’ ‘cause you keep kicking it!”

Dave turned back around and downed the rest of his bear. No sooner had he drunk he had he already motioned for another.

“Miller, John. Miller.”

“I hear ya! No need to repeat yourself.” He said, filling a mug from the tap, tipping it slightly so the foam stays at a minimal. He forcefully set it in front of Davey.

“And how will you be paying for the beer, friend?”

“Same as always. Put it on my tab.”

“Your tab, your tab… All I ever hear from you is ‘Put it on my tab’. What the Hell are you going to do when I call that in?”

Davey cracked a slightly buzzed smile. “Why, declare bankruptcy of course.”

“BAH! What am I going to do with you, Dave?”

“Discharge me like the Navy did?” He said, cracking another wry smile.

“Sure. Why the Hell not?”

John Turned around and rested his shoulders on the edge of the bar. He took inventory of the two unfamiliar faces in there that night. Unfamiliar faces were an uncommon occurrence in any small town bar like this. It was far off the normal routes of travel, almost an hour in the back roads off of I-95. This was one of those places that depended on repeat business for it’s meager, almost nonexistent, profits.

The first was a businessman in a navy blue shirt and crimson necktie. He was nursing a beer in one hand while dragging on a joint in another. The second was a woman in her thirties who wore a red shirt and a white skirt. She was shouting in his ear about Bush’s tax cuts while he just sat there and slowly got stoned.

A little ditty sprung up in John’s head. The harmonica was playing, accompanied with the harmonica. And Billy Joel had just began to sing:
“And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned.

Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinkin' alone.”

He raised his voice to a whisper he himself could hardly hear and mused to himself, “la la-la, de de-da. La la, de de-da, da dum.”

“Would you cut that racket out for Christ’s sake!?” Paul shouted from behind him.

John turned around with a start. He face had gone a deep shade of scarlet from embarrassment at his private concert being not just listened in upon, but interrupted as well.

Paul downed a shot of whisky he had nursed for the past half-hour. He reached behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of it, and poured himself another.

“On your tab, right?”

“Hey, we have a mind reader in our midst; one of those, what-you-call-em’s, telekinetics. Can you read any more of my thoughts?” Paul asked in his half-drunken shout. He never was one to hold his liquor well.

“It’s telepath you drunk. And yeah, I can. But most of what I read is the kind of stuff you’d put on the top shelf when the grandkids come over and visit.”

“Keep it up wise-guy.” He challenged. “Just keep it up and see what happens.”

“Need I remind you that this is my bar? You keep this up and I’ll throw your ass outside in the snow!”

A tense unease hung in the air like a thick fog, obscuring everything in dark shades of gray. The air seemed to be sucked from the very room. A person could actually feel the alcohol working it’s way down a person’s throat and churning in their gut.

“Fine.” Paul said at last with an almost whimsical air about him. “Looks like this little boy will have to behave, if only to save myself the hop to the next bar.”

The patrons relaxed and returned to their drinks. John went about his business behind the bar, cleaning glasses and wiping down the countertop.

Posted By: Neurolanis Jan 27, 2005 - 12:34 pm

Ah, me like. You gotta post more of it, Magus! It's hard to judge so far. It flows nicely, and there are no stops or pauses. (That's good.) It throws you (somewhat) into the bar and you can see and hear what's happening. I do have some points:

1. Two paragraphs in a row start with "John’s" and I would change that for sure.

2.A tense unease hung in the air like a thick fog, obscuring everything in dark shades of gray. The air seemed to be sucked from the very room. A person could actually feel the alcohol working it’s way down a person’s throat and churning in their gut.

This is so much like my own way of writing it isn't funny. Yet, although I thus probably 'shouldn't talk', I think that you should better explain what air being "sucked from the very room" means. Also, a "person could actually feel the alcohol working it’s way down a person’s throat and churning in their gut" just seems sloppy to me. Again, all too me. Still, I have to say you should explain it better. Like: He (Dave) could feel his throat churning in his gut, and by the look of the room, the feeling was mutual. Or something.

3.I have trouble seeing whose point-of-view this is being told from, or through. Dave? John?

I like the way you describe things. Again, very much as I do -- as if this is all happening in a sort of dream. That's my take, anyway. I like it! Like with lines such as the "ceiling hung perversely low" and the "windows were all made of dark stained glass arranged in a checkerboard pattern of dark, bronzy maroon and an even darker navy blue." Me like!

I am interested in this story and you have to post more!

Posted By: Magus Jan 27, 2005 - 01:10 pm

Thanks for the comments and for the suggestions. I'll tweak those two parts strait away.

Who's point of view? Hmmmm... I suppose that it's John. But I don't suppose it will stay as constant as that, if you get my meaning.

This is all I have for the moment. But, when I write more, I'll post more.

Posted By: Bmat Jan 27, 2005 - 01:50 pm

The regular crowds been - had been

Twilight had begun to set in on the outside world. The sky had grown soft with- Twilight had begun, the sky had grown- you may want to vary the wording

Thee outsides- typo

Twilight had begun to set in on the outside world. The sky had grown soft with mixing golds and crimsons. At least, that’s how those inside the pub imagined it behind the whipping snow and frozen sleet. - This whole paragraph needs redoing IMO. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me. Perhaps something like Dusk would have begun with the soft golds and crimsons in the sky, except that the ... no I can't quite think of a way to word it. I know what you want to say- that if it weren't snowing out the sky would have the golds and crimsons, but it doesn't seem to serve a purpose to mention it. It doesn't advance the story, although it does mention the unpleasant weather.

The sky had become a billowing vortex of death? Perhaps the air...

I'm not sure that 12 people would constitute a town. Perhaps a village? Even a village would have more than 12 people...

You started two paragraphs in a row with John's.

The ceiling hung perversely low. Patrons would have to bend their heads practically horizontal while walking. Even when they sat most couldn’t keep their heads vertical. - would the word be horizontally? Even when they sat they couldn't keep their heads upright? This sounds more like a cave than a building. I can't imagine a roof so low that the people had to duck when seated. It would be hard to drink I would think if your head was bent over.


A little ditty sprung up in John’s head. The harmonica was playing, accompanied with the harmonica. And Billy Joel had just began to sing:
“And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned. - it's not clear what is going on- is he listening to the jukebox?- if so that needs to be clarified. So far we know that the ditty "sprang" (not sprung) up in John's head- so that may mean that it is not on the jukebox- and yet Billy Joel is singing- which would mean it is the jukebox. and harmonica accompanied by a harmonica? two harmonicas?


from bears to bisques. beers? and bisques?- aren't bisques kind of fancy for the kind of place that has been described? filthy, dark, backed up toilet- doesn't sound like the kind of place that would serve bisques.

As far as the writing, some tightening and careful thinking about what you wrote would fix it right up. All remarks are MHO.

Now to the story- the premise is most intriguing, and I think you have a good atmosphere described (it just needs tidying up.)

Posted By: Magus Jan 28, 2005 - 01:36 pm

Hehe... I meant accompanied by the piano. I can't believe I got that messed up! It is my favorite song, after all. And I'll make it clearer that it's in his head.

Yeah, I can see where such a low ceiling would interfere with the business. I already have an idea how to fix it now and will do it post haste.

Hehe... yeah, I guess that wouldn't be a town. But now that I think of it i wouldn't be a village either. It might be a Township, which is a step below village. Or it might be something else. I'll have to research that a little.

Yeah, I guess bisques would be. I think I'll change that to... burgers. Much more suiting.

Thanks for all of the advice. I'll make changes on the typos and errors now... and then add on to the story.

Thanks again! And post about anything you see. I appreciate it!

Posted By: Magus Feb 12, 2005 - 07:34 am

I'm back. I've written two more sections to the story. I forgot to post the second one here, but I'll post both now.

I'm posting both now. The revised first section will be in white italics. The new parts will come in with normal font and color.

It was nine o’ clock on some miserable Saturday in January. The regular crowd’s been there since five, the early crowd since before noon. And then there was the third crowd, the one that never seemed to leave at all.

A flickering neon sign outside of John’s Tavern promised “Everything except the Gin is hot!” But it was the middle of the coldest winter Illinois had seen since time out of mind. The gin was practically frozen while everything else was simply “On ice”.

Those in the bar knew nothing of the outside. They imagined twilight slowly setting in, bringing with it soft gold and rustic crimson.

And their imaginings were close enough to truths, at least behind the whipping snow and frozen sleet. They hardly registered that it was snowing at all, let alone that the land had become enveloped in a billowing vortex of white death.

John’s was a small bar in a small speck of a township, Gossamer’s Creek. There couldn’t have been more then a dozen people living in the town as a whole. Half worked in the post office while the other half lived off of Uncle Sam’s generosity.

It consisted of a small, cramped “Common” where patrons would drink their troubles down and forget about life for a while. It also had a backed up bathroom that badly needed a plumber.

The ceiling hung perversely low. Patrons would have to bend their heads almost horizontal while walking. They could hold their heads normally while sitting, but not neccesarily the taller patrons.

The windows were all made of dark stained glass arranged in a checkerboard pattern of dark, bronzy maroon and an even darker navy blue. A thick film of dust coated the inside glass. Thee outsides were too badly weather stained to be of any use.

The light of day, even in the peak of summer, refused to enter the drab establishment. It would stand outside all day in angry protest and would conspire with the moonlight to do the same.

There was, as a matter of fact, only one light in the entire pub, the one directly over the bar. And what a light that was! It was a colossal beast of iron framework that hung from a tarnished brass chain. The monstrosity gave off a dim light that seemed more appropriate for archaic candles then modern electronics. As a consequence the corners of the bar belonged to darkness and the bar itself belonged to the shadows.

Jonathan King was the owner of John’s Tavern. He was a middle-aged man whose hair was beginning to hint of his advancing age. His cold blue eyes saw everything in his bar while his sharp ears picked up everything from the mundane footfall to the not so rare catcall. He leaned on the bar, more and more favoring his right leg, and filled orders from bears to burgers.

The ancient jukebox in the corner of the room skipped a verse, the another, then another. Dave Roberts turned around on his stool and gave it a hard kick and got it back on track.

“Stop it Davey! You break it you buy it.”

“It’s already busted, John! Why don’t you get a new one?”

“Maybe it’s ‘already busted’ ‘cause you keep kicking it!”

Dave turned back around and downed the rest of his bear. No sooner had he drunk he had he already motioned for another.

“Miller, John. Miller.”

“I hear ya’! No need to repeat yourself.” He said, filling a mug from the tap, tipping it slightly so the foam stays at a minimal. He forcefully set it in front of Davey.

“And how will you be paying for the beer, friend?”

“Same as always. Put it on my tab.”

“Your tab, your tab… All I ever hear from you is ‘Put it on my tab’. What the Hell are you going to do when I call that in?”

Davey cracked a slightly buzzed smile. “Why, declare bankruptcy of course.”

“BAH! What am I going to do with you, Dave?”

“Discharge me like the Navy did?” He said, cracking another wry smile.

“Sure. Why the Hell not?”

John Turned around and rested his shoulders on the edge of the bar. He took inventory of the two unfamiliar faces in there that night. Unfamiliar faces were an uncommon occurrence in any small town bar like this. It was far off the normal routes of travel, almost an hour in the back roads off of I-95. This was one of those places that depended on repeat business for it’s meager, almost nonexistent, profits.

The first was a businessman in a navy blue shirt and crimson necktie. He was nursing a beer in one hand while dragging on a joint in another. The second was a woman in her thirties who wore a red shirt and a white skirt. She was shouting in his ear about Bush’s tax cuts while he just sat there and slowly got stoned.

A little ditty sprung up in John’s head. The piano was playing, accompanied with the harmonica. And Billy Joel had just began to sing:

“And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned.
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinkin' alone.”

He raised his voice to a whisper he himself could hardly hear and mused to himself, “la la-la, de de-da. La la, de de-da, da dum.”

“Would you cut that racket out for Christ’s sake!?” Paul shouted from behind him.

John turned around with a start. He face had gone a deep shade of scarlet from embarrassment at his private concert being not just listened in upon, but interrupted as well.

Paul downed a shot of whisky he had nursed for the past half-hour. He reached behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of it, and poured himself another.

“On your tab, right?”

“Hey, we have a mind reader in our midst; one of those, what-you-call-em’s, telekinetics. Can you read any more of my thoughts?” Paul asked in his half-drunken shout. He never was one to hold his liquor well.

“It’s telepath you drunk. And yeah, I can. But most of what I read is the kind of stuff you’d put on the top shelf when the grandkids come over and visit.”

“Keep it up wise-guy.” He challenged. “Just keep it up and see what happens.”

“Need I remind you that this is my bar? You keep this up and I’ll throw your ass outside in the snow!”

A tense unease hung in the air like a thick fog, obscuring everything in dark shades of gray. The air seemed to be sucked from the very room. A person could actually feel the alcohol working it’s way down a person’s throat and churning in their gut.

“Fine.” Paul said at last with an almost whimsical air about him. “Looks like this little boy will have to behave, if only to save myself the hop to the next bar.”

The patrons relaxed and returned to their drinks. John went about his business behind the bar, cleaning glasses and wiping down the countertop.

The heater in the corner of the room just behind Davie gave a great belch and an even greater whine. Little trails of hot gray steam trailed up as the heater gave another echoing belch and sputter. The smoke cleared and the disturbance subsided.

“You know you should get that •••••• piece of junk replaced John. Right?” Paul nagged, motioning towards the heater.

“Maybe someday. But today’s not it.”

“Christ John! That thing’s as old as the building! You should have junked it long ago!”

“She’s served this bar since ought two and she’ll serve us proudly through the winter at least. She may even have another year or two in her.”

“Gee, John. I dunno.” Said Eric, an old man who was nursing a beer between his warped arthritic hands. “I doubt that thing will last even the winter. Hell, I ain’t sure it’ll last the month!”

“Well there’s no sense in going out today to get it, is there? At least none with that blizzard coming in. And I bet you that we haven’t even seen the worst of it!”

The heater gave another lurch. It seemed to cry like the birth of something altogether unholy and unwholesome. Then it faded into nothing at all.

“My bet is that it won’t even last us the day.”

The lights, as if on cue, flickered on and off, on and off. They cast eerie shadows across the room that flickered in and out of existence. The distance between the lights going off and coming back on increased until at last they returned to normal.

“That could have been trouble.” Lucile Gonzalas whispered breathlessly as she desperately clutched her Sex on the Beach.

“Nonsense! All of you aren’t listening to me! This bar is just fine! There is nothing at all to worry about.”

An uneasy sense of disbelief and reluctant acceptance sank into the patrons. They couldn’t really leave with such a storm outside, but neither did they entirely trust this “little bar that couldn’t” to keep them safe. But that was exactly what every one of them was doing.

Drinks found their way into mouths once more as words again found their way out. An old boozehound named Walter passed out and slumped out of his chair, spilling a pint of beer he had planned on finishing.

Davie put a quarter in the Juke and it started up “Imagine”. And he started singing along in his own innocent way,

“Imagine there's no heaven,
It's easy if you try,
No hell below us,
Above us only sky…”


Paul downed another shot. He banged his palm twice on the bar and shouted an order to John. “A burger, John! A Burger! Make me a great big ol’ burger and fry it ‘till it’s black as charcoal!” And he stretched his hands out into the comically mime near the size of a sewer lid, showing John how big a “big burger” was supposed to be.

“John! John!? Ya’ hear? Make it as big as my head!”

“I hear you. But I doubt we have enough meat for a head as big as yours.” He smiled wryly and was pleased to hear some lowbrow chuckling. Paul just stared at him as if John was a moron.

“Big!”

John turned around to the stovetop behind the bar and turned the gas on underneath. He got some meat, which he molded into a patty and slapped it on the grill. It began sizzling immediately. John reached behind the bar and pulled out two old pieces of bread which he also put on the grill and some onions as well.

The smell of cooking meat and smoldering onions immediately filled the room. It assaulted the already alcohol-dulled senses of the patrons. Several ran to the poorly outfitted bathroom while others drowned themselves in the bottle. Overall it was good for business.

“That’s it! Cook it till it’s solid black!”

“Paul, I know a man’s gotta have his burger the way he orders it… but I have my doubts if something like that would be edible.”

“Just shut yer trap! I ain’t payin’ you t’be my mother! I’m payin’ you ta make my burger! Now burn it ‘till nothin’s left ta burn!”

Putrid smoke soon began to rise from the meat as it slowly burned and hardened. A greasy sizzling grew and slowly became the only sound that anybody heard, except for the whipping of the ice and snow outside and Paul’s orders for how to properly make his burger.

John scooped up the burger and the onions and put them both on two burned pieces of bread. He tossed it to Paul who went at it like a starved hyena.

The lights dimmed, then flickered. The tavern was sent in and out of light and darkness. The shadows from the corners became more and more pronounced. They grew and stretched and deepened like some vile entity. They partook of the light, first nibbling and then feasting upon it.

The stove died and the sizzling of forgotten onions died out. The lights returned to normal, shooting their grimy rays across the room. They glowed like that uneasily for a few moments. Then there was another seizure before they died out altogether.

“God •••• it!” John shouted as he glowered at the lights, almost daring them to stay off.

“Now John,” A drunk named Patterson started up. “I thought that even this place made enough to pay for electricity.

The bar greeted the comment with dull drunken laughter. Most of the bar, anyway, nobody had heard from Walter since he passed out a while back. And Walter was a guy who could hold his drinks.

“At least we got the heater.” John settled. “At least we got her.”

Paul scoffed with half of the burger in his mouth, the grease leaking down the sides of his mouth and bits of onion stuck to his chin. “A lot of good that little whore’s going to do us! She won’t last the hour!”

“Shut your God •••••• face you fat drunk! She’ll hold! But if you’d rather leave then be my guest!”

“And miss out on all of this? The livening conversations… the good food… plentiful drink? Gnaw… I’d just as soon stay here.”

* * * *

Walter was standing, just standing. He scarcely breathed, and when he did he did them in short gasps.

Walter had been a mechanic all of his life. Back in ’65 he lost an eye when a piece of metal from an engine he had been overhauling shot out at him. The other had just… faded away. He had been completely blind for the last twenty years.

He stood there in awe. His right arm quivered and shook nervously. A lone tear trickled down from his eye and, like before, he could hardly move air into his lungs.

He could see! It’s been the better part of twenty years since he could see anything at all, and now here it was, the vision in his blind eye had returned. And it was beautiful!

He stood in the midst of an endless wheat field. The stalks gently swayed and waved in the gentle breeze.

The man looked around him. All he saw were these magnificent fields of gold, more then Midas himself had ever dreamed of. The warm breeze moved along his back like a woman in foreplay and he obliged her. GOD, how he did oblige her.

Walter let the wind gentle guide him foreword. His legs were a pair of Jell-O jigglers and refused to obey him. Even something as simple as resisting the wind had become an insurmountable task.

GOD, he could SEE!

It was a dream. It HAD to be a dream. Nothing this beautiful could be real.

But he found that he didn’t care. He didn’t give a rat’s ass if he was dreaming or waking. He could SEE! Nothing else mattered.

He let the breeze move him were it willed. And he lost himself in those fields of living gold.

* * * *

“Hey, Walter! You agree, right?” Paul shouted. “Walter? Walter!”

He leaned over to where the unconscious man was sitting or, rather, was lying. He reached out and violently shook him.
Walter was limp as a piece of rope. He didn’t wake or rouse, just sat there like a little girl’s rag doll. And what slowly became evident to everybody was that Walter wasn’t breathing.

“Oh my God…”