Citadel16 Posted May 19, 2016 Report Share Posted May 19, 2016 (edited) OK so this an assignment Im working on and I need it to be done very quickly. I need to know how to make it more... internally conflicting but im at a loss for words now that it is done. so any advice would be strongly appreciated. Marx sat alone in the dark of the room, listening to the sound of the rain washing over his house. Thunder rumbled outside as he took a sip of scotch. A soft music played in the background on a four hundred thousand dollar record player. It was jazz. He always liked improvisational jazz, the ordered chaos as his pops used to call it. It reminded him of simpler times, when you could sell what you wanted and not draw the attention of cops. Those were good days. He could sit and think about them all day. These days he was always in a hurry around here since he took over his father's company. Downing the rest of his scotch, Marx stood and walked to his own personal mini bar to pour himself another glass. There was a loud Crack of thunder outside and the lights dimmed for a few moments. The record player skipped. Startled by the sound, Marx spun around and saw someone he wished to have never met. “Hello Marx,” Johnny said. Water streamed off his wet fedora, and onto Marx’s couch. The man’s clothing was soaked as if he’d been out in the rain for a very long time. Marx gulped. He could do this. It was nothing that he hadn’t done before. He could lie through his teeth again, couldn’t he? He could lie to his best friend, right? “Johnny,” he said. “What brings you here?” Johnny was quiet. “What’s the matter, buddy? We haven’t seen each other in what must be six months. Then you sneak into my house. What do you want?” Johnny reached into his coat pocket Marx stiffened, but all Johnny pulled out was a card. “I was coming to invite you to my wedding.” Those words stung more than they should have, but Marx kept them from showing on his face. “That’s thoughtful of you,” he said. “I had no idea you were getting married.” “I’m not. The weddings off.” More stinging words. He could talk his way out of this couldn’t he? “That’s a shame, why don’t you tell me what happened? Would you like a drink?” he grabbed the bottle of scotch off the bar and poured another glass. “Marisa’s dead.” Marx stopped dead in his tracks. “You killed her didn’t you?” Johnny asked. How could a voice be so void of emotion? Marx knew. He was that void of emotion. He had been for years. He looked into Johnny’s eyes. No. There was no stopping this. Johnny knew everything. “I’m afraid so, Johnny.” Marx sighed. “You know I had to. She was the daughter of that new dealer. She had to go.” “Yeah.” “It wasn’t personal, just business,” Marx said. “Things like this happen.” “Yes,” Johnny said “things like this happen.” “Best not dwell on it.” Marx tried for a smile. “Marx?” Johnny said. “I’m going to have to kill you now.” his hand whipped to his waist and pulled out a handgun. “Don’t take it personally.” BANG! I Marx threw himself to the ground, his hand flying to his pocket, grabbing the silver revolver he always kept there, he didn’t bother to pull it out he just shot through the fabric of his pocket. Johnny’s head rocked back and he slumped on the couch. Marx growled. That could have been handled better, but for now, he was alive and that was the best victory. He tried to get up. His legs didn’t move. No… He felt at his gut. His hands came back covered in blood. No! Marx crawled towards the counter. He needed to call someone. James. James he could call. To bring his doctor here. He reached for the Phone on the counter. His legs didn’t move, they didn’t work! He couldn’t stand. He felt pain blossom in his gut. Suddenly, as if in reaction to his movements. He couldn’t die. He had to live. Marx pulled himself up to the counter his phone would be-- His phone wasn’t there. Marx started swearing, his fingers slipped from the blood on his hands and he fell back to the floor. NO! Johnny. Johnny would have a phone. He crawled over to the corpse on the couch. He reached for Johnny’s pocket. But then stopped. Johnny was smiling. Not a happy grin. A satisfied grin. One from a man who had completed a job to the best of his ability. Marx felt his gut again. Blood. He lost a lot of blood. Was he dreaming? No. pain wasn’t a dream. Marx pulled himself to a chair facing Johnny’s three eyed grin. One eye above the left corner of his mouth, one eye above the right. His third eye was the gaping hole that was in the dead center of his nose. As his vision faded, he swore he heard someone laugh. Edited May 19, 2016 by WarriorMark16 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Quiver Posted May 19, 2016 Report Share Posted May 19, 2016 How long does the piece have to be? I'd suggest building up a bit more tension at the beginning with Marx, before Johnny arrives. Have him drinking, throwing back the shots, and make some kind of comparision between his mind set and the jazz. You called Jazz "order out of chaos"... so maybe stretch that a bit. Show some of his own thoughts, racing wildly; his own self-justifications, like how he 'had to do it', and it was 'just business'. Build up to the moment when the record suddenly stops. Because, if the jazz is meant to be giving some kind of order to the world and to his thoughts, then when it stops is when everything goes out of control. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Citadel16 Posted May 19, 2016 Author Report Share Posted May 19, 2016 thanks quiver! that was incredibly useful. Here is my revised version. most of it is the same but I think the rest works great. tell me if i'm wrong. Marxed for death. Marx sat alone in the dark of the room, listening to the sound of the rain washing over his house. Thunder rumbled outside as he took a sip of scotch. A soft music played in the background on a four hundred thousand dollar record player. It was jazz. He always liked improvisational jazz, order out of chaos as his pops used to call it. It reminded him of simpler times, when you could sell what you wanted and not draw the attention of cops. He needed that sort of thing these days. Everything had been a mess. There were things that you had to do when you owned the kind of company Marx did. People had to be shut up, rivals put away, and scores had to be settled. Threats had to be made. New people come and go. He thought. Why should this bother him? When he was younger, things like this he had done personally. Not usually alone, but still he was normally in the front with the gun. Those were good days. He could sit and think about them all day. These days he was always in a hurry around here since he took over his father's company. Downing the rest of his scotch, Marx stood and walked to his own personal mini bar to pour himself another glass. There was a loud Crack of thunder outside and the lights dimmed for a few moments. He threw down another glass of scotch. He liked Jazz, like his father had. It made a random grouping of notes harmoniously linked. He liked that. He could do that to his life too. Take shattered pieces of it and put it together in a glorious mosaic. A stain glass window of his empire as it was. The only problems where when the pieces didn’t fit the way he needed them to. Then they had to be broken. Shaped. Refined into something he could use and that meant breaking pieces. Losing pieces. Moving pieces. Sometimes people didn't like that. The past is in the past. He thought. Why do I even worry about this? It was necessary. Crucial even. What he had done, had been done in the name of his company and his dependents. He downed another shot. Then slammed the glass onto the counter. He looked at it. A spider web of cracks had spread across it. I can take the broken pieces… he needed to make this into order. Into jazz. He would do it And that meant losing pieces. The record player skipped. Startled by the sound, Marx spun around and saw someone he wished to have never met. “Hello Marx,” Johnny said. Water streamed off his wet fedora, and onto Marx’s couch. The man’s clothing was soaked as if he’d been out in the rain for a very long time. Marx gulped. He could do this. It was nothing that he hadn’t done before. He could lie through his teeth again, couldn’t he? He could lie to his best friend, right? “Johnny,” he said. “What brings you here?” Johnny was quiet. “What’s the matter, buddy? We haven’t seen each other in what must be six months. Then you sneak into my house. What do you want?” Johnny reached into his coat pocket. Marx stiffened, but all Johnny pulled out was a card. “I was coming to invite you to my wedding.” Those words stung more than they should have, but Marx kept them from showing on his face. He was order. He wouldn't flinch. “That’s thoughtful of you,” he said. “I had no idea you were getting married.” “I’m not. The weddings off.” More stinging words. He could talk his way out of this couldn’t he? “That’s a shame, why don’t you tell me what happened? Would you like a drink?” he grabbed the bottle of scotch off the bar and poured another glass. “Marisa’s dead.” Marx stopped dead in his tracks. “You killed her didn’t you?” Johnny asked. How could a voice be so void of emotion? Marx knew. He was that void of emotion. He had been for years. He looked into Johnny’s eyes. No. There was no stopping this. Johnny knew everything. “I’m afraid so, Johnny.” Marx sighed. “You know I had to. She was the daughter of that new dealer. She had to go.” “Yeah.” “It wasn’t personal, just business,” Marx said. “Things like this happen.” “Yes,” Johnny said “things like this happen.” “Best not dwell on it.” Marx tried for a smile. “Marx?” Johnny said. “I’m going to have to kill you now.” his hand slipped to his waist and pulled out a handgun. “Don’t take it personally.” BANG! I Marx threw himself to the ground, his hand flying to his pocket, grabbing the silver revolver he always kept there, he didn’t bother to pull it out he just shot through the fabric of his pocket. Johnny’s head rocked back and he slumped on the couch. Marx growled. That could have been handled better, but for now, he was alive and that was the best victory. If he was alive he could fix things. Rearrange things. He tried to get up. His legs didn’t move. No… He felt at his gut. His hands came back covered in blood. No! Marx crawled towards the counter. He needed to call someone. James. James he could call. To bring his doctor here. He reached for the Phone on the counter. His legs didn’t move, they didn’t work! He couldn’t stand. He felt pain blossom in his gut. Suddenly, as if in reaction to his movements. He couldn’t die. He had to live. Marx pulled himself up to the counter his phone would be-- His phone wasn’t there. Marx started swearing, his fingers slipped from the blood on his hands and he fell back to the floor. NO! Johnny. Johnny would have a phone. He crawled over to the corpse on the couch. He reached for Johnny’s pocket. But then stopped. Johnny was smiling. Not a happy grin. A satisfied grin. One from a man who had completed a job to the best of his ability. Marx felt his gut again. Blood. He lost a lot of blood. Was he dreaming? No. pain wasn’t a dream. Marx pulled himself to a chair facing Johnny’s three eyed grin. One eye above the left corner of his mouth, one eye above the right. His third eye was the gaping hole that was in the dead center of his nose. As his vision faded, he swore he heard music. It wasn’t jazz. 0 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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