I was just writing a little piece, to see if my English hadn't become rusty. After finishing it i realized that i could just as well post it on here and see if you enjoy this story. it is a hemingway-like short story. So please tell me what you think of it. The author It was a hot and humid night in Paris. Most of the people were hurrying to get home because, in all likelihood, a thunderstorm would emerge quite quickly. Tim Shearing was one of the few who weren’t in a hurry. He casually walked from his hotel to a little bar, which was just a few hundred feet down the road. It was late in the summer, almost fall, and there weren’t many Americans in the city anymore. Not that there were so many in this part of the city at any moment in the summer, because he was staying in one of the poorer parts of Paris, mainly inhabited by drunks and gamblers. Tim was there for more than 3 months now, ever since he divorced his wife. The mornings he spent with working at a local department of an American newspaper and most afternoons he was busy with writing his next novel. After that he mostly dined in the hotels restaurant, or he dined out with the other expats. During the nights he could often be found in one of the smaller cafes near the hotel. The one he was going to now, was the one he frequented the most. Most of the evenings it wasn’t crowded in here, but this night seemed to be an exception. The place was packed, probably because there was a small jazz band playing in the café. Tim sat at the bar and ordered a whisky-soda for himself. On a stool next to him was an attractive young girl seated. She probably was in her early twenties and she had blond hair, justlong enough to skim the tops of her shoulders, and the fairest skin tone he had ever seen. She was dressed in a long white dress and seemed to be there alone. As he lit a cigarette she leaned over to him and made clear that she wanted a light for her own cigarette. He kept the match lit and motioned it toward her mouth. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a sweet voice. ‘You’re welcome. My name is Tim Shearing, and if I may ask, what is your name?’ ‘I am Elizabeth Wyman, but most people call me Liz. It’s been quite a while since I spoke to another American around here. At least, I assume that you are an American, am I correct in my assumption?’ ‘Perfectly, I am from Kansas myself and where do you come from?’ ‘Me, I’m from New York. What brings you to Paris in this time of the year?’ ‘I live here actually, I work for as a journalist for an American newspaper.’ ‘Well, that’s nice. I myself came here on holiday, I have been travelling around Europe for some while now.’ Suddenly some guy came in and took Liz away from Tim. Those two went of towards the floor in front of the band and they started to dance. It was a rough boy and he was franticly dancing and speaking with Liz. Liz looked like a butterfly, moving gracefully over the floor. She seemed to float to the music her body totally controlled by band. Tim had a hard time keeping his eyes from the beautiful girl, but managed at a certain point. Assured that he had lost her for the evening he started drinking again. The ice in his whisky-soda had already melted, he quickly finished that one an ordered another. When he had almost finished his second glass, Liz got seated next to him again. ‘Didn’t you have a good time dancing?’ Tim asked. ‘Off course I did. But my friend just told me something and I wanted to know if this was true. Are you the writer Tim Shearing, the one who just wrote that book about the war?’ ‘Yes, yes I am.’ ‘My friend recognized you from a photo which was printed in a paper at one time. I must say that I truly loved your latest book.’ ‘Thank you, that is very kind of you.’ ‘Yes, I loved the way you wrote about love and the desperation you felt when she was gone.’ ‘Again thank you, but please could we talk about something else, I do not enjoy this conversation.’ ‘All right but I just wanted to say that you depicted it all so well. What you wrote about the war and all was so good. The hopelessness, the longing for the soft touch of a woman, it was brilliant. Running through those fields and all the time missing the one you love.’ ‘Please I ask of you, no more.’ ‘Just the blunt truth with which it was written. And the way you describe the surroundings, the beauty of nature set against the horrors of war.’ ‘Shut up, just shut up,’ Tim whimpered. She didn’t seem to hear him and went on and on, with describing how realistically he had written about the war and the love which was lost in that war. Until Tim at a certain point just let go of this great big laugh. ‘You truly thought all of that was real? You took every word as gospel. Do you think that war is such a beautiful thing? Let me tell you about that war. The beauty that it was. Oh, what a great thing, sitting in a trench and watching how hundreds of kids ran of towards certain dead, just because someone blew on a whistle. You think that I saw the nature, while I was in a hole hiding from the bombs, holding one of my best friends, who just lost both of his legs and as his life was leaving him. Longing for the touch of a woman, hah, I had that more than enough. Prostitutes were everywhere. I didn’t think of my wife, the only thing I thought about with women, was if the whorehouse finally had fresh ones. Shall I continue, because I have far more to say about it.’ ‘You know I like you less and less, the more I know you.’ Tim drank the last of the whisky-soda, lit another cigarette and stood up. He tipped his hat and said: ‘Miss, it is always a mistake to know an author.’ Having said that, he walked out of the bar and went to the hotel.
I like it very much! Do you write often? 'Cause your writing skills are pretty good. I like the way you ended the story. You should finish this little piece, make a whole book out of it. :H Btw, you're from Amsterdam? I'm from Tilburg, Noord-Brabant. Peace&Love
don't make a book of it. It's beautiful as it is like that. It doesnt have a plot. Not that thats bad. it's got great insight to the American attitude of War. it makes a bold and brilliant statement. it doesn't need a plot. Don't go in talk for an hour about Why War is bad. Just come in state your point and leave. Give the charachters no background. They are one dimensional. As a short story based at this purpose should have them. Stories are for entertainment. That is for enlightenment. Of course that last statemet is a complete exatteration. You become enlightened by a story. But it's a form of enlightenment It's alot like "Catcher In The Rye". The Tim man is a phony.
Very good. Here are some details I noticed. On a stool next to him was an attractive young girl seated. Delete the word 'seated'. The word 'franticly' should be spelled 'frantically'. watching how hundreds of kids ran of towards certain dead... Change to 'watching hundreds of kids run toward certain death...'. It might hook the reader if you were more specific about what war and what battle or battles your character had been involved in. Hemingway would likely have been referring to the Spanish Civil War, although he was a correspondent in World War II, France, 1944 and an ambulance attendant in World War I, Italy, 1917. Hemingway and other authors would certainly be specific about which conflict was involved. Also in my opinion the reader enjoys the piece more if there's a happy ending, such as (in this case) the lead character taking the girl back to his place and screwing the living daylights out of her.
I liked it. It kinda seems like when they talk their wording is extra polite, but I know that I sometimes have my characters talk like that too. And I don't think you should change the ending at all. I like to go against the norm and have sad endings.
