hello. on advice from this forum...this is my sax and violins style attempt at writing. i'm hoping to make money! and wondered if you could help me figure out if it is a sellable short story... or where i could send it to? or. if it doen't cut the mustard for mass market appeal? thanks... ************************************* Be careful what you wish for Amber wove effortlessly through the crowds of Harrods, like an elegant swan, her bloody red peeking toes pointed straight ahead to her destination. Floor seven. People fell out of her way from the long silken chocolate hair that flicked rhythmically behind her womanish hipped strut, pinned in by a secure purple waisted buttoning. She extended her velveteen arm to press the gleaming lift key with a ‘bing’ that disguised her inner sigh. When the lights flashed down and she stepped inside, alone to watch the others scurrying about in herds, the steel doors sucked slowly inwards with a hush of warm air, they shut. Her vacuum space gave her 0.27 seconds for the rearrangement. Without time to waste hating Abdul, she unbuttoned the hourglass jacket, unslung her blouse and reached down to turn on the contraption, delicately hidden in the seam of her stockings. It hummed into life silently as the lift announced, ‘Floor Five’ in gilded gold framework. Flustering her dress back to its immaculate smartness in the surrounding polished mirrors, she clicked on the piece inside her ear and smoothed down her hair in its heavy conditioning to remove it from sight. The box was dark in low-lighted mahogany. It pronounced her features in their high cheek boned shadows. Her navel fluttered excitedly as she drew in her breath and uttered, ‘Check’ The cold white van outside buzzed in electric monitoring and responded with no break in digital clarity, ‘Check’ Her floor stopped moving and the doors opened. She took a moment before waltzing out with supreme confidence, not allowing her distinctive heartbeat to be heard. Abdul was a powerful man. He’d destroy her if he found out what she was doing. But everything was planned, months in advance. Ever since he’d won custody of Emily, that whippet girl Samantha was always around, playing mother at that daft age of bleached blond twenty-three. Amber vowed to not let it lie as she’d left that biased courtroom. Admittedly she’d made her mistakes in life, marrying into money, yes the violent Arabian oil investor had treated her grossly, covering her eyes with cosmetic makeup. But she wasn’t all-stupid. She was observant enough to sniff secrets. That female intuition was something she trusted. It wasn’t long into their exquisite marriage that she’d unearthed the real profiteering scheme of her darting eyed husband. The prostitute ring. Ushered behind a rich bookcase passage door, forty men were gathered in mafia legal discccusion. The current cost and profit evaluation of women sold to spiralling high demand. The business was always thirsty for more gain. It reminded Amber of her own nature when she’d met Abdul. Soaking up the acid bright fast cars, guzzling priceless pours of champagne in parties glittered with celebrity. Her wide doe eyes had been magnetised and before long her exchange for living the high life was pushed to the back of her mind. She was intelligent and beautiful. Intelligent enough to figure out the way Abdul made money, beautiful enough to take the beatings of a jealous pimp husband. But when he took it too far and struck her baby girl Emily, the five year old had been screaming one day, she finally went to court. Another mistake. The value of her jewellery didn’t cover the lawyer and Abdul had the best. He degraded her character with treacherous lies in international papers. Her life was now a nightmare from the media hounds. So here she was, kitted up and plotting his downfall. Walking loudly like a metal hoofed horse, she knocked solidly on the tall door of floor Seven and smiled lipstick sweet to Abdul who greeted her with his usual charade. ‘Come in Amber, although I'm very busy at the moment, if you could wait I will be with you presently’ He motioned to the green leather chairs, and smarmed his way back to the meeting room. But not before she’d embraced him, newly manicured hand on his shoulder, patting down the microchip. She backed away carefully to sit nodding ‘Thank you’ as if she feared him. As he strolled swiftly amongst the creamed marble room, she shivered gleefully. Perhaps sensing something strange about the situation Abdul froze and turned to face her. She became incredibly afraid he would rub his shoulder to rid their contact and find the tiny square rested there in micro phoned absorbency. ‘Amber’ he boomed and paused as if he was thinking about apologising to her, sitting alone. ‘Amber, I’m glad you understand my positions needs protection. I’ll pay for your life’ He disappeared into the long tabled room splattered with crystal chandeliers. Amber snorted disgustedly. He could keep his money. She was going to vanish, it was arranged. She twiddled with the earpiece whispering ‘Check?’ ‘Check, all clear honey’ Rang from the bright vibrations in her head. Abdul was reporting intimate informations of prostitute trade directly into detective’s happy hands! So according to plan she belted on the door, ‘Mother’s in hospital, heart attack!’ But no sooner than those words spoke, she saw who was really lining that daunting expensive room. Head government, famous singers, royal family and editors sat alongside seething Arabs. They stared in disbelief. Panicking, she ran. She limped across floor Seven ripping at her shoes flimsy buckles and heard people chasing her down empty aisles. ‘Code red!’ she repeated shrieking against the lift, bashing her fist at It’s lighted arrow. The bells of the box rising sounded slow and unable to save her as she twisted back to see Abdul shouting towards her. She cried, crashing to the ground, he was going to kill her. She collapsed backwards shaking, the lift opened and dragged her in! ‘Amber, darling, wait!’ With the prospect of escape realer she pounded on the wall till she saw it, ‘Ground floor’ and pressed. Abdul had to stop and simply stare to watch her spit, ‘I’ve got Emily’ she laughed at his horrified face, perplexed by the oddness of Amber today. However, it didn’t surprise him, It was his fault. He knew that. ‘Never mind’ he shrugged. Amber was gasping shallow oxygen air, gripping on to the lifts small claustrophobic walls, when they opened she shot out chucking shoppers out of her way as she fled outside. She banged on the white van and it clicked open to swallow her in, locking itself sounding out the busy streets. ‘It’s okay Amber, he doesn’t suspect a thing and we got the names’ Detective Jones hugged her strongly. He pointed to the blue light flickering screens along one side of the van. There was Abdul, unashamedly proposing prostitute deals with some of the most respected men in the world. ‘We got them Amber, I’ve wanted this for years’ detective Jones grinned, hugging and kissing her again. Their relationship had been a blossoming one in the previous whirlwind months. ‘I won!’ she sighed, her teeth gleaming in white happiness. Amber stroked her relieved belly and detective Jones rested his hand there too. ‘I felt a kick!’ he said, ecstatic, and they held each other lovingly. The engine stirred to take them to her daughter Emily, with her protecting bodyguards at the undisclosed airport. **************p.s. this is going against my morals and values f art!!!! but i need money!!
That's crap. What's with all the pointless adjectives? Read some Hemingway or something to straighten you out. You are an awful writer and you'll never amount to anything. I'm being kind by telling you. Sorry if it hurts.
What market though? I found it hard to read, not the low reading age or direct narrative genre markets require.
The irony may not be obvious to everyone. Like you said, Keramptha, this is going against your morals, and this appears in your writing (perhaps you done it on purpose) I know this is not your genre, but I think if you can put aside the criticism above, which, though harsh I'm sure is not personal, it might be worth redoing this from the start. I'm saying this because I know you're not a quitter. What I would suggest, is writing it again without any conformity. Without any restraints to your creativity. I know we have been discussing a lot in this forum about giving people what they want but I think that subconsciously we ALL get fed a steady diet of crap by the media 24 hours a day. Therefore it is essential that here, at least, you don't display conformity. Be strong (I don't mean rude) and stand by your unique style. There's a lot of people out there who enjoy your writing, especially the last two short stories. My favourite was the party in the woods. If writing about violence is against your grain then don't do it, unless you can be sincere about it. So, if you've got some time, try try again. You had some good and original ideas, though it is crucial that when building up a climax in a thriller, you don't use flowery words. This tends to take the focus out of the tension. So, even though she's in Harrods and surrounded by loads of people, we must feel the reason why she is shitting herself. Don't explain all the details, build up to the scene. It would have been easier for you if you chose an alleyway in Paddington as your setting, with shadows crawling on the walls and her breath stopping round each corner, expecting him to jump out. Basic rule of thumb in this case is to keep it real simple, as if you were telling what happened to some mate in the pub. Interesting scenario by the way. I lived in North London for a long time so I know where you're coming from. As for Hemmingway, we can all do with reading him, but I doubt anyone can walk on his shadow. You'd get better guidance in this particular case by reading Ruth Rendell. You're still the best Keramptha.
