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#1 (permalink) |
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Don't call me Shirley
Join Date: Jun 2010
Location: London
Posts: 3,271
Internets: 220249
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I've always wanted to write a serial novel. Nubblies, you're in luck. This, in front of you, is the first chapter of my first effort at a serial novel. I would ask for constructive criticism only, but I am an adult and if you have something negative to say, I can take it. Its working title is "The Dual Lakes Symphony." Please enjoy.
I. Main Street, Howard Ben Sloane sat in front of Howard Market, watching with slow eyes the quiet Main Street before him. A car passed, a ’96 Accord, and he watched it, just like he watched every car, person, or movement on the street in front of his market. Ben watched the car roll off, heard the tires grind against pavement as it turned right onto Bright Street. He took a long slow sip from his coffee, which had faded from hot to warm to lukewarm in the hour since the sun had come up. Soon it would be time to get up from the picnic bench in front of his store, soon it would be time to flip the sign in his door from Closed to Open, to smile as the early customers trickled in, but the last few minutes of the morning were still there, hanging slow in the morning. The Accord came back around the corner from Bright and idled in front of the shop. The sun glared off the car’s windows, hiding the driver, but Ben could feel cautious eyes glancing over him. He distracted his own eyes from the car, instead stirring his coffee with a miniature spoon. Finally, the car’s engine stopped and the driver’s door opened. The driver stood, his head poking over the car and glancing towards Ben. His eyes were nervous, his cheeks were red, soft, untanned. He wasn’t from Howard, Indiana. Or from anyplace like it. His haircut shouted city, the collar on his shirt was still crisp from starch. “Excuse me,” came the young man’s careful voice. “Could you…” “Good morning,” Ben smiled, letting the edges of his eyes squint into wrinkles that spread across his face. The man paused. “Good morning.” He looked around, as if seeing Main Street for the first time. “Could you, ah, could you point me towards Willard's Road?” Ben nodded. “You’re not far off. “ He gestured down Main with a lazy finger. “It’s the next right down this way, right where you see the Cap Theatre.” The man grinned, visibly relaxed. “That’s good to hear. I’ve been driving all night, I’m looking forward to getting out of this car.” “You’re moving to Howard, then?” The man nodded. “Well, then, I hope I’m the first to welcome you. I’ll let Bobby Feeney know to change the ‘population’ sign on the edge of town.” Ben grinned, happy, as only old men and market owners can be, to have a new face in the small town. “Where you coming from?” He nodded at the bench across his picnic table, and the young man slowly came around the car and carefully sat down, as if his pants had never touched hickory furniture before. “Been outside of Vegas for the past few years. I went to school there, UNLV.” The letters meant nothing to Ben, but he didn’t let it show. No reason for it. “I’ve been driving all night.” Ben glanced down at his own mug. “Coffee?” The man shook his head. “I could use some, but I haven’t got any cash and I haven’t seen an ATM yet.” Ben chuckled, a sound that was both wet and dry, that was knowing but not condescending. “If you’re moving in, I can start you up a tab. Everyone in town has a tab here, and I can tell right off you’re good for it.” Ben stood up slowly, letting his joints ease out of the seated position, letting his ligaments stretch as he stood. He turned towards his store, and before he opened the door, he turned to the newcomer. “What brings you to town, by the way?” The man looked at him, and for the first time Ben noticed there was something in the man’s eyes that suggested a depth of character, a driven purpose. “I’ll be working at Dual Lakes High School. I’m the new band teacher.” |
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#6 (permalink) |
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Ahoy Fuckbag
Join Date: Sep 2008
Location: In a pineapple under the sea
Posts: 3,540
Internets: 187030
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TL;DR can i get a summary please?
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#9 (permalink) |
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Don't call me Shirley
Join Date: Jun 2010
Location: London
Posts: 3,271
Internets: 220249
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II. Willard’s Road
From the sidewalk to the roof, there are cracks. The concrete’s cracks betray sprouts of crabgrass, the concrete faded from sunlight, rain, snow, Indiana’s years worth of weather. The house’s vinyl siding, originally canary yellow, now simply looks jaundiced. The windows bear either permanent streaks or irremovable dust fog. But the roof is strong. It has held off the snows and the long rains, has leaked but been repaired, has seen care and industry applied to it. The roof betrays that there was once a man in this house. Not anymore. Inside, resting her feet on an ottoman and all the rest of her weight in an upholstered chair, Cheryl Mueller is listening for sounds from above. She’s pretending not to, pretending to mind her own business, but the wall’s photographs and the coffee table’s doilies would attest that around two o’clock in the afternoon, on any other day, the television’s volume would be considerably higher. Today, though, widow Mueller is not alone in the house on Willard’s Road. Upstairs, Dual Lakes High School’s new band teacher is unpacking. It is not as orderly a process as he had imagined it. It’s a small room, and it doesn’t handle the new clutter of all his worldly possessions very well. Nor does it handle him very well. Not that it’s a small room; though not large, he had certainly seen smaller. But it seems to be a room not prepared for movement. The dust on the wooden dresser is thick enough to be tangible, the cobwebs in the corners must have been sewn by unmoving spiders. The window would not open, just refused to. As he moved through the room, unpacking his belongings, it seemed as if the air itself protested at his moving through it. A stale warmth settled around his shoulders. He tried to imagine eating in this room, conversing in this room, and it was impossible. The only thing he could imagine doing in this room was sleeping. The bed had disappeared under a pile of his clothes: two pairs of jeans, three pairs of slacks, a black belt with a silver buckle (given to him for his own high school graduation,) five pastel-colored collared shirts, two stiff white collared shirts, a polo, blue, a dozen t-shirts, and an incoherent assortment of socks and boxer shorts, some newer, some he’d had for five years, which had accumulated holes, tears, and yellowing. The clothes had been dumped from a trashbag. There was no suitcase in the room, the suitcase had been sold before he’d left Nevada, for gas money. Everything he owned was in a trashbag, or recently poured from one, except for one possession, set in its case at the foot of the single bed. If he were to take a moment for contemplation, there is no doubt he would push the clothes aside and place the case on the bed. Would open the silver hinges and draw the cover off. Would look, before touching, at the brass French horn, sitting in comfortable velvet. It had dents, but he would see the sunlight from the room’s sole window glint off the horn, the valves, the silver mouthpiece that had been given to him years before. He would pick the instrument up and hold it to his chest, let his fingers settle over the valves, press a few down, feel the easy moving pieces of an instrument well-maintained. He might take the time to empty the spit-valves, to lubricate it with oil and wipe it with the cloth always kept in the case. He might sit on the bed and hold the instrument, blowing into the mouthpiece but without tightening his lips, so that air moved through the instrument but no sound came out. He might soundlessly play “Duke’s Place” or, appropriately, Basie’s “Indiana.” But afterwards he would absolutely put the instrument back on the velvet holder, and close the case, throwing back the silver latches. He would not lift the velvet up and look beneath, so he would not see the clutter of envelopes hidden beneath. The letters from Dina which he would not read anymore, but could not throw away. |
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Last edited by thekremlin; 07-19-2011 at 03:56 AM. |
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#11 (permalink) |
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Jelqing for Jesus
Join Date: Oct 2005
Location: Charlotte's spare bedroom
Posts: 3,079
Internets: 194538
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Edit: gone at mistofolees request. And it was awesome. Sheer motherfucking awesome. This was easily one of the best posts on here in the last few years. Definitely the best post on nubblies in the last 18 months or so. You have to go back to some of tempests earlier posts to get in this ball park again. So if you missed a piece of nubblies gold, thank mistofolees.
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Last edited by angry pancake; 07-19-2011 at 07:25 PM. |
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#12 (permalink) |
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MURICAN
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I was skeptical, but I think I prefer AP's version!
Although Kremlins just may need more time to develop. |
![]() The basis of our governments being the opinion of the people, the very first object should be to keep that right; and were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter. But I should mean that every man should receive those papers and be capable of reading them. ![]() |
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#18 (permalink) | ||||
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COME ON YOU YANKS
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#20 (permalink) |
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Don't call me Shirley
Join Date: Jun 2010
Location: London
Posts: 3,271
Internets: 220249
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III. Wal-Mart
It was the pride of Howard. The prize given to the town lucky enough to be in the center of Warburton County, and to hold the title as undisputed County Seat. Fifteen years ago, the largest employer in Howard had been Cantor’s Wood-N-Things, a factory which had produced wooden panels, mostly for the sides of inexpensive furniture and the exteriors of station wagons and mobile homes. A fire in ’96, fed by the laminate chemicals in the wood panels, had destroyed the factory, half a dozen homes, and reduced the city’s already-meager industry, along with its future prospects, to zero. This was all part of Howard’s unwritten history, all known by any resident with a few decades’ occupancy, and quickly relayed to any newcomers. The great mystery of Howard, in the back of even the most optimistic locals’ minds, was why the fabled Wal-Mart corporation bought the land, still smoking and smelling of melamine resin, and began construction on a shining white monolith with three-hundred parking space that exuded megawatt after megawatt of advertising light into the otherwise dark Howard sky. The effect was immediate. Nearly all the traffic that came through Howard was related to the Wal-Mart. Over a tenth of the town’s adults were employed there. A town on the brink of obsolescence after a devastating fire was immediately saved, a corporate dues ex machina. There was some griping. The five-and-dime was gone, Darryl Johnson’s furniture shop, in fact nearly all of the commercial businesses were completely wiped out. Ben Sloane’s Howard Market barely stayed afloat, mostly thanks to a handful of loyal customers, whose number was fading. But overall, the superstore was an answered prayer. A meaningless title based on luck-of-the-draw geography—County Seat—had somehow led to the town’s salvation. Howard had become a town with two centers, Christ’s Church and the consumer’s. The three-hundred car parking lot served also as the town’s water cooler, where housewives saw each other once a week on their way out, lugging carts full of plastic-wrapped goods. Inside, shoppers milled from all around the county. These were well-informed consumers, who not only had a preference between Coke and Pepsi, but also Miller and Bud, Twinkies and Ding-Dongs, Marlboros and Camels, Digiornos’ and Celeste, Reese’s and Twix, Cheerios and Cornflakes. The town’s newest resident, whose name was Daniel Matthews, was rolling his cart up to one of the dozen checkout aisles. In his cart: a loaf of bread, white; two two-liter bottles of soda, Coke; a six-pack of hot dogs; a six-pack of hot dog buns; a bag of potato chips, ruffled; a six-pack of bottled beers, Corona; a twenty-four pack of canned beer, Bud; a package of sliced roast beef; a packet of individually-wrapped slices of cheese, American; four apples, prewrapped in airtight plastic; orange juice, extra pulp. He arrived at the front of the line. The checkout clerk was young, maybe sixteen years old, but his eyes were faded, fatigued, drooped, bloodshot. His skin was pale and his hair hung in strings over his forehead. Daniel started to place items from the cart onto the counter, and the clerk, who was wearing a pin that said “Kevin”, began to swipe them across his barcode scanner. “Do you go to Dual Lakes?” Daniel asked, optimistically. Kevin barely seemed to hear him. His eyes didn’t move up, stayed on the barcode scanner, and he made a sound that indicated assent. “I start teaching there on Monday.” Nothing. “I’m going to be running the band program.” The Coronas slid across the scanner. “Didn’t know we had a band program.” Daniel grinned. It wasn’t a conversation, but it was a start. “You have one starting Monday.” No response. “Do you know anyone who plays an instrument?” The American cheese slid across the counter. “Hopefully we can get a good turnout.” Nothing. The window had passed. “How do you want to pay?” His teeth were tiny and yellow, unnatural, with gums that nearly overtook them. Although he wasn’t close enough, the idea came to him that this clerk’s breath must smell terribly. He didn’t breathe in. He wanted to be out of the store. But where to? The tiny room in Mrs. Mueller’s home? The safety of his car, which he’d already spent his entire weekend in? Back in Nevada? “Debit.” He passed his card over and punched his pin into the pad which jutted out from the counter. In the end, he’d spent an hour walking around the store and bought next to nothing; two plastic bags, where one probably would have made do. Unlike the housewives, he didn’t stop to talk to anyone outside the superstore. It wasn’t until he was back at his car, with his bags in the back seat, and set behind the wall that he let go of the breath he’d been holding since the checkout counter. |
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#21 (permalink) |
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Don't call me Shirley
Join Date: Jun 2010
Location: London
Posts: 3,271
Internets: 220249
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IV. Dual Lakes High School, Cafeteria
“You go to the drive-in this weekend?” “I can’t believe, it hasn’t rained in weeks.” “What day is the exam, anyway? Wednesday?” “Give me a quarter, I want to get a pop.” “How long does it take to drive to Bloomington? I want to check out IU sometime this month.” “Goddamn. My sandwich is all squished.” “I think I’m coming down with something.” “I honestly am shocked that Kyle Farnsworth is still around.” “That’s what I don’t get, is it about triangles or circles?” “Colts looking good, even if it is just preseason.” “He’s gross.” “I looked for fucking hours. Could not find a single double-A battery.” “I don’t want to go. I seriously do not want to go.” “Spent all weekend helping my dad. Feels like my arms are going to fall off.” “Didn’t see you at church yesterday.” “I think Lisa’s having a party this weekend.” “I need a job. You don’t know anyone, do you?” “Creeps me out. He’s always looking at me.” “It’s getting worse, not better.” “All of a sudden, bam! It was incredible.” “His cousin plays at Notre Dame. He’s enormous. Think he’s a linebacker or something. He’s a total dickhead, though.” “Can I get a ride home after practice?” “How old is she? She’s a sophomore?” “It’s not bad. It’s pretty good.” “I think I’m going to go to the library after school.” “I haven’t shaved in two weeks. Nothing to show for it.” “I gotta go. Gotta do this thing before class.” “I heard they’re starting a band program. I played trumpet in junior high, haven’t touched it since.” “OK, I’m taking off. I’ll see you guys after bio.” “Ugh, lunch is too short.” |
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#22 (permalink) |
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Don't call me Shirley
Join Date: Jun 2010
Location: London
Posts: 3,271
Internets: 220249
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V. Willard’s Road
Daniel was drunk, and it was a problem. He had not expected the rap on his door at eight o’clock in the evening. He had assumed widow Mueller would have considered eight to be well past curfew, or at least past the curfew for knocking on doors, but there it was, and with it an invitation to join her for a glass of wine in the dining room. On paper, it was a nice invitation, a kind gesture. In practice, it could become a disaster. He had had his first glass of whiskey almost immediately after getting back to his room after the first day of class. He arrived in the dining room, careful to walk steady. It was the least practical room he had ever been in. The chairs around the dinner table were cushioned but not comfortable. The walls were canvassed in cupboards bearing unused silverware and plates on stands. There was a painting of an arbitrary sunset on the one free wall. “I didn’t want to disturb you, but you didn’t have any dinner, either,” Mrs. Mueller was saying. “I’ve just been exhausted. First day of classes and everything.” Mrs. Mueller produced a bottle of cheap red wine, something Italian, and uncorked it. “So what did you think?” Daniel thought about it. Thought about what the expected answer was, what he really wanted to say, where to find the ground in the middle. Considered what he would say if he hadn’t been drinking at all. “The kids in these classes, I can see it already. They’re tricky.” He waited for her to respond, but she was just listening. “You think, OK, they’re kids, they’re modern kids, your big problem is going to be apathy.” He tasted the wine she had poured. It was warm and tasted like alcohol. “It’s not apathy. They’re not bored or tired, they’re alert, they come into the classroom talking to each other and then the class starts, and they’re listening, and they’re watching you, and even more, they’re watching each other to see, I don’t know, to what extent the others are watching you—err, or me, whatever.” “Sounds like you had their attention. Couldn’t have been the easiest thing, first day, with a new band program.” “This wasn’t even the band class. Just a general music class. Mostly just me talking. The students that take to it will try out for the band, and that won’t start up for another month.” “Where are you going to get instruments for all of the children?” Daniel shrugged. “I don’t really have a budget. It’s going to be up to the students, or their parents, to come up with them. I can make some recommendations, of course, for where they could go.” He looked at his wineglass, and it was empty. Mrs. Mueller’s was full, except for a sip. She looked at his glass. “Would you like a refill?” “I think I better get some rest. It’s only Monday, after all.” Daniel turned around curtly, trying to hide the stumble in his step. He set the empty wineglass on a side table on his way out of the dining room, leaving Mrs. Mueller behind. He was being rude, he knew. Rude was OK, not preferable but an acceptable casualty. Better than drunk, better than shaky. Back in his room, he reconsidered his answer. He had expected the main challenge to be getting the students interested. It hadn’t been like that at all. He had been outnumbered the second they had entered the classroom. They had watched him and judged him, they were all awake and aware, they were not vegetables they were predators. Daniel poured the last of the bottle of whiskey into a glass, and poured the glass into his mouth, and fell onto his bed. |
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