Old New Orleans

[laboi_22]

In the wake of terror along the gulf coast espeically in New Orleans I had to write. What better way to recall my past in New Orleans, and wish I was there now, out on Bourbon, than to write about it. A great city full of haunted tales and beautiful old buildings and historical sites, I just had to write.
For those not lucky enough to have been to NO I write now, in despair I might add, about the city I love. I have always been especially interested in the Voodoo religion, and always had this story in the back of my head. You might not follow since it's very short, but it still flows out of me like it has been, then maybe just maybe I'll keept writing to expand on this new yet old plot of mine.!!!

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Professor Jonathan Walker leaned up against a rusty pole at the corner of Bourbon and St. Anne Street. Out of his gray suit pocket, he used his white hanky to wipe his forehead and cheeks of what looked like fresh tomatoes after being sprayed with misty water in the produce department. The slight sound of a C soprano sax belted out in deep blue tones it’s a wonderful world; Ah, the sights and sounds of old New Orleans. It sure was good being back.

He pulled his top hat down a notch and saved up his hanky. As he continued his walk down Bourbon, he threw a few coins to the young boys tap dancing on the sidewalk with coke bottle caps pressed underneath the soles of their shoes. He nodded to the tourists who were pointing their index fingers at the balconies of old buildings and taking pictures of men wearing masks holding cans of Budweiser yelling, “Show me your tits and I’ll throw you a bead.” Even thought Mardi Gras wouldn’t be around for months, visitors, and citizens alike, keep the tradition of show me your tits and you’ll get a bead going year round. He laughed to himself and remembered his first Mardi Gras in New Orleans. It was cleaner back then. Cops would actually make arrests for such crude behavior, but having seen what he’d seen over the past twenty years in New York, Professor Walker had finally, though he never thought it would happen, became immune to this behavior, and now actually thought it quite funny.

The crowds were winding down. Groups of partygoers carried friends, who were to drunk to walk, back to their hotel rooms. Shops and bars were putting lights out, and the police presence dwindled to practically none. Homeless families disappeared behind shields of darkness inside littered alleyways. Some stood up and stretched, emptied their pockets, put their will work for food or money signs away, and counted their earnings for the night. Nighttime on Bourbon Street was like no other. If never experienced one would never know. It felt almost too good to be back home; Professor Walker’s wrinkled face carried a perpetual smile.

Turning left at the corner of Bourbon and St. Philip a woman dressed in a black robe ran straight into him. The weight of his large frame knocked her from her feet.

“Sorry, excuse me ma’am.” He held out his hand for her to grab and helped her up to her feet. When her eyes met his, they bulged out of her bony face, and her dark pupils changed their shape from round to that of bones, from black to white. Startled, he blinked and took his hand back from the woman’s with the changing eyes, and ran for a block up St. Philip’s without stopping or looking back. When he reached Dauphine Street, he slumped over holding his upper body with his hands against his knees. Out of breath and tired from the long flight, he thought about not even finishing his walk to Louis Armstrong Park and returning to his hotel room. But I have to go there tonight, I have to, he thought.

Before he could stand straight up again, his arms flared out from his side, he rocked back onto the heels of his feet, trying to balance himself so as not to fall. But the pain from the middle of his back near his spine was too intense. After trying to hold his large frame up for nearly seconds, he fell backwards on the pavement. He tried yelling for help, but the words wouldn’t come out. There she stood dressed in white this time, smiling.

“Rest in peace professor man, and may Bondye be with you.”

 

[Stewart]

First, what you've given us.

I'm curious as to why the guy is referred to as Professor when his career plays no part in this story. The top hat? Is he dressed as Baron Samedi?

He then mentions the sights and sounds when, until this moment, there hasn't been mention of any. I think with a piece that focuses more on location then you need to begin with the largest possible scope before zooming in to your main character.

Also, expand the scenes. Rather than be lazy and say "The crowds were winding down." show us people falling asleep, drunks heading back, and girls covered in beads to show that it's late since you haven't shown the moon, said it's night, or anything. At the moment you are telling us again.

The voodoo part of the story, I didn't see. All I saw was a guy bumping into a lady, possibly recognising her, running away, and being struck down by voodoo. Do you plan to expand on this?

NOW....

One very important thing is missing from your vision of New Orleans...smells. Crawfish sizzling, warm oils frying, mmmmm.

Have you ever read Poppy Z. Brite? Her stories in New Orleans are an attack on the senses: sounds, smells, tastes all hanging in the air.

 

[laboi_22]

by Stewart: First, what you've given us.

I'm curious as to why the guy is referred to as Professor when his career plays no part in this story. The top hat? Is he dressed as Baron Samedi?

He then mentions the sights and sounds when, until this moment, there hasn't been mention of any. I think with a piece that focuses more on location then you need to begin with the largest possible scope before zooming in to your main character.

Also, expand the scenes. Rather than be lazy and say "The crowds were winding down." show us people falling asleep, drunks heading back, and girls covered in beads to show that it's late since you haven't shown the moon, said it's night, or anything. At the moment you are telling us again.

Thanks Ste for the info. I know that I can always count on you to tell me the truth. I have a few points to make though: first being a professor is very important and it does play a part in the story. Just not now. I had previously said that this was short and hard to follow. I didn't give you much, but I have a plan. Just know that. I agree with getting the reader oriented to the location before the main character. I'll fix that. It should'nt take much. Oh and I did show you someone being carried home drunk, but I'll expand. I'm afraid to expand to much then people might say I was too wordy and not getting to the point.

By Stewart: One very important thing is missing from your vision of New Orleans...smells. Crawfish sizzling, warm oils frying, mmmmm.

Have you ever read Poppy Z. Brite? Her stories in New Orleans are an attack on the senses: sounds, smells, tastes all hanging in the air.

I do plan to expand of the voodoo part of it. That's what the whole story is about. The Voodoo religion.

Contrary to popular belief New Orleans has better sights than smells. I think cajunmomma can agree with me here. The french quater reaks of poverty and homelessness. I don't like the way new orleans smells so I choose not to write about it. Crawfish is not in season in the hot months my story is obviously set in the summer. warm oils frying--never in new orleans. That would be in my region of the south. The only fried chicken N.O. has is popeye's. Sorry I proberly distroyed your vision about N.O., whatever that may be, its fake. I prefer the sounds and the sights. One thing I know is N.O. and it don't smell good.

 

[cajunmama]

I agree, the French Quarter only smells good when you are standing in the doorway of a restaraunt.

Laboi, I like the piece. Needs some polish, some expansion, but a good start.

 

[laboi_22]

Thanks cajunmomma. I plan to work more on it. I really like the plot of the story and I think that maybe it'll make a really interesting story.

 

[leckert]

Professor Jonathan Walker leaned up against a rusty pole at the corner of Bourbon and St. Anne Street.

I'm with Stewart on this one. I think you should let the reader take in the big picture. Let us warm up to New Orleans before you drop us in the middle of it

Out of his gray suit pocket, he used his white hanky to wipe his forehead and cheeks of what looked like fresh tomatoes after being sprayed with misty water in the produce department. The slight sound of a C soprano sax belted out in deep blue tones it’s a wonderful world; Ah, the sights and sounds of old New Orleans. It sure was good being back. He pulled his top hat down a notch and saved up his hanky.

He is wearing a gray suit, and a tophat? Not sure I get a clear picture of this guy. Also, I think you are trying to say his face looked like a freshly sprayed tomato, but it doesn't come across clearly here.

I call on Stewart again, to say that whether you like them or not, you need to talk about the smell. I really think that will help bring your story to life. They don't have to be good smells. They don't have to be unique smells. Maybe the smell of the hot asphalt, or the brine decayed smell of pluff mud in the summer. Maybe it is the whiskey rotted breath of one of the homeless people. There absolutely HAS to be a smell. There is smell everywhere. I think you should touch on it here.

Also, in your intro, I got the impression that this was a complete short story that you were considering expanding. I didn't understand that it did not stand alone. I had the same comment about the "Professor" that Stewart had.

As he continued his walk down Bourbon, he threw a few coins to the young boys tap dancing on the sidewalk with coke bottle caps pressed underneath the soles of their shoes.

I like this image. I never thought of this. Interesting!

He nodded to the tourists who were pointing their index fingers at the balconies of old buildings and taking pictures of men wearing masks holding cans of Budweiser yelling, “Show me your tits and I’ll throw you a bead.” Even thought Mardi Gras wouldn’t be around for months, visitors, and citizens alike, keep the tradition of show me your tits and you’ll get a bead going year round. He laughed to himself and remembered his first Mardi Gras in New Orleans. It was cleaner back then. Cops would actually make arrests for such crude behavior, but having seen what he’d seen over the past twenty years in New York, Professor Walker had finally, though he never thought it would happen, became immune to this behavior, and now actually thought it quite funny.

What else might they point other than their index fingers? I think most reasonable readers would assume "index fingers" if they read "pointing". this is where you risk becoming unnecessarily wordy.

You don't need to define the "tradition" with your italicized words show me your tits and you'll get a bead. You define it earlier by what the men are yelling, you could refer to it as "this tradition".

I do not think it is possible to become immune to someone else's behavior. I think you can become hardened, and callous, and can learn to ignore behavior. I do not think "immune" is the right word here.

The crowds were winding down. Groups of partygoers carried friends, who were to drunk to walk, back to their hotel rooms. Shops and bars were putting lights out, and the police presence dwindled to practically none. Homeless families disappeared behind shields of darkness inside littered alleyways. Some stood up and stretched, emptied their pockets, put their will work for food or money signs away, and counted their earnings for the night. Nighttime on Bourbon Street was like no other. If never experienced one would never know. It felt almost too good to be back home; Professor Walker’s wrinkled face carried a perpetual smile.

Again, Stewart beats me to it. You seem to get in a hurry to wrap this scene up. I think there are sights, and sounds, and smells that you aren't sharing with us here. Let it spiral itself out naturally. Don't worry about being too wordy. If done well, the reader will be wrapped in the moment and will not consider how many words there are. You need to take us there.

and her dark pupils changed their shape from round to that of bones, from black to white.

This being a story about Voo-Doo, I assume you mean this literally? If so, it is not described very well. "that of bones" is a poor descriptor, and doesn't flow with the sentence. I would rewrite this.

Startled, he blinked and took his hand back from the woman’s with the changing eyes, and ran for a block up St. Philip’s without stopping or looking back. When he reached Dauphine Street, he slumped over holding his upper body with his hands against his knees. Out of breath and tired from the long flight, he thought about not even finishing his walk to Louis Armstrong Park and returning to his hotel room. But I have to go there tonight, I have to, he thought.

This sounds stilted and unnatural. "He ran for a block up St. Philip's..." This sentence just doesn't read well. I don't think that someone as scared as he was would "run for a block". I think they might "run like a striped-ass ape" or "run like a possum from a redneck" or "run like a three-year old's nose in November", but I don't believe he would "run for a block".

and how about "Rested on his knees" or "Leaned on his knees", or "bent over his knees"? The way you say this is, again, stilted and unnatural. Look for another, less precise, but more descriptive way to say this.

Before he could stand straight up again, his arms flared out from his side, he rocked back onto the heels of his feet, trying to balance himself so as not to fall. But the pain from the middle of his back near his spine was too intense. After trying to hold his large frame up for nearly seconds, he fell backwards on the pavement. He tried yelling for help, but the words wouldn’t come out. There she stood dressed in white this time, smiling.

I get no idea whatsoever how this guy ended up on the ground. You say his "arms flared out...", so, as he is resting on his knees, I would expect his forehead to hit the ground! With all his momentum moving down and forward, how can he possibly rock back on his heels? (please do not say "the heels of his feet". That is painful to read, and should be painful to write.) I don't get this. You should picture in your head exactly how this guy is standing, then go over how he will fall. then try it yourself! (seriously). Bend over with your hands on your knees, and jerk your arms out from under you. See which way you fall, and how your body reacts, then write it down!

I would love to read a New Orleans Voo-Doo story. Please write more.

Please try to omit adjective/adverbial prepositional phrases. (i.e. heels of his feet)

Glad you can write amidst what has happened in your home state. How close are you to New Orleans? Did you get any damage?

I am glad you are hanging in here with TBF, Laboi! Good to see you posting!

 

[novella]

Hi laboi,

Sorry to hear how rough things are down your way. Hope the pressure is easing off a little.

I took the liberty of deleting about a third to a half of the piece here, thinking it would benefit a lot from harsh pruning. Also I smoothed over a little here and there. I'm suggesting this more as a guide to cutting than to writing. Hope you don't mind.

In my experience whatever you leave out will be filled in better by the reader. .


Edited text follows:





Walker leaned up against a pole at the corner of Bourbon and St. Anne. He wiped his face with a handkerchief. A sax somewhere belted out an old Armstrong tune over the chaotic noises of the street. New Orleans. It was good to be back.

He pulled his top hat down and walked down Bourbon, past three boys tap dancing on the sidewalk, bottle caps on the soles of their shoes. Tourists took pictures of men in masks holding cans of Budweiser. One of the men yelled, “Show me your tits and I’ll throw you a bead” to a girl on the balcony overhead, though Mardi Gras wouldn’t be around for months.

The crowds were thinning out. The merely tipsy carried friends too drunk to walk back to their hotels. Shops and bars put lights out in an unsynchronized show of flickers and closing shutters. The homeless disappeared behind their cardboard shields of darkness. As Walker approached, a wiry black man stood from his squat and stretched, emptied his pockets, and hid his 'will work for food or money' sign behind a dumpster. "G'night, now, Mr. Magician" he drawled, showing a gold front tooth as he nodded in Walker's direction. Walker tipped his hat, reminded of the phrase "honor among thieves."

He turned left at St. Philip. Without warning he walked straight into a frail woman in black, knocking her to the ground.

“Sorry, excuse me, ma’am.” He held out his hand to help her to her feet. When her eyes met his, he swore that her dark pupils changed shape from round to the shape of bones, from black to white. Startled, he loosed his grip and shook her off. He turned and ran flat out, instinctively, though he was far from fit. At Dauphine Street, he slumped over, out of breath. His hands were shaking, and he felt his evening brandy coursing through his veins, throbbing in his temples. He considered heading back, giving up his walk to Armstrong Park, and returning to his hotel room instead. But I have to go there tonight, I have to, he thought.

Before he could stand up again, he felt an intense pain at the base of his neck. The streetlights swirled above as he went down, striking his skull on the bluestone path. He tried to yell for help, but the words wouldn’t come. And there she stood, smiling down.

“Rest in peace professor man, and may Bondye be with you.”

 

[laboi_22]

Wow Novella that really sounds great. You didn't change the whole concept of the story you just changed around sentences and re-worded it. Thanks. Now I'll have to work on this piece and change it in the same way that you did just maybe a little diffrent. Hmmm Not sure how to make any better than you just did, but I'll try. Thanks. And thanks Leckert for all the advice. As always you add a lot of insight and meaning to your review. Thanks.

by Leckert: Glad you can write amidst what has happened in your home state. How close are you to New Orleans? Did you get any damage?

I am glad you are hanging in here with TBF, Laboi! Good to see you posting!

I feel writing helps me remember the way New Orleans was. It brings me back to when I was a kid walking with my mother downtown holding her hand. So what better way to remember than to write. I didn't get any damage here. I live about 11/2 hours away (west) of New Orleans. I just got rain and wind here thats all. Nothing compared to the damage N.O. encountered.

Thanks again everyone for the help. I do intent to write more about this story. Thanks