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The Job (less than half of an unfinished story).

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Old 09-02-2017, 04:10 PM
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Default The Job (less than half of an unfinished story).


This is something I'm working on. It's a long short story. I've put it down and picked it back up for a few weeks but still can't figure out where it's going to end. Maybe someone has some suggestions?

The Job

Kenner poured the wine. The drawing room was three times as big as Mitchell's apartment if you included the height of the ceiling. He looked up at the painting in the dome, people in a field and demons or some kind of monsters devouring or molesting a few of the villagers while others went on about their lives like nothing was happening. It looked Chinese; he couldn't say why.

"It's an eighty-nine Bordeaux," said Kenner. "Very strange year," he said. "Started out wet and dreary but a mild winter and a gloriously hot summer gave these grapes something unique. Do you drink much wine?"

"No," said Mitchell. "I mean—I'm more of a beer guy. Maybe a couple shots of Vodka."

"Yes, well, stations I guess."

"Yeah," said Mitchell.

"—but the wine isn't why I called you here. It's my son. He's a very bright boy but—"

"I'm excited to meet him," said Mitchell with a little too much enthusiasm. He wanted to make a good impression; he needed the work.

"You'll meet him directly. First I wanted to go over a few things with you—just between us."

"Yes," said Mitchell. "Sure."

"As I said, he's a bright boy but he has his quirks. Do you know what I mean by quirks?"

"Well Mr. Kenner, all boys his age have a little trouble fitting in. What's he, thirteen?"

"Just turned," said Kenner. "But I don't think his—oh, I hate to call them troubles—his quirkiness is just your standard junior high school blues. He's always been different, and now it seems impossible to hide the fact."

"Have you had him tested? You know, a psychologist? I'm sure it could be done privately."

Kenner held his glass up to the afternoon light from the bay window. He seemed to be studying it. "There is no such thing as privately for a Kenner I'm afraid," he said. "Things have to be dealt with of course, but in a more internal affairs sort of way. You follow?"

"Oh, yes sir, I would never say anything—"

"I should hope not," said Kenner. "I'm paying you an awful lot of money for this and that's part of the deal." Mitchell could tell it was a joke but not a joke.

"Yeah, I understand."

"My son Jessup has his head in the clouds, imaginary friends, fantasy worlds, all that unreality. I assume you've taken classes in child psychology, development, that sort of thing?"

"It's required for teachers," said Mitchell. "But I'm not a specialist." He lifted his glass and held it to the light as he'd seen Kenner do. The wine wasn't clear like he'd expected but when spun slowly around the glass, was gorged with tiny particles. It looked more hearty than refined. He didn't know wine though; maybe that's how it was supposed to be. He took a sip. The taste wasn't terrible but he wished it was a beer. It would take several later to wash that taste out of his mouth.

"Yes, not an expert, but you'd be able to tell me if you noticed anything worrying wouldn't you? I mean, anything I should worry about."

"I've been teaching for almost ten years. I have a lot of experience with kids his age."

"Good, good," said Kenner.
He stood up smartly, his long lean body flexing with poise, experience, and rang a small bell across the room at a teal colored door. While they waited he said: "when Jessup's mother passed he was very young. Maybe it's just as simple as that."

The teal door opened and a large woman pushed through it. She was wearing a denim maids outfit, a matching hat, with a big white apron wrapped around it all. It looked tight in all the wrong places. Mitchell thought she could probably kick his ass.

"Ah Miriam," said Kenner. " show Mr. Mitchell here to the library and bring Jessup down to meet him if you can." He turned to Mitchell and said: "he's a good boy really, but sometimes he refuses to do what he's told. You understand."

"Yeah," said Mitchell.

He followed the woman back out the door and down a large hallway, around past the kitchen—the smell of fresh bread and spices—and through a set of double doors she closed behind them. "You can sit," she said. "There." She pointed to a large mahogany table at one end. "Or you can stand if you prefer." Her voice was not at all what he expected. It was high and melodic. She'd been educated too. "I'll summon the boy," she said.

Mitchell turned to look at the books. He'd always loved walls full of books. Without his glasses he couldn't read any of the bindings, but the smell—

When he turned back around Miriam was gone. Vanished into thin air. He hadn't heard the big doors opening or closing. There must've been a secret passage. Kenner was paying fifteen hundred a week plus room and board for the summer. Mitchell could deal with a little hocus-pocus. And what? All for teaching some spoiled rich kid some algebra and history? He sat down at one of the five chairs around the table and waited.

He was thinking about the dinners they must have around this place, not to mention the breakfasts and lunches, when there was a knock.

"Come—in?"

The right door opened slowly, and Mitchell was wondering why the boy would knock in his own house when a girl popped through the opening.

"Oh, I was expecting Jessup," said Mitchell. "Is he coming?"

The girl swept her fingers across a shelf of volumes making her way behind him. "Jessup doesn't want to meet you," she said. "He won't come down until you promise."

"Promise?" said Mitchell. "Promise what? I'm only here to keep him at grade level over the summer."

The girl rounded the table, knocking on the dark wood with each step. She couldn't have been more than ten. Her blonde hair and midwestern pug nose made her look younger than she probably was. "Are you his—sister?" he asked.

She laughed a little, or rather, smirked. "Jessup's sister? No, Jessup doesn't have a sister. He's an only child."

"So—a friend?"

She scooted herself around and sat down in front of him.

"Jessup doesn't have friends Mr. Mitchell. He has people that help him but they're not his friends. No one is." She seemed much older now. She talked like a college student.

"How old are you?" He asked.

"I don't see how it matters, but I'm a year older than Jessup, almost to the day."

"Fourteen," he said. "You speak like you're much older."

"I'm small for my age."

"Yeah," said Mitchell. "So—if you're not Jessup's sister or his friend, who are you in all this? You seem to know quite a bit about what's going on."

"Right now I'm a messenger," she said.

Mitchell mulled it over in his head. A messenger. This Jessup might be weirder than he thought. Who the fuck has a messenger at thirteen years old? Hell, Mitchell was still playing World of Warcraft at thirteen and eating his boogers.

"So—the promise Mr. Mitchell?"

"Promise to what?" He said.

"A promise to do no harm. It's simple really. No conditions or qualifications. Just do no harm."

Mitchell wasn't sure what to make of the request. He was familiar with the concept and all its implications but in this context he wasn't sure what it meant. "Do no harm," he repeated. He thought about the Buddha, Jesus, Zen, all that shit and decided.

"Okay, I promise," he said. "I mean, what's the harm?"

"A pun Mr. Mitchell. Very good."
She rose and slid smoothly to the doors. "Jessup will like that."

This whole thing was getting weirder by the moment. Who were these fucking people? It was like a world within a world here. Had these people been so secluded and rich that they felt they could just do anything they wanted? He half expected a retarded kid to appear on top of one of the bookshelves and play Dueling Banjos.

He was too weirded-out to sit so he walked the shelves looking for familiar titles. Without his glasses he could only read the bindings with large lettering. He found one called: Proprium Diaboli. He opened to the middle and found erotic paintings, very explicit paintings, details of labias being pulled open with strange implements and gross penetrations he'd thought only invented by modern fetishists. The book looked like it might have been written in the fifteen or sixteen hundreds. He couldn't read any of the text but he scrolled through the colored paintings in the middle. Weird and exciting in way he felt sick about liking. He put the book back.

There was another with large white letters that said: In Crucem Acto. He remembered the Latin word for crucifixion and thought it would be about the passion and Christianity, but it wasn't. Instead, there were paintings of animal and human mutilations. This one he closed quickly.

From behind him came a voice. "Are you interested in old books Mr. Mitchell? If you want, I can have Miriam move some of them to your quarters." The voice was young, just starting to crack with the change of puberty but definite, sure of itself.

Mitchell turned to face Jessup. The boys hair was long, shoulder length and brown like his fathers. A crisp brown without being too dark. He was smiling with what Mitchell took to be honest temerity, a grin but more than that. "Jessup—I assume?" he said.

"I see you've found my fathers books. He loves the old stuff, the weirder and more obscene the better. He's not a bad guy but he has predilections outside the norm of society," said Jessup.

"Predilections? Outside the norms of society? Are you sure you're only thirteen years old?" said Mitchell.

Jessup pulled a chair and sat. He looked tired. "Can we get to why you're here Mr. Mitchell?"

"Oh, I think we should sir." Mitchell bowed in mock acquiescence. "I thought I'd be teaching some rich kid a little math and science, but you seem to be a surprising handful more than I'd expected."

Jessup smiled again. He scooted his chair in looked at Mitchell, reading him. "You look surprised," he said.

"Yeah well I don't meet a lot of people like you around the places I live. In fact, I'm not sure why I'm going to even tell you this but in the forty-five seconds I've known you I'm pretty sure you don't need my help. But—I need this job. Your dad offered me an amount of money to tutor you and a place to stay for the summer. I need that. I have no idea how he got my name or picked me or anything, but—"

Jessup looked down at the table, maybe out of respect. "I think you'll do fine Mr. Mitchell," he said. "I look forward to our lessons."

Mitchell continued standing; he was too juiced up to sit. The week before he'd gotten the divorce papers in the mail. His ex was getting the house, the car, and full custody of their daughter. He'd be allowed his old truck, a few personal possessions and his clothes. Her new boyfriend had already moved in. His best friend Bart told him to get a lawyer in the beginning; he hadn't listened.

Jessup had a way of looking at a person that was unnerving, like he was looking for something specific. Mitchell didn't know what it was but the boy seemed to give him a pass. "My father will be waiting for you," he said.

Mitchell wanted to ask about the promise but he didn't. "We can start on Monday, alright?" he said. Jessup nodded.

Just as the silence began to become awkward the double doors opened and Miriam stood at attention in the hallway. "This way Mr. Mitchell," she said. "Mr. Kenner wishes you to get your things settled in the guest house and relax for the rest of the weekend."

The guest house was a small cottage three times larger than his crummy apartment in the city. It had high ceilings, two lavishly furnished bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen and an office with all the modern trimmings. Mitchell could get used to this. There was a Keurig machine on the kitchen counter and the first thing he did was make a cup of coffee. He dug through the linen -lined basket of choices and found one with a skull and crossbones on it. He wanted a strong cup.

An hour later he unloaded his things from his pickup and once inside, alone, removed all his clothes—basking for a few minutes in a freedom from the worry and stress and obligations to life. His balls needed some air. He wondered what his (now) ex wife was doing. He tried to picture her somewhere in their house but all he saw was her laughing a fake laugh, smiling a fake smile. That bitch. He wondered how long it would take his daughter—she was two—to forget him. Parental visits to be worked out at the discretion of his wife, ha!
Fucking bitch. Was it his fault he worked two jobs to keep food on the table while suffering her lavish spending habits? His fault he often came home late after working fourteen hours—eight at Kenmore Junior High, and five more at Lennon's Bar?

So he drank a little too much some nights. He was a fucking bartender. Wouldn't anyone?

He went to the fridge and found it stocked with all the stuff he liked, deli ham and provolone, pickles, mayo, apples, oranges, jalapeño slices, Blue Fairy yogurt, and beer—two kinds. Blue Moon, and pints of Arrogant Bastard. Kenner had done his homework. The last thought made him feel uncomfortable, violated almost.

"Fucking Kenner," he whispered under his breath. "What's this all about?"


Last edited by brianpatrick; 09-02-2017 at 05:21 PM..
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Old 09-02-2017, 05:06 PM
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random capitalised L for lean

this Jessup might be wierder than he thought

From behind him came a voice.......it was young.... (Too much in between to register the 'it'reference as his voice...stumbled on both reads.) The voice was young.

what his (now) ex wife was doing... brackets or commas for a smooth read.



Loving this BP. Excellent dialogue and scene setting...great read.

Ideas of where to go from here...

Seems this guy Mitchell doesn't have sufficient pedigree for the position - so his attractiveness is either in a dark past that Kenner can threaten to use against him - or the kid himself selected this tutor because he researched his weaknesses - and his summer sport is to drive Mitchell crazy or destroy his life - or both preferably.

The kid and his father are sadists - Kenner is in on it - he's knowingly indulging his son with a gift that they can both enjoy. Father and son make a jolly wager between them and set up a series of orchestrated events that will culminate in Mitchell not being allowed to see his kids again, work with children again, drive him to drink, provoke him to violence...etc.

All I've got Bri - I'm tired tonight.
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Old 09-02-2017, 05:55 PM
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Thanks Grace. I found all that stuff and fixed.

The story is twice as long as I posted. More mysteries and oddities but nowhere near a conclusion.

I like the idea about torturing this guy for sport. It's not what I usually write but Halloween is coming up, so...
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Old 09-03-2017, 11:49 AM
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It seems stylistically that you have two worlds going on. You zip from Engish manor born to what, Arizona?

It has a good flow but IMO the styles flip too soon or too easily.
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Old 09-03-2017, 12:09 PM
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Originally Posted by Mohican View Post
It seems stylistically that you have two worlds going on. You zip from Engish manor born to what, Arizona?

It has a good flow but IMO the styles flip too soon or too easily.


My intention was that the Kenner's were South-east coast old money. Ultra-wealthy and have been for generations. I was trying to create a cut-off secluded existence for the family and the compound. What attracted me to the idea was how weird a guy like mitchell would see such a place.

Presumably, Jessup has some problems which prevent him from going the traditional route for a Kenner—elite boarding school, and then to an Ivy League college. If you think about it carefully this doesn't make sense. I mean, the Kenner's, if their intentions were honest would have just hired private tutors for the boy and paid their way into a degree from somewhere worthy of their class. But I like the juxtaposition, and tried to drop hints, foreshadowing, that something weird was going on here.

It might not work, though. This is one that just popped out and I'm what feels like about halfway but still haven't found an ending.

I have about double what I've posted here. I post that up and see what people think.

I have dozens of these unfinished stories waiting for an ending.
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Old 09-03-2017, 01:45 PM
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Originally Posted by Mohican View Post
It seems stylistically that you have two worlds going on. You zip from Engish manor born to what, Arizona?

It has a good flow but IMO the styles flip too soon or too easily.
Conversely, that really worked for me. Didn't give me an English aristocracy vibe - just old money and the elitism it provides.

The contrast makes the reader immediately aware that Mitchell is an unlikely placement - both socially and intellectually disadvantaged against father and son. Mitchell needs the money too badly to listen to any warning bells.

Spells out the social chasm between them and makes the reader (or just this reader) afraid for Mitchell. He's too straightforward to understand or even guess at their games.

Bri, can't we have some more please? Doesn't matter if its raw.
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Old 09-03-2017, 02:52 PM
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Default The Job (less than half of an unfinished story).

The Job (cont'd)

I wouldn't say this section is raw, but it's maybe less picked over than the first part I posted.


The Bastards were fresh. He drank one standing in the kitchen, forcing the last few swallows in, then opened a second. He dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and watched the sun set from the dining room window.

At 8:15 he called Bart. "I left my glasses there in your place."

"Your glasses?"

"Yeah. I can't see shit without 'em." He said.

Mitchell could hear Bart bumbling around the apartment, looking. "I haven't seen them," Bart said. "Stacie might have found 'em and put 'em away somewhere. You know how she is."

"Yeah," said Mitchell. "Well, if you find them—"

"I'll call you right away. Hey—how's the new gig, man?"

Mitchell was sitting in the dark four pints in. He took a long swallow. "Seems fine," he said. "It'll work itself out. Good money."

There was a silence; Bart cleared his throat several times. They'd been friends since the sixth grade. "Call me if you need anything bro," he said.

"Call me when you find my glasses," said Mitchell.

The cottage was dropped into a woods, twenty-seven acres of beech, walnut, yellowwood, cypress and tupelo leaning over and watching the place. It was almost a mile from the main house which was really three houses linked by winding walkways and a system of terraces and bridges. Four generations of Kenner's had graced the grounds, built by old man Kenner in the nineteen twenties.

Kenner Industries owned everything from television stations, media outlets, newspapers, and radio stations, to probably the company that made the toilet paper Mitchell wiped his ass with. Virgil Kenner, the old man, had purchased several patents from an investor initiated by Nikola Tesla. He saw the genius, or maybe he just got lucky.

Now drunk, Mitchell moved toward the bedroom but made it only as far as the lavishly pillowed couch. When he woke up it was light and someone was knocking at the door. He lay for a while suffering the noise before tilting up and staggering blindly to make it stop.

He opened the door and there was a woman with a covered silver tray. She was his age, maybe younger, with short black hair and bright green eyes. She was wearing a smaller replica of the denim maids outfit Miriam had worn the day before.

"Hello," he said. He was bloodshot and the pillows on the couch had left an imprint across his forehead, through his eye, down his cheek and around his chin.

"I brought you breakfast Mr. Mitchell," she said.

Mitchell had to pee. His bladder was going to burst. "Can you set it on the table for me?" He said, heading for the bathroom. When he sat down on the toilet, he always sat to pee, he started to poop as well. He finished, wiped and checked himself in the mirror quickly. He wanted to get out there and talk to this woman; she was very cute, but when he opened the door she was gone.

After breakfast he took his truck up to the main house in search of Mr. Kenner. He'd been going to report back (sort of) what went down in his meeting with Jessup, but was told that Mr. Kenner had been called away on business and wouldn't return for a couple of weeks. Fine. Mitchell didn't want to have to feel like he needed to report in anyway. This would give him time to get settled into a routine with the young man, not worry about oversight.

He found Miriam in the kitchen where she and the cook were prepping for dinner. "Mr. Mitchell," she said. "How was your breakfast?"
She was dipping something from a plain white teacup.

"It was good—really good." He looked around for the other maid but she wasn't there. Just as well, a woman was the last thing he really needed. The cook smiled, nodding a short acknowledgement of his compliment. She was round and black and pleasant to look at. She spoke briefly to Miriam in what sounded like French and Miriam answered her in the same language.

"French?" he said.

"Dutch," Mr. Mitchell.

There was silence. The two women were not going to engage in regular conversation so Mitchell created an out. "Hey, has Jessup got any school books that would show me what level he's been working at? I brought some stuff I thought would be appropriate but after meeting him I'm not sure."

"I'll gather a few things and have them delivered to the guest house Mr. Mitchell."

"Great—great," he said, quickly leaving.

He wandered the hallways poking in and out of an endless number of rooms but saw nobody else. There was an elevator at the west end of the main house across from an atrium filled with exotic plants and flowers and he pressed the button, but the door never opened, so he went out through the atrium which opened to a large stable area where it looked like he might find horses. But there were no horses, and in fact, no nothing—just empty stalls. No tools, no gear, no animals, and no people. Weird.

He made his way around the perimeter of the property just looking. He wasn't looking for the pretty maid, but if she happened to show up maybe he could satisfy a curiosity skimming the back of his mind.

And just as quickly as he'd thought it there she was, sitting beneath a tree reading. She acknowledged him and went back to her book. He was going to keep walking but she said: "you can sit down Mr. Mitchell. I won't bite."

"Well, I don't want to bother you there—reading and all."

"Suit yourself," she said.

"I mean—so—what are you reading?"

"It's a French novel. You read French Mr. Mitchell?"

"You can call me Devon," he said. "No need to be so formal. I took a year of French in college, but no—I don't read French."

She'd changed out of her maids outfit and was wearing a thin summery dress, the lightest pink with large reddish flowers.
She noticed him looking. "Miriam gave most of the staff the day off. When Mr. Kenner's away it's quiet."

"Yeah," he said. "Hey, can I ask you something? I mean—what's going on here? I'm—just so out of place, not used to this kind of thing maybe. I dunno, maybe it just takes getting used to or whatever, but, is it as weird as it seems? You know—Jessup, the girl—I didn't get her name—Miriam, Kenner, and well, you seem pretty normal so far, but..."

"My name is Keely," she said. "I've been here almost three years and I still can't get used to it. It seems you have to be born into it to feel at home. There's Miriam—she's the Staff head, Angelique the cook, Mason the chauffeur—have you met him yet?—Jessup, Carl the groundskeeper, and I'm not sure what girl you're talking about. Oh, and Michael. He is Mr. Kenner's butler. His sister has been ill. He's been on leave for some time. I hope he comes back; he is such a nice man, so gentle and funny in his way."

"The girl in the library. She's fourteen, pug nose, looks young for her age? She asked me to make a 'promise' before Jessup would come down and meet me yesterday."

"Hmm," said Keely. "Not sure about a girl. Miriam has a daughter but she's in her twenties. I met her once; she doesn't live here."

"She said she was a messenger for Jessup."

"A messenger? Not sure Devon," she said. Her smile was infectious and he smiled too.

"Aw, forget it," he said. "I'm only here for the summer."

"You have your hands full with Jessup."

"He is a handful, but honestly, I get the feeling he doesn't need much help."

"What gives you that feeling Mr. Mitchell?"

"He was so—clear. Tired, yeah, but—"

"He seemed like an adult already at thirteen?"

"Yeah," said Mitchell. "He did."

"That maturity is a cloak he wears Mr. Mitchell. He wants something; I'm not sure what, but his pursuit is relentless. And honestly, I'm not sure what he wants is real at all."

"Hmm—" he said. Keely went back to her reading and when the silence grew awkward he excused himself.

Miriam had some of Jessup's school materials and samples of work delivered to the guest house. They were waiting for him when he walked in the door. These people were nothing if not efficient.

There was Sterne's Geometry. A Random House Standard English Composition, Morris and Co. Earth Science, half a dozen workbooks on a variety of topics, all at average grade level or so. Mitchell thumbed through a couple of the completed workbooks. Apart from poor penmanship he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

There were two novels, Madame Bovary, and Huckleberry Finn. Mitchell taught English to 7th and 8th graders. He was sure Jessup either hadn't really read them or didn't get much if he did. He was aware of standard curriculum but always tried to assign more entertaining choices. Maybe he'd assign Jessup some Bukowski; that'd keep the kid busy for a while.

He undressed and showered. The red phone in the kitchen rang and when he answered it was Miriam. "Mr. Mitchell, dinner will be served at seven in the main dining room. You can come or I can have a plate sent out."

Mitchell looked at the clock on the stove. "I've got enough food here," he said.

"As you wish Mr. Mitchell."

It flashed in him that Keely would bring the plate; he wanted to talk to her more, but he hung up before the thought took hold.

He made himself a sandwich, cracked a Blue Moon, and sat on the couch. His balls sagged just right and his limp dick laid nicely on his left thigh. He tried to think about Keely, what her long thin body looked like naked. He imagined her neatly trimmed bush, her small round tits, but the face of Kathryn, his ex, kept popping up.

He finished his sandwich and drank another beer. And another. And another. When he fell asleep in the smooth white bed it felt like spinning heaven. Spinning fluffy cool white heaven. He dreamt of what Jessup might be like to work with, a wormy little punk pretending to be something his daddy's money allowed him to be. It was an indefinite dream. Mitchell didn't care about the boy. There were no feelings there. He woke for a second and tried to push his brain to think about Keely. Her smooth legs. Her stomach muscles flexing, her back arching, her eyes rolling back, and suddenly she was there. She bent forward, kissing and sucking his neck, his chest, his nipples. He lifted her, under her long thighs, pulling her to his mouth, her center meeting his lips then immediately rocking back and forth across them. He stabbed with his tongue; he wanted to keep her there for as long as he could. "I pee a little sometimes when I—" she whispered. "I don't care," he said. She grabbed his hair tight and pushed herself into him.

The next hour was slow and skilled and satisfying. She fell asleep on top of him finally in mid ear kiss. "This has to stay between us," she'd said seconds before. "Our secret."

In the morning she was gone. He gathered the sheets and put them in the washer. Someone could have easily convinced him the whole thing had been a dream if the sheets hadn't said otherwise.

He made coffee and stood naked in the kitchen. It was 7:35am and Jessup was to meet him for their first lesson at nine in the library. Mitchell thought maybe there was time to get to the house and find Keely before the deadline. He remembered her words: 'this has to stay between us.' Well, he wouldn't blow a good thing, if that's what this was.
He just wanted to see her face, make sure the whole thing was what he thought. He shouldn't have been so excited.

Jessup was seated when Mitchell bunked through the library doors, dropping one of the novels he'd brought. "I was bringing this 'cause I thought you might like it," he said. "I teach English to kids your age."

Jessup looked more tired than before. "To read?" asked the boy.

"Yeah, well, I thought maybe you'd..."

"You thought I'd enjoy some light entertainment?"

Last edited by brianpatrick; 09-03-2017 at 03:23 PM..
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Old 09-03-2017, 03:19 PM
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Bravo, I must say! that was well written. Plot wise I don't think that Kenner and Jessup are working together. My thoughts were that Jessup was a Physcopath (Not necessarily the murdering kind yet, just able to manipulate people and pull of emotions easily.) Kenner has picked up on this, and thinks it is odd. I'm no Dr. Phil, but Kenner seems to be mildly Sociopathic. Perhaps the death of a certain character would create somewhere to go?


Grammar wise, and punctuation, 2nd part, 38th paragraph, "My name is keely" Keely isn't capitalized.
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  #9  
Old 09-03-2017, 08:19 PM
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Originally Posted by Lockette View Post
Bravo, I must say! that was well written. Plot wise I don't think that Kenner and Jessup are working together. My thoughts were that Jessup was a Physcopath (Not necessarily the murdering kind yet, just able to manipulate people and pull of emotions easily.) Kenner has picked up on this, and thinks it is odd. I'm no Dr. Phil, but Kenner seems to be mildly Sociopathic. Perhaps the death of a certain character would create somewhere to go?





Grammar wise, and punctuation, 2nd part, 38th paragraph, "My name is keely" Keely isn't capitalized.


Thanks Lock...

I fixed the capital 'K'

Yeah, when I started Mr. Kenner and his son were not going to work together, but I had no idea what they were going to do. I'm putting some serious thought into it. If they are say, doing some blood sport for Jessup's 13th year (manhood) I'd have to go back and change a few details, but it could work.

I'll think about it.

Thanks for the read.
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  #10  
Old 09-04-2017, 05:05 AM
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Haven't read the second section yet, but have read the comments to it. I thought it was very well written, and like Grace I totally got the juxtaposition you were going for. Dialogue was fluid and believable. The description to pacing ratio was spot-on, and descriptions didn't feel forced at all, but slipped naturally in to the story. Was one of those reads that scoots along because there's nothing to trip you.

I have to admit I thought the girl who came in after Miriam left and before Jessup came would turn out to be Jessup in drag - would explain all the allusions to Jessup's oddities- but your comments after made me think again. I'll read the rest now and edit this if there's anything I want to add.

Edit: am back to believing the girl is Jessup . Second part was not quite as good as the first, though still very good and readable. I got particularly caught up on the dialogue between Keely and Devon, mainly this line: "That maturity is a cloak he wears Mr. Mitchell. He wants something; I'm not sure what, but his pursuit is relentless. And honestly, I'm not sure what he wants is real at all" it's hard to buy that Keely simultaneously doesn't know what Jessup wants while knowing his want is relentless and suspecting what he wants isn't real. Later developments might prove me wrong, but it seems like you're setting yourself up for some complexities with trying to fulfil these lines later on. In all I think you're hanging slightly too hard on trying to intensify the strangeness you already captured and delineated in the first section. Personally I was already convinced, and further convincing seems a tad like force-feeding while the way you've written the rest is distinctly self-service.

But all in all, the second part still makes me want to read on.

Last edited by eripiomundus; 09-04-2017 at 05:32 AM..
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  #11  
Old 09-04-2017, 09:57 AM
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Really good writing all around. Setting the scene, establishing the characters. Spot on with just the right amount of details and description.

Absolutely loved the tension created by this guy dealing with a kid who could intimidate and get the better of him -- and all the mystery you've created with the wall of books etc.

I was all in until he fucked the maid -- I know you tried to mitigate it with his own disbelief -- but it didn't wash with me. Yeah -- shit happens, but it didn't seem likely or plausible to me. But maybe you can make it work somehow.

Pretty darned good so far. Why the heck are you posting this in "Fiction?"
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  #12  
Old 09-04-2017, 10:05 AM
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Originally Posted by eripiomundus View Post
Haven't read the second section yet, but have read the comments to it. I thought it was very well written, and like Grace I totally got the juxtaposition you were going for. Dialogue was fluid and believable. The description to pacing ratio was spot-on, and descriptions didn't feel forced at all, but slipped naturally in to the story. Was one of those reads that scoots along because there's nothing to trip you.

I have to admit I thought the girl who came in after Miriam left and before Jessup came would turn out to be Jessup in drag - would explain all the allusions to Jessup's oddities- but your comments after made me think again. I'll read the rest now and edit this if there's anything I want to add.

Edit: am back to believing the girl is Jessup . Second part was not quite as good as the first, though still very good and readable. I got particularly caught up on the dialogue between Keely and Devon, mainly this line: "That maturity is a cloak he wears Mr. Mitchell. He wants something; I'm not sure what, but his pursuit is relentless. And honestly, I'm not sure what he wants is real at all" it's hard to buy that Keely simultaneously doesn't know what Jessup wants while knowing his want is relentless and suspecting what he wants isn't real. Later developments might prove me wrong, but it seems like you're setting yourself up for some complexities with trying to fulfil these lines later on. In all I think you're hanging slightly too hard on trying to intensify the strangeness you already captured and delineated in the first section. Personally I was already convinced, and further convincing seems a tad like force-feeding while the way you've written the rest is distinctly self-service.

But all in all, the second part still makes me want to read on.


Thanks for reading and the comments. Yeah, the whole thing is overextending the mystery too much. Usually I just start writing with a scene in mind and see where it leads. But this one never lead anywhere so I just kept writing.

You've given me a good idea with the girl in the library being Jessup. I mean, I'd have to change their meeting because I don't think a 13 year old boy would be able to fool an adult for very long in drag. Especially with his voice starting to change.

Thanks again.

If your idea works out I'll post the whole story in members only and see what you guys think.
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  #13  
Old 09-04-2017, 02:31 PM
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She was wearing a denim maids outfit, a matching hat, with a big white apron wrapped around it all. It looked tight in all the wrong places. Mitchell thought she could probably kick his ass.
People who struggle with the amount of character description could really learn something from this.
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  #14  
Old 09-04-2017, 11:22 PM
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Originally Posted by Myers View Post
People who struggle with the amount of character description could really learn something from this.


Well, if you asked me to explain how this description happened, I wouldn't be able to. It just popped out. I guess I could thank Jesus for it, but that would be disingenuous.
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