Month: April 2021

The Story of Hope – First 1000 Words

Posted on by johnpriceauthor

Laundromat

Here are the first 1000 words to my next short story, ‘The Story of Hope’. In the upcoming days (maybe even next Monday, this week is going to be busy for me) I’ll post the next 1000 words. The release of the short story will be the second week in May. With that being said, here are the first 1000 words. I hope you enjoy.

“IF I SAW A CHILD get fucked in the ass by a priest, I’d put a stop to it! That’s the difference between me and your god,” Hope heard someone say as a man walked through the door and into the laundromat where she was sitting. Somebody was yelling just as he was walking in, and she couldn’t tell if he was the one who did the yelling, or the one who got yelled at. 

Something about him was off-putting but she couldn’t put her finger on it. He didn’t bring in any laundry…maybe that’s what it was? She didn’t know. He walked across the room, sat down in a corner and pulled out something to read. There was nothing about the way he looked or was dressed that would stand out. He was bald, slightly overweight and wore khaki pants with a black t-shirt with something written on it that she couldn’t make out.

Hope’s head was hurting and she was annoyed. She sat on the wooden bench with her back pressed against the warm, brick wall and listened to the humming of the washing machines. The sound they made annoyed her, but there was nothing she could do about it. Washing clothes…one of life’s little requirements. To take her mind off of it, she occupied herself with an outdated iPhone with a cracked screen. There was nothing else to do but switch back and forth on apps, Instagram to Bumble…Instagram to bumble. It was monotonous, but she was bound to the seat for the time being, waiting for her clothes to finish their cycle. 

She could always leave and come back, but this would result in returning to an empty washing machine. Apps were the only source of entertainment in this shithole.

It was hot outside…really hot. There was a humidity to the air that was oppressive, and taxing. Stepping outside this time of year would almost take a person’s breath away. How roofers and construction workers managed was beyond her. Even in the early evening it was almost too much. The humidity and heat inside the laundromat wasn’t much better. The sweat on Hope’s chest and back soaked her shirt, and the beads ran down her face. Her dyed blonde hair stuck to her skin, and she brushed it back. She could almost feel the strands of hair pulling at her as she used her hand to comb it back and looked up at the name of the business.

Falling Creek Laundromat was spelled in bold, black letters on a large white rectangular sign that hung above the dryers. Rust had corroded the corners where the screws were, and a large dent in the middle gave the impression that someone had thrown something at it at one point? A basket? A shovel? Who knows? 

Like most places in Richmond, Falling Creek Laundromat, was named after something from the past. Jefferson Davis Highway, Archibald Cary, Henricus, the list was seemingly endless…and annoying. 

The buzzer from the old, frumpy machine sounded, signaling an end to her first load. The second load was not far behind, maybe another 10 or so minutes remaining. Some of the machines were out of order, a testament to how run down the place was. Laundromats were the worst. For a place to clean clothes, they always seemed to be so, so…dirty.

Or maybe it was just this one.

After the machine in her apartment died last week, Hope had to get a new one, but it wasn’t going to be delivered until Thursday. That was the earliest they could get it to her. The Falling Creek Laundromat was just down the road from where she worked, so it only made sense to wash her clothes once she left for the day, but she hated it. She didn’t think she was too privileged or a goody two shoes, she just hated the environment and overall griminess of things. 

Damn I have too many clothes, she thought. She pulled the wet items out and put them into a white lavender-scented trash bag. Lavender was one of her favorite scents. It was welcoming, calm, and helped her fall asleep at night. A pair of pants fell on the floor. “Fuck,” she said aloud. Oh well. As much as it sucked, she was not about to rewash it, and drying them would have to take place at home. The sound of the plop let her know there was still too much water in the pants, and would most likely need to go through the dryer more than once.

She sat back down on the wooden bench and pressed her back against the wall and sighed. She didn’t want to be here one minute longer than she needed; just being in this place made her uneasy. She imagined it was the type of place where shady drug deals went down. 

In and out people came and went. The hinges on one of the glass doors was loose, allowing the door to swing past the entrance, further than it should. Children ran around the old machines, unwatched by their parents. It was a pedophile’s dream come true, especially for that creepy ass man sitting in the corner who had just come a few minutes ago. 

He was reading something. A magazine? A book? From here, she couldn’t tell. But something about him gave her the jitters and she didn’t know why.

She pulled her phone back out, put in the passcode and continued to swipe through the thirsty men on Bumble. A left swipe here, a right swipe there. Cute ones always got a right swipe. Like a resume for a prominent white collar job, Hope completely ignored their profiles, as they were most likely full of shit. It was their resume to the dating world, and as everyone in HR knows, resumes are padded with bullshit. 

Online dating profiles were no different. 

Thomas…a cute, 34 year old light skinned, biracial guy with hazel eyes. Damn…he was cute! She couldn’t help herself. She swiped right and the match was instant. 

Boom! Connected!

Let’s Talk About Hope

Posted on by johnpriceauthor

Hope hesitated for a moment, and looked out into the dark parking lot. The damn the air was humid and almost unbearable, but after all, this was Virginia. Reaching into her purse, she pushed the shades aside, grabbed a half-empty pack of Marlboro Lights and pulled a cigarette out. She rarely smoked, but why quit now? With shaky hands, she put the gold filter into her mouth, flicked the cigarette lighter and inhaled. The smoke filled her lungs and she paused, exhaling through pursed lips. The smoke rolled around, curled up and spread into nothing.

THERE ARE FEW THINGS I do my best to refrain from putting in my writing, and people smoking is one of those things. I find it disgusting and repulsive. We all do shit to our bodies to tear them down – eating unhealthy food, drinking too much, you name it. But for the most part, it only affects the person (with a few exceptions). If I’m in your presence and you’re smoking, it affects me and my health as well as anyone around us. So why do I have the main character smoking in this next short story (which is about 2,000 words longer than a short story should be)? 

For the most part, I try to make the characters relatable – people you know or have met, even if you don’t like them. Hope, is not someone most of us would probably like if we met her, but she’s someone I think most of us have met. I was inspired to write this story from a conversation I had with a woman once who claimed she had psychic abilities. She sat and told me things about my life and perceptions she had about me. She said it “ran in her family”. I nodded as she told me things about myself, and at some point I let her know that her that her psychic abilities were bullshit. Everything I was nodding about as she droned away, was such nonsense.

It wasn’t ridiculous shit that could be guessed (you’re an intuitive person, and question things) but the woman did everything to be precise about things I had done in my life. I’m convinced that people who act like they have some psychic ability do it to cause fear. Imagine if someone knew personal things in your life that nobody knew…you’d be more prone to not only take them serious, but do what they say out of fear that they could fuck your life up with information. It’s no different than ministers who act like god tells them shit. I once had a minister try to scare the congregation with that bullshit, by making false statements about my daughter in front of the audience. People who didn’t know her believed that shit. Fear of offending god prevented me from speaking up, and my pastor at the time, who knew the information was false, sat back and stayed mum. I personally think that most of psychic/religious nonsense is just that…nonsense.

But what if someone could? What if someone did have the psychic power to know things about you? I feel like most psychic powers would be limited to a small number of things. For example, any writer who is badass, generally writes in 1 genre, 2 at the most. Can a romance author write horror? Yes. But most likely, they focus on romance/erotica. Football players focus on one sport, football. Basketball players focus on basketball, and so on and so forth. Psychic powers, I think, would be no different and limited to a small number of things. But then, where do they come from? With our main character, I decided to pinpoint where that ability is. As an artist, my arm gets tired from painting. For someone who boxes, there is a point where their body has had too much training. With someone who has a psychic ability, such as Hope, I imagine there would be some negative recourse from using her ability, whether intentional or not. In Hope’s case, it’s unintentional, and you’ll have to read the story to know what I’m talking about.

So what do we know about Hope, and why wouldn’t she be someone most people would like, even if they can relate to her?

That’s a good question, and I think she was one of the most difficult characters for me to ever write. Describing her physical being is unimportant (you can read about that in the book or look at the above pic), but let’s get to know her character. For starters, the entirety of who she is as a person is a conundrum. She doesn’t like attention, and stays to herself for the most part. Simple enough…but she’s both an introvert and extrovert, wanting attention, but shying away from it at the same time, and she has a small circle of friends. Well…not really. She can’t have friends, so those friends she does have are kind of her life. I may change this in the book, but I haven’t decided just yet. I’m on the fence if it’s even needed but that’s neither here nor there. So how is she both an introvert and extrovert at the same time? There are a lot of things about her that I’m going to say that kind of contradict themselves, but bear with me for a moment.

Hope is somewhat of a mystery and it’s unintentional. She doesn’t feel the need to update the world on her social interactions and she has a very small social media presence…very small. If she dates at all, there’s a desire to be with them, but after getting the attention she desires, she may not respond to texts for days. However, she takes it personal if someone does it to her. She may take hours to respond to a message, but expects one returned in a timely fashion. It’s hypocritical to say the least, but I think we all know someone like that. They want to be around you only when they want to be around you, but take it personal if you treat them in kind. She’s the type who will almost cut off relationships with friends when she’s dating, but then pick those friends back up when the relationship is over.

Like I said, she’s a conundrum.

People who know her would describe her as being shy, but she’s anything but. She can’t help it, she has to stay to herself. Her sense of humor is kind of dry, and she’s kind of mediocre for the most part when it comes to life. She’s not into typical basic bitch things, but at the same time, she’s laughably unaware of her utter lack of importance. She does that shitty ass eyeliner that stretches past the eyes, and it would look natural, but she’s limited in makeup skills, and Fall is her favorite season. And with the exception of no Live, Laugh, Love signs, her home decor is that stereotypical shabby chic crap with repurposed bullshit.

So basically, Hope tragically holds up the stereotypes. She believes herself to be unique and a complete catch, when in reality she is boring, painfully normal, and someone most of us wouldn’t really care to be around. She’s forgettable, and most wouldn’t remember her if she were to disappear, and that’s kind of sad. But again, we all know someone like that.

That being said…there’s something not so normal about her. Unlike the woman who sat across from me and tried to tell me things in my life that were not true, Hope’s ability to know things is real. It’s an ability that nobody would truly want, and would likely drive most people to insanity.

Those are a lot of words to say that the main character is basic and boring…but not really. If that’s the case, why would you even want to read this next story? I’ll post the first 1000ish words in my next post, and let you be the judge.

Photo Credit: Caleb George @seemoris (disclaimer: I edited the photo to resemble the main character)

Show vs. Tell Part 2

Posted on by johnpriceauthor

In writing the third draft for my next book, ‘The Story of Hope’ I took the time to look at areas where I was telling and attempted to show. For every book I’ve written, I would complete the first draft, sit on it for a few weeks, rewrite the entire thing, sit on it again, and then do a third and final draft. I’d have a copyeditor go over the second draft and revise from there.

But in doing so, I never really paid attention to why I was rewriting a draft, other than to try and make it better. But how? How do you know what to make better if you don’t know what you’re looking for in the first place? This time, I wrote the first draft, and then fleshed it out on the second draft. This time, I’ve taken the third draft, read over it completely, and made notes of where I could improve the writing – take this part out, this part is too slow and needs to speed up, you’re doing too much telling in this section. After that, I’ll read it one more time, make improvements with the third draft, and then give it to a copyeditor. Below is the first page before and after the edits to show where I was telling instead of showing. I gotta say, it’s a lot more difficult than I’d imagined. I’m a natural storyteller. But that’s the problem, I “tell” too much information and insert my opinion into the writing more than I should.

“She was an asshole,” telling. Describing how she’s an asshole is the difficult part.

Anyway, here’s the first page of ‘The Story of Hope’ “telling”. The bold areas are where I have to make improvements. Some things have to be told, whereas other things do not.

“HOPE’S HEAD WAS HURTING AND she was annoyed. She sat on the wooden bench with her back pressed against the warm, brick wall, listening to the humming of the washing machines. Looking down at her phone with the chipped screen, she went back and forth on apps, Instagram to Bumble…Instagram to Bumble.

There wasn’t much else to do while waiting on her clothes. It’s not like she could leave and come back; not unless she wanted to return to an empty washing machine.

It was early summer, and still hot outside even in early evening. Inside the laundromat was even worse. There was no air conditioning, and it was humid as hell. She looked around the room. A large rectangular sign spelled out the name in bold, black letters, Falling Creek Laundromat. It was just outside of Richmond and connected to a convenience store that only accepted cash. The former Falling Creek Ironworks was just up the road from the laundromat, the place where they got their name. Most places around here got their name from the past, Jefferson Davis Highway, Archibald Cary, Henricus…the list was seemingly endless.”

Some things in the above section have to be told, whereas other things do not. For example, Hope’s head hurting and her being annoyed. I need the audience to know her head is hurting and that she’s annoyed. The hurting head will come into play later on, but I need that to be first and foremost with the audience. That said, here is the first page with the bold areas corrected.

“HOPE’S HEAD WAS HURTING AND she was annoyed. She sat on the wooden bench with her back pressed against the warm, brick wall, and listened to the humming of the washing machines. It wasn’t he the afternoon, but it was one of life’s requirements. The sound annoyed her, but there was nothing she could do about it. To take her mind off of it, she occupied herself with her outdated iPhone with the chipped screen. There was nothing else to do but switch back and forth on apps, Instagram to Bumble…Instagram to Bumble. It was monotonous, but she was bound to the seat, waiting for her clothes. 

She could always leave and come back, but this would result in returning to an empty washing machine. Apps were the only source of entertainment. 

It was hot outside…really hot. There was a humidity to the air that was oppressive, and taxing. Stepping outside this time of year would almost take your breath away. How roofers and construction workers managed was beyond her. Even in the early evening it was almost too much. The sweat on Hope’s chest and back soaked her shirt, and the beads ran down her face. The humidity and heat inside the laundromat wasn’t much better.

Falling Creek Laundromat was spelled in bold, black letters on a large white rectangular sign that hung above the dryers. Rust had corroded the corners where the screws were, and a large dent in the middle gave the impression that someone had thrown something at it at one point? A basket? A shovel? Who knows? 

Falling Creek Laundromat…like most places in Richmond, was named after something from the past. Jefferson Davis Highway, Archibald Cary, Henricus, the list was seemingly endless…and annoying.” 

So what do you think? If you see some room for improvement, I’d love to hear your feedback.