I'm in Creative Writing at school, and currently we're writing short stories (due Monday). I have a little bit of my story finished, I was wondering if Grammar Nazis could proof read it, please..
"Just a few more minutes, she'll be here."
"If you say so, sir. I'll check again shortly."
The waiter bowed his head and walked away, leaving me alone, at the table, once
more. The table was blanketed with a white table cloth, its edges embroidered with frilly
designs. On top of the cloth sat a slim, black vase inwhich delicate red roses were held; pink
candles stood impatiently around the vase.
I waited anxiously for my date, she didn't have the greatest sense of time, though she
promised she'd be here at seven sharp. Whatever the hell she was doing, it irked me that it
was already past eight. The waiter was kind to keep waiting a "few more minutes," but soon
he'd even become impatient too. And I'm bound to be kicked out fairly soon.
Had she been in an accident on the way here? How bad was the traffic? Did some
obnoxious emergency arise? Did her mother--
"Swee-eetie pie!" A voice echoed with a strong slur, then there was a rustle with the
chair across the table. 8:43pm. Dear God she was finally here, but was she--drunk?
"I--I'm sorry I'm... late, dahlin'. Mah sister made me--" A pause as she glanced
around hazily; she could have tried to fix herself up a little as strings of hair fell messily
around her face, "--go to 'er birthday party." Shit. She was drunk: late and drunk.
"You could've called, London."
"No phone."
"You've called me constantly."
"You orderin'? I'll 've a, uh, salad with bleu cheese dressin', a glazed steak--medium
rare. A baked 'tato and a bottle of Cognac."
Well then, atleast she eats, yes? That's good, however this isn't the greatest date.
Maybe another one; tonight just has to be a bad night, right? She really can't be this, um,
uncivilized.
Moments after the waiter returned with our diners, we had only taken a few bites
before she began to gaze at me. And with a hiccup and twisted smile she asked, "What d'you
want for dessert, sweetie?"
Pie, thanks. If she suggested the usual "want to have sex," I'd have to pass. Drunk
sex never did seem too appealing, especially if someone happened to become sick. Eww.
After our dinner, she was on her third bottle of Cognac and taking another swig just
before climbing onto the table explaining that she was going to "put on a show." Why I was
even thinking of suggesting another date, I have NO idea; perhaps if she's not drunk it'll be
better. Oh how I hope.
"How about at your place?" I protested, embarrassed at the snoody stares we were
receiving. "We'll go back and... have dessert."
"No, 'cause when we get there, you're goin' t' take adv'ntage of the fact that I'mmm
drunk! And you're goin' to try to get into my pants--and if I let--WHEN I let you, you're
going to sleep with me! Then, in the morning you'll leave, with not so much as a goodbye
kiss! And--and--let's go! I'll drive!" In a drunken convulsion she raised her hand at the last
exclamation just before falling off the disheveled table.
By the way, if it seems weird... My theme is sarcastic romance. Decided to poke fun at some of the romance clichés.
Thanks. And I fixed "dinners" in the document.
What? I'm not a grammar nazi, I'm her lover :wub:
But in all seriousness, every little bit counts.
I finally got the rest of it... :unsure:
| QUOTE |
Turn left; again; now right; turn--there! The first few houses weren't hers and after
calling up one of her friends and convincing her that I did not want to do anything
"naughty" with London, she recited the address. And it turns out, we were on the wrong
side of the city.
London was snoring incessantly by the time we arrived at her house; cautiously I
forced myself to wake her up and lead her into the house. She fell onto the couch--she had
a thing for falling tonight--and nearly pulled me ontop of her when I objected for a restroom
break. With a glare, she shooed me off and I waltzed casually to the restroom; returning to
a, once again, snoring London. Thank God. Before leaving, I scribbled out a note and left it
on a table.
Nearly three weeks later--we assumed that was enough time for her to sober down--
we went out for another date. At the beach this time. She arrived on time, and sober.
Tangerine, violet, and pink clouds spread across an azure sky, as the golden, setting
sun reflected off of the quiet lake. A light, warm breeze flitted across the beach as London
and I sat down on the shore in the midst of a casual conversation. She was gorgeous, more-
so than the scene infront of us. London had long, wavey brunette hair with bright
aquamarine eyes. Her voice was soft and breathy, completely unlike when she was drunk.
"London?" I started, staring at the clouds before glancing at her.
"Yes?" She watched the waves with a sigh and I saw her gaze move towards the
burgundy sand.
"Let's take a walk along the water?"
"Alright," she agreed, with a wide grin. "Hold on, though."
I was taken aback and slightly turned off when I saw her take out a pair of nail
clippers. She flung off her flip-flops and began clipping her toe nails and then had me check
to make sure they were even. Sure, why not? After which she rubbed on a thin layer of
lotion--which doesn't really work with sand.
"Mkay, now I'm ready." London explained while slipping back into her flip-flops,
then jumping to her feet.
After we started walking, I took her hand nervously--she wasn't the most romantic
woman to take on dates, but she was open when it came down to what she wanted. |
EDIT: By the way, the tittle is "Tidal Wave Romance" ... It's crap, yea. But it's for shiggles and gits.