A small novel excerpt by me...Please read.

Here is an excerpt from the novel I'm currently writing. Please give me some feedback, good and bad.

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Tell God to Blow the Wind from the West

1. Fall Seven. Stand Eight.

I brush my dry lips and smear my fingers across them; feeling the chapped skin and stale breath usher my fingers across, while passing a blind eye across the dead-eyed passengers - they shoot the breeze and exchange spit, like bores fighting over dead meat. Occasionally, a good-looking girl would pass by, and I would respire coldly each time they hit my elbow, leaning on the rest. The sexual desire that would tempt me for the following week of drunken leisure, and promiscuous sexual want soon became apparent from the very beginning of the flight.

The cabin crew converse amongst one another with silicone smiles and glazed eyes. I watch closely at their mannerisms and gawk at their ability to sound so sickeningly false. Always overly happy, and overly camp to see the next dead eyed passenger ― Greeting each with a synthetic smile and a half-arsed bow. Some of the passengers reply with a sorry smile, while others wave it off; the kind that jerks and twitches for their next shot of vodka, waiting for their hands to meet the body of a whore for thirty minutes of seamy lust. As for myself? I'm blatantly the latter.

I walk to my seat, which happens to be at the very end of the plane. Nonchalant and blithe, I stack my hand luggage into the overhead compartments, while the shrieking of children clinches my ears. I shudder and try to block out the thought of spending two hours in a physically, and mentally uncomfortable position. We soon take off and I anxiously await the climbing pressure.

After taking off, the pressure becomes obvious when my ears start wanting to rupture. I hold my nose and blow, trying to force my ears to pop, albeit hurts. It takes awhile, but the effort pays off. The immense satisfaction from feeling my ears clear comes like pissing in the cold.

Thirty minutes into the flight I soon become drowsy, so I try shifting my weight in a seat less than a foot wide. I turn to my left and right and try to rest my shoulder on the back of the chair. It's comfortable for a small time, but it soon becomes unbearable, so instead I take my food tray down and rest on that. Five seconds into it I jolt back up and start fitting irritably.

“Goddamn plane!” Instantly, a cabin maid is standing next to me, gleaming.

“Sir, would you like a pillow?”

My eyes drift upwards and stare with my eyelids ajar, still clutching my jacket that I tried to use as a pillow. I reply with a shudder through my teeth.

“Yes. Please…”

I try my best to drift back to sleep, but I watch the people on the flight instead. All fired up and ready for a week in Europe's most conservatively feared city, waiting for the first drink of the week. A week of alcohol, violence, and sex of all kinds (and all manners), in the aftermath of an ex-Communist country: obscenities and violence.

The couple less than five seats ahead of me plan their holiday; a casual couple that nobody would pass a second glance at, yet only they knew the Raison d'être: A week of submissive dominance with an Albanian uni-brow gimp. They would enter the hall, an empty and silent room towering over grand thrones of sexual torture. They leer at the expectation of their desire within the grand hall, while their long shadows clamber and stretch through the foyer; climbing the wall from the daylight from the outside.

Or, they could be going to Tallinn for a live ammunition shooting range to feel the strength of the pistol recoil in your hand. Ejaculating the bullet like a faggot at the Mardi Gras, in some sleazy back-alley glory hole: Sexual in its own right. At least, that's what I would assume.

Meanwhile, a young woman begins managing her luggage overhead. Blue hooded jacket; hiking boots; a silk headband, and hot pants that caresses just below her butt. Her hot pants waves to every sex-fiend man on the plane - a portrait of pure grace: Toned legs, good hips, and a throat that many men would fantasize over with crude obscenities.

Walking to the back of the aircraft, the young men turn, trying their best to keep discreet as she brushes down the aisle. She enters the toilet and emerges wearing a pair of jeans. They go back to reading, talking, staring aimlessly into an endless void that only a beautiful girl could change. The world only stops for money and/or for a beautiful girl.You could taste the disappointment like shit in heat.

It doesn't take long for irritation to set in. I soon focus my attention on the constant chatter of the cabin crew, trying my best to block all aspects of verbal noise out of my head. Phlegm links between the roof of their mouths and tongue, drooling and cumming over crude wanting for verbal rape, exchanging gossip and pillaging everyone's dignity.

Gossip: the drug for the Civil.



We arrive in Tallinn and I soon stop my bitter sneering at fellow passengers; I'm just happy to be on the ground and not thousands of feet in the air. The Faghags soon find a vacant bench and perch along them, smoking to their lungs consent. They light their cigarettes and inhale; sucking with every muscle in their face. Their sockets deepen, yet their skin on their cheeks turn as smooth (from the deep inhaling) as they once were 30 years ago. How I admire them.

We soon get a taxi from the airport and drive through the rough neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. The city greets us with almost naked women that the eye follows and the jaw hangs, swinging and closing with a gasp. The driver shouts over the Eurotrash music and speaks in broken English.

“Did you fly OK?”

I nod.

“Estonia; it is a beautiful country. Many pretty women, and plenty bars of cheap…” He pauses and stumbles over his words. He motions his hand to his mouth, moving it back and forth. My jaw clamps tight and I can feel the tension stretching through the side of my face and up to my ears, while eyelids pierce themselves onto my forehead and cheeks; my eyes shifting sharply. Jesus Christ, I hope he means 'drink'. The last thing that it is to get my cock bitten off by some rampant B-Girl, fucked up on coke and Cider and thousands of miles from home.

“Beer?” I quietly reply. Perhaps saying it quietly will make it right.

“Yes. Beer!”

Thank God.

We soon arrive at the apartment, which happens to be a drunken stumble away from the nearest strip club; the reverie of Tallinn soon kicks in. We're welcomed to the apartment by a fair-haired girl, who shows us around the apartment while I'm still drowsy from the flight. I have no interest where the beds and toilets are, I'm sure I'll manage when I'm extremely drunk off Absinth and Cognac. She gives us our keys and leaves.

I sit on the window opposite the strip club (The X Club) and listen to some Mingus. Apparently the apartment is non-smoking, but I strike a match and light a cigarette anyway, watching the strippers go to work, while my fingers click and my head bops to this surreal city; mesmerizing.

“Luke! C'mon, we're going to check out the bars!” I grab my cigarettes and jacket then leave.

We hit the bars late and load up on exotic cocktails; stumbling around the cobbled streets, shouting and flapping at the wind. We find a suitable bar and relax in a small classy room with a small bar and beautiful Barmaids.

I slap 500 Estonian Kroons on the bar and order four Green Fairies. The barmaid smiles and prepares the cocktails. She gets a cognac glass and pours a double of Absinth into it while it steadies itself on a whiskey tumbler. She then lights the Absinth and gently spins the glass by the stem, the flame turns a thrilling deep blue. Then, in a sudden movement, while entranced by the flame, she pours the Absinth into the tumbler and passes it to me. I knock it back (not knowing what she's doing.) and my eyes lock up, I hiss and swear as the barmaid gives out a cute giggle and puts the cognac glass upside down onto a straw.

“Suck!”

Not knowing what the fuck is going on, I reluctantly suck the straw. My God: never have I felt so much pain from a drink. My chest seizes and I gasp for air. Clutching my chest I fall down onto the white leather upholstery sofas, and wheeze. The barmaids giggle softly and shake their heads.

“Are you OK?”

I wave my hand upwards with a limp, and flick it back onto my chest, touching softly.

“Yes my Dear, perfectly!”

I may have looked a fool, but I was the highlight of the night for them. I'll forever be engraved in their memory as 'the drunk on that fateful Monday night'; how they'd remember, because I wouldn't.
“It really gets you, doesn't it? You don't quite know what to expect, until you're lying down wondering what'd happened in the interval between taking the shot and the state you're currently in. Can you feel it yet?” I assume that he means the dense throbbing in my skull, of which I can most definitely feel. I smile with my eyes closed, smirking his presence off.

“You'll feel fine soon…” He assures me. “My name is Aksel.” He sits cross legged and still, although you can clearly smell wine and cigarettes on his breath. Brandishing finery; a perfectly straight suit, with crisp lapels and polished brogues, with the characteristics of an eccentric art connoisseur he speaks with a slight ambiguous charm. My eyes drift around the room, and sound ricochets throughout my head and slowly drifts away amongst convalescent thoughts.

Morning will come soon, and the first light will beckon you to the new day; another day of drunken escapades, just to piss your money up against the wall again. Be still. Breathe slowly. Take care when you alight.

I somehow manage to get home by what I can only assume was either bouncers or my fellow cohorts, God bless them!

It's 1am and I'm still awake listening to Jazz and smoking; waving Tallinn a good night through an opaque haze of smoke. The blasting horn of Davis quietly murmurs behind me, echoing out of the apartment and seeping into the street. A swing that you wish every passer-by would bop along to and appreciate. Yet they don't. They just pass by and stare at me like gaumless effigies; save for a young girl who waves and smiles at me - she's a classic culture-fox wearing a black cardigan with a matching scarf that the wind carries with a flowing elegance, and flat-soled shoes that softly echo throughout the cobbled street. She smiles and her eye glints in the streetlight. She knows what Jazz means to a person, and what it means to sit by an open window and watch people pass by with a cigarette and a whimsical charm. I return the wave and smile before she turns the corner; knowing I wouldn’t meet her or be able to talk to her.

I get up late the next day, fashioned only in Y-Fronts and my Winkle pickers. I pick up a glass of wine and stroll around the house with a crooked limp. The night of drunken slurs has lasted till the next day, lingering in my hangover. Entering the dining room I put some music on and light a cigarette while my companions eat.

“You see, my friends, I am but a gentle artiste.” I flick my arm in the air and pirouette around the dining room with the grace of a drunk while drinking wine. I stumble but manage to secure my feet firmly on the ground, whilst my torso leans and sways over my waist. I retch and realize my boundaries and stagger back to bed.
Fall seven. Stand eight, my friends. Stand Eight.

 

I'm working on a novel myself and feedback's always great to have. Will give this a read in the next couple of days hopefully and get back to you


Is this the beginning of it? How much have you written so far?

 

It was a Good Read...Highly Descriptive...

 

It's good. Not sure how finished it is, but there are still some fairly obvious basic problems with syntax and diction throughout which could be ironed out in a few rewrites. I really like the tone of surliness and anger ... though after a while if that's all there is it could get a little tiresome. By the end it seemed to be turning into a travel diary rather than a novel and I began to wonder quite what the point was ... unless you were trying to be Jack Kerouac (don't even try).

But there are some wonderful moments ... generally you write very well. That's an honest opinion, the good with the bad, hope that's what you really wanted

 

Thank you Lithium, you've probably given me some of the best criticism I could ask for.

Actually it's an exaggerated travel diary to be honest, and most of the things did happen. I've actually never even read On the Road, let alone any of Kerouac's other stuff, so if it does turn into a wannabe-Kerouac novel I'm guessing it's purely coincidental.

And no, it isn't finish. It's just what I've written so far.

 

I was in the mood for that, thanks. Not a writer, won't analyse but it does need a bit of rewriting: "smoking to their lungs consent"? not sure what that means. Like it though.

 

It's an anthropomorphism.

 

I had to look that up! hehe

 

Hehe, it's all good. I'm glad you enjoyed it.