Erotica Harem

Jon

I love the way you add layer upon layer of description, which works well to place the reader in the scene. But I would warn against constructing such extremely long sentences. To find a better flow, I suggest shortening these convoluted beasts to two or three smaller sentences. I’ve underlined the ones in the line edits that, IMHO, tend to ‘drown’ the reader in words slow the pace.

Otherwise, your story shines and moves along at a good clip. I look forward to finding just what the hell Jason did! Good job!



Pretty Boy Dead

Chapter 2

Jon

Setting: Downtown Atlanta near Piedmont Park

Characters: Jason North; Calvin Slade, the reporter, is introduced

Plot: Jason decides to make an anonymous call to a maverick newspaper reporter to leak info on a crooked city official.

Grammar: Nothing major aside from comma placement, italicization issues, punctuation suggestions and sentence construction mentioned above. All indicated in line edits..


My comments are in this color

My line edit suggestions are in this color



Later that evening, Jason set out to make the call. I might suggest adding something like: … ‘to make the call that he hoped would cover his ass’ or something along those lines. The reader doesn’t know what The Call is for quite a while, and I found it confusing. He planned well, scouted out the perfect spot a week before and rehearsed those ensnaring words he planned to use, the same words meant to pique the interest of a reporter vital to his cause. He found Calvin Slade, an award winning investigative journalist for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, <--- italicize names of newspapers to be a tenacious, even maniacal, and completely driven reporter. His plan called for someone likely to snatch the bait without a second thought and run like hell, driven more by greed and competitiveness than moral obligation, overlooking the obvious. He planned to impart enough information to snag the investigator’s voracious curiosity, setting progress in motion and, if all went as he envisioned, had he planned for all these months, it would direct the attention away from him toward the real criminals.

The real criminals. <---- I suggest italicizing this for emphasis The pun was certainly not lost on him. As word leaked of their little club, the society of vagabonds. I was a bit confused by ‘their little club, the society of vagabonds’ – perhaps it will make sense later the exclusive membership would be quick to retreat, concerned more with distancing themselves from their sullied deeds than worrying much with him. Reporters have rigid reputations about revealing their sources, even when faced with subpoena or incarceration. His search through the newspaper’s online archives revealed Slade demonstrated his allegiance to his profession on many occasions, a proud defender of the First Amendment. Though tossed in jail a few times by contemptuous trial judges irritated with the reporter’s righteousness, if somewhat displaced honor of pride, the threat never deterred him. Slade would no doubt prove adversarial. And, by the time the enemy figured out who tipped the reporter, he would be long gone.

At least it was the plan, of course, that and stealing away with more than ten million dollars that could never be reported missing to the authorities.

Jason decided earlier to make the call from a payphone at the corner of Piedmont and 10th, about a block south of Piedmont Park. He selected the spot because it marked a busy junction, a heavily traveled intersection that guaranteed witnesses should something bad go down. A Smoothie King hugged the corner lot, including a Subway and the Flying Biscuit Bistro. Caribou Coffee sat across the street, and on the other corner, an art-deco structure housing Nickiemoto’s, anchored by a trendy, forever crowded authentic Mexican restaurant more famous for their “Monster” margaritas than fajitas. The adjacent block housed a century’s old I suggest saying ‘century-old’ , one story pitted-brick structure, the lone original building in the area. Gutted in the 70’s during one of many attempts to revitalize the area and sectioned into storefront retail space, which housed a neighborhood grocery store flanked on either side by a popular gay bookstore and coffeehouse to the east, and a pub called Blake’s opposite.

He chanced his would-be captors were not gutsy enough to grab him in the openperiod That would be too brazenan attempt, even for them. He had to be careful. Too much was at stake nowcomma and one wrong decision meant disaster for him as much as those wishing to harm him. He counted on it.

Swallowing hard, he inserted two quarters in the coin-slot of the battered payphone, the last one in the area since proliferation of cell phones. Listening for the dial tone, he punched the numbers from recollection, a talent he shared with his mother of recalling information viewed just once before committing it to memory. He possessed a rare, uncanny ability to retain the tiniest of details to the most complex elements of design, from a simple string of words to more elaborate text, series of numbers or even computer entries. No match for the most prestigious scholastic board, he dazzled and amazed with his ability to call to mind obscure facts and numbers, a talent he used to his benefit.

I suggest combining the underlined sentence and the one before it into one. It seems as if you're telling us twice about Jason's pseudo-photographic memory.

The weather outside You could remove the word ‘outside’ since that’s the only place weather really exists. had turned cloudy and cool, with a light mist floating in the air. He strained to see past the rain-slicked Plexiglas of the blue domed-shaped booth, checking for strangers or perhaps lingering shadows, any obtruder that might be tailing him as he waited for an answer.

He chose not to contact the reporter from his home or cell because a movie he saw once revealed how a reporter traced and recorded calls, a chance Jason didn’t want to take this late in the game. Going to the police was not an option either, though a much safer bet if not more practical. Unanswered questions, serious accusations of his involvement and assumptions made long before his confessions or a late night attorney could prove his innocence. His revelations might land him in jail alongside the very scum he aimed to expose. He tried to recall the term used on those Hollywood crime shows; ‘accessory to the fact’. The call to the reporter needed to work!

The switchboard operator answered on the third ring in a professional, albeit monotone southern drawl. “Atlanta Journal-Constitution Newspapers. should newspapers be plural? Is there more than one or is that how they refer to it? How may I help you?”

“Calvin Slade,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch, which glowed a quarter shy of eleven. The mist gave way to a light drizzle.

“One moment, please.”

Several uneasy seconds passed before the reporter’s harried voice burst through the line. Jason flinched, thought of hanging up but ignored the impulse, having waited so long for this chance. Tired of debating and exhausted from harboring the details of his actions, it was now or never! His plan was foolproof with no holes. Fat chance in hell of implicating himself party to the crime as long as he stayed focused. And Jason North mastered at staying focused. No holes!


Anxiety overcame him as he waited for the reporter and tried to regain his composure. The workout earlier that morning was shot to hell as the reporter’s impatience exploded through the receiver like an angry mob boss.

“Slade!”

Jason heard footsteps approaching, around the corner to his right, slow and calculated footsteps.

Familiar footsteps?

He slammed down the receiver and crossed the street, cinching the strap of his raincoat to keep from getting wet.

[]

The call rang through before deadline.

Shoving a mass of paper aside in search of the telephone, the reporter barked into the receiver. “Slade!”

Silence. “Hey, I got fifteen minutes ‘til deadline,” he snapped, irritably. “Talk to me or bug off. I haven’t got the time.” He seized a half-eaten sandwich left on the corner of the desk.

“Yeah, well, listen up,” barked the voice with arrogance. Male, the reporter thought. Young and cocky; he knew the type well. “I catch your writing in the paper, you know? You’re that investigative reporter. Means you wanna know about stuff, right?”

Slade rolled his eyes and grumbled, snapping a bite of salami, chewing with his mouth open. Cradling the receiver against his shoulder, he fished in the trash bin for a napkin and brushed his lips. “Yeah, okay, I’m listening.” He grunted.

He faced an approaching deadline, having dodged all who demanded his attention tonight and now this? The caller was likely a thrill-seeker. That’s what he called them, “thrill-seekers”. Snitches with a propensity for ratting on their bosses and neighbor’s, members of their own family even, anything to get their names printed in the newspaper. He’d witnessed it a thousand times during his past ten years on the beat. He could peg an informant from a wise guy in two seconds flat. His bet edged on the latter.

Slade contemplated hanging up, but the next few words he heard stopped him cold.

“That councilman you wrote about? You know, the one cops found drunk in his car a few weeks back,” the voice whispered. A vehicle cranking hip-hop music thundered past in the background. The caller cupped the mouthpiece and forced out his words. “You know, in Buckhead, passed out on the side of the road.”

Slade knew all right, none other than the infamous Mitchell Keyes. Some claim the most corrupt, divisive, remove comma son-of-a-bitch City Councilman ever elected president to the powerful, visible and yet, mostly African-American board. “What about him?”

“There’s much more to the story,” the voice teased. “I know some things.”

“I don’t buy information,” he warned, making note of the number appearing on the telephone’s LED display.

“Check it out. He didn’t leave the party alone that night.”

The caller went silent. The line clicked off. Slade stopped chewing and slid to the edge of his seat. All he heard was the static drone of a line gone dead. “Shit!” He shouted out to no one. “Shit!”