Here is a short clip of a dialogue-heavy scene from my short story Secrets in the Mist
Heads up @Palendromeman
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
“Aw, damn it.”
“What now, Marcos?”
“I broke one of its fucking arms off. This thing’s drier than a maple leaf in January, man.”
“Don’t sweat it. Just stuff it in the bag and the M.E. will probably think it came off in transit. There was nothing else in the area—nothing we can use?”
“No. Like I said, the only thing we found was a scorch mark in the alley. Travels up the walls a few feet on both sides. Whatever it was, it was damned hot, but it didn’t last long enough to set anything on fire. That dumpster back there had most of the paint boiled off its front and lid, but none of the stuff inside was even singed.”
“Any idea what might have been able to do that?”
“You gotta be kidding. Lightning? I know as much about that as I do about what crisped one of our citizens into an over-dried raisin. Maybe what seared the alley was what made Mr. Cinnamon Biscuit here, too. I dunno. I tell you, this whole thing’s too weird for me—and I thought I’d seen everything.”
“Forensics will figure it out.”
“You wanna make a bet on that, Carter? They have a hard enough time when we give ’em a fresh stiff, but this...this piece of parchment here...? I dunno.”
Marcos had no sooner zipped the bag closed, removed his surgical gloves and stood back, trembling hand searching a pocket for his lighter when the van from the forensics lab backed into the narrow alley. One of the attendants walked briskly up to Carter. The bastard was smiling one of those smiles that telegraph nasty comments in advance. Carter cringed.
“Okay, Lieutenant, what the hell’s this bullshit about a mummy?”
“No BS, hotshot. Take a look in our shopping bag and you tell us what we have. We just bag ’em. You guys tag ’em, then tell us what it is, maybe who it is, and how it was done. Then we find the bad guys who did it if we’re lucky, and stuff ’em in the cooler until a judge lets ’em go on some technicality. That’s the way it works.”
The attendant unzipped the bag and peeled it open.
“Holy crapoly. What the hell is this?”
“Your job—remember?”
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Notice that in this snippet there are no "he said/she said" inclusions. They were deemed unnecessary because of the nature of the scene and the characters involved. There are other situations (most of the time) where this approach to dialogue would be totally unacceptable.
3
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2 comments
Feel free to reply to any comment by clicking the "Reply" button.Thank you for that. That is a cool opening.
This is the prologue of my first novel:
“Can you give me thirteen dollars?”
I paused. He was late twenties, early thirties possibly. Well enough presented. Maybe a little desperate. Maybe a little crazy. Or both.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, can you give me thirteen dollars.”
This time more of a statement than a question.
I looked past his shoulder for a moment, out towards the Statue of Liberty. I was walking through Battery Park. It was a beautiful New York morning.
“I can give you twelve dollars.”
“No, not enough.”
“Okay, what about fourteen dollars?”
He drew back, visibly offended.
“No, too much. What I said - thirteen dollars.”
This was getting interesting. And I am in the business of interesting.
“What do you need these thirteen dollars for?”
He shifted slightly. I could tell we were moving to stage two of the scam. The one where you get the pitch. He clearly thought he’d snagged a mark. I know the look.
“I need to get the Staten Island ferry. You know, to get back home. I got my wallet stolen.”
I felt the corner of my mouth twitch at that.
The Staten Island ferry was free.
“Stolen?”
“Yeah, stolen, man.”
“That’s a bad break. All those credit cards gone too?”
That threw him, but just for half a second.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll spend the day on the phone to my bank getting them cancelled. What a pain.”
I looked out past him again to the Hudson River; the expanse of water and the shipping riding upon it. I wasn’t supposed to be here, but I could feel a frisson. Particularly in my current state.
I knew I was deliberately dragging this out longer than he had planned, but I also knew I had places to go.
Okay, one place.
I looked back at him.
“I’m happy to help you out, brother. Thirteen is my lucky number.”
I pulled out my wallet. Actually, the wallet belonged to Walter J Elliott the third, a former lacrosse champion at Yale and now up-and-coming Wall Street banker. I’d extorted his wallet and watch last night. Now they were mine. He thought it was a good deal, that I’d come for much more.
How little he knew.
My good friend Walter was usually cash light and credit heavy, so I had made sure I pulled as much money as I could from the ATM. I was carrying $500 neat, plus the small notes Walter had kept. Presumably for tips.
I pulled out exactly thirteen dollars and handed them to the guy.
He took them from me then stopped.
“Hey, thanks man.”
“Happy to help. Hope you can get home safely and get those cards cancelled. Have a better one.”
He looked thoughtful.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“I get that a lot. I just have one of those faces.”
“You sure? You look awful familiar. Like an actor.”
“I’m sure. I’m in hospitality out of state. So, just a visitor, but I get to NYC when I can.”
That appeared to satisfy him. But he still hesitated. I suspected I would need to get used to this. And I no longer had time to linger.
“Where are you going, man?”
“To meet a man about a horse in Central Park.”
This shut him up. Thankfully.
I winked at him.
“And besides - I have the Devil to pay.”
Palindromeman
Level 7
May 5, 2018
1
@Palindromeman -- I don't know what problem your other reader had that caused the remark. I found a couple of minor bumps in the road, but they are minuscule. Otherwise, it was a fun exchange that drew me in pretty well. Good work and I'd like to see what it goes with.
@evidentialist Thanks for that. The novel needs a professional edit, but I think it's pretty close:
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