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The Magnificent Humphrey Wolf Adams (Part One)



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Wed Oct 19, 2011 5:57 pm
joshuapaul says...



The Magnificent Humphrey Wolf Adams

He was bent and sucking like a landed carp. His eyes vacant, peering out at the canvas from looped bruise – oddly, it reminded him of the sail of his father’s old ship, blotted with dry salt stains. The crowd was a raucous din, waiting for the final blow. It was just the fourth round of his amateur career as a lightweight boxer. His moustache, usually oiled, scrolled and pointed, was a snarl of bent bristles. And even as his plump trainer and best friend flung a grey rag in the ring, the crowd called for more blood.

It’s over, thank god, it’s over.

But it wasn’t. The hammer was ceremoniously jogging against the bell, officially ending the bout. But it wasn’t over, not for Humphrey’s tattooed and taut opponent. As Humphrey straightened, with his long arms hanging and his V of chest hair dyed bloody, he spat a molar, not one of the gold ones, though. Then came a crunch, one last fist hurled in angst. When it hit he was vacant. His knees voided. He watched as the rapturous crowd, the dimly lit room, the ring belts, turned. The bell still jogged but he couldn't seem to hear it. And like that, the bout was decided; his first and last win, by disqualification.

And while he was down he was awake. His body didn’t respond but his mind was unbridled. He thought things he hadn’t thought in twenty years. It was as though the force had shifted a frayed wire, reclosed a dislodged connection. A voice resonated. A long forgotten scene reeled. His father was carried like a four poster bed frame through heavy asylum doors, and on the last breath to depart his mouth before the doors slammed was a series of numbers, 13-8558-91-8180.

***

He could barely open his eyes when he woke. They were red creases with blue moons sliding about slowly. His nose was sharply kinked and his breath passed in and out of it like a wind chime. One cheekbone had fallen part way down the side of his face. Estaban waited with his cheese-cutter hat in his fiddling hands, and his eyes dolefully casting about.

“How did we go, Esteban?”
His eyes kept moving, finding everything, except Humphrey.
“We, err- ” He paused, and finally met the red slits. “We won.”
Humphrey slowly pulled his arms over his head in painstaking celebration, revealing a jagged purple patch peeking out from the white bandage around his ribs.

"I won, that's impossible."
Then Esteban, who saved generally saved his voice for yes, sir or no, sir spoke, "And a man discovered that tiny particles, you can't even see, are forever popping in and out of existence, that's also impossible."

Humphrey knew he was home, in his bedroom, he could see his violin case propped against the wall, he could see his bicycle which was set on its seat and handlebars, and when – with an agonizing lurch forward – he sat up he could see his decks of cards, collapsible flowers and cape . He cast about over all the relics of his once endeavours.

“The pile diminishes, Esteban,” he began, leaking saliva through his broken half-smile, “Sell the ring and the gloves and everything else.” His voice changed, his usually subtle cadence and mellow tones broke to a nasally whine. “I’m squandering my father’s fortune, and still I have nothing.”

Esteban had the big, dark, glazed eyes that some fish at the bottom of the sea have and now they were pandering about the floor, searching for consolation. But before he could find something to say, Humphrey continued.

“Fetch my notebook downstairs,” he said and Esteban scurried away. Then when he returned with the leather-bound note book Humphrey told him to write down a series of numbers 13-8558-91-8180.

He replayed another scene. It was long after his father was toted away through those steel doors. He was an adult this time, sitting before half a bottle of gin, his mind toiling over the series of events that led to his marriage to, then his divorce from, Anna Callous, a South African acrobat. A knock had sounded at the door and he left his bottle of gin, promising to return to finish it off when he got rid of who ever was thudding on the door. But he didn't keep his promise. A telegram was shoved into his hand by a broad man in a woollen overcoat and a bowler hat.

For: Humphrey Wolf Adam

Dear sir,

Your father has passed. Please come by to discuss his estate.

P.T

He still had that telegram, somewhere.

***

Humphrey had been rereading the numbers for the seven days he had spent sinking into the mattress. Studying each number, the infinite curls of the eights, and the hard edges of the ones. He carefully traced the black ink with a fingertip, dully waiting for a spark of recognition. Nothing. He thought about the old ship again, the last relic of his father’s fortune. He could sell it and probably get enough to get by for a couple of months more. It was dipped with green slime and barnacles, which clung even in the hardest storms with Edmond’s Endeavour scrawled in flaky ink on the side. It was a grand old thing.

Humphrey at last managed to slide out from beneath the covers. Esteban had been carting mashed potatoes and other steamed and mashed meals (meals which can be consumed through a straw) up the stairs. So when his foot lowered, he didn’t feel the cold hard wood, but rather a slimy mashed pea mix press between his toes.

“Esteban!”

Rolling footfalls up the stairs preceded Esteban’s wheezy entry.

“Yes si-” he began, before his fish eyes fell to the green mess sprouting between Humphreys toes, “ Let me get that sir, my apologies.”

“No leave it Esteban, I need a shower anyway.”

***

Humphrey was in the same shape he sported in his twenties, his belly tight as stretched rubber and his arms lean and taut. But when he looked down it wasn’t the same. He saw purple bruise and liver spots like coffee stains. He tossed on his dirty-blonde chinos, tucked in a blue plaid shirt with his sports coat. Add his smoking pipe and he was a figure of his father, well how his father may have looked before he lost his mind.

He sat with his pencil sharpened to surgeons’ precision and the numbers 13-8558-91-8180 on yellow pad. And so he began. First it was equations, simple stuff

13-8558-91-8180
=
-16816

13-(8558-91-8180)
=
-274

13+8558-(91+8180)
=
300 (curious, Father’s maids raised me in a house at 300 Digby Way, is this of any consequence?)

Then he pondered the individual numbers, the sequence itself.

1-3-8-5-5-8-9-1-8-1-8-0

Then with languid strokes he wrote them bigger and linked them like cursive. Then he wrote them fast and slow, taking his time to make a perfect circle out of the zero. Then he listened, as though his father’s desperate voice came from the hollows of his chest.

“Thirteen-Eight thousand five hundred and fifty eight-ninety one-eight thousand one hundred and eighty.”

He whispered, then it grew louder, then it grew louder than his thoughts.

“Thirteen-Eight thousand five hundred and fifty eight-ninety one-eight thousand one hundred and eighty!”

“Tea, sir?” Esteban had sheepishly crept in, with a pot of loose-leaf earl grey and Humphrey’s oak pipe, tightly jammed with tobacco, and set on a silver tray.

“Thank you, Esteban, place it on the side board, down there in the sun.”

He glanced back over the numbers, the pages screaming in black ink. He sighed, a long resignation. He considered the debtors who would come knocking, considered the ants marching to work, paying mortgages, pouring their own tea, stuffing their own pipes.

There was an empty thud on the wooden door.
“Esteban, get that would you?”

He had been running every day and throwing his hands at a hard leather bag for the past eight weeks, and he hadn’t puffed his pipe for longer yet, so as he drew in the dense tobacco smoke, he relaxed and almost slipped off the leather seat.

The door clicked open, then slammed shut and Esteban trotted back.
He placed a cheque on the silver tray and Humphrey glanced down between tea sips and pipe tokes.

Two-Hundred and Fifty dollars only
Match Winners fee


He quickly scribbled a fresh equation.

-$12,500 (ring and building lease)
-$1,400 (equipment and registration)
+$250 (winners fee)
= -$13,650


Humphrey’s gaze moved around the room over the copper framed fireplace, the gold chandelier and finally resting on the far wall. Above the ski set, piled in the corner, he found the atlas. Ten feet wide and four high. Mossy amoebas in a coffee-and-cream sea. And subtle lines like incisions dividing meat portions of the earth.

It was a queer moment, like a dry thunderclap. A moment that may have passed without significance, may have receded into all the other moments that day as a failure. But it didn't. The Atlas.

13-8558-91-8180

“thirteen-eight thousand five hundred and fifty eight-ninety one-eight thousand one hundred and eighty.”

He let the silver tray slip from his lap. It all hit the hardwood like a lonely widow’s leap. Broken bone split tealeaf guts, tea slowly seeped beneath Humphrey’s moccasin. But it didn’t matter. Humphreys gaze denied the peripheries; it was set on the atlas. He moved with slow short steps, his eyes framed with deep creases. And Esteban stood at hand seemingly disinterested. He was close to the atlas, his nose touched.

“thirteen-eight thousand five hundred and fifty eight-ninety one-eight thousand one hundred and eighty.”

But there was nothing, he shuffled across.

“thirteen-eight thousand five hundred and fifty eight- negative -ninety one -eight thousand one hundred and eighty.”

There. The Galapagos Islands. Then closer. Latitude, Longitude scaled down to minutes, then down to seconds if there is such a thing, but it doesn’t matter. There it was, close enough, an island the size of a thumb tack. According to the scale, it couldn’t have been bigger than five miles by five miles; it might have been a salt stain, like the ones on the sails of Edmond’s Endeavour or the boxing ring’s canvas. But something told him it wasn’t, something punched in Times New Roman across the tiny island. A name Wolf Is.

Humphrey Wolf Adam.

13-8558-89-8180. Wolf.

“thirteen-eight thousand five hundred and fifty eight-ninety one-eight thousand one hundred and eighty.”

Spoiler! :
Last edited by joshuapaul on Wed Oct 26, 2011 5:31 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Thu Oct 20, 2011 2:35 pm
sargsauce says...



Curious!

One thing, before I forget, is that the number changed here. And he said it that way, too. I didn't miss anything did I?
It was a queer moment, like a dry thunderclap.
13-8558-81-8180

and
thirteen-Eight thousand five hundred and fifty eight-eighty one-eight thousand one hundred and eighty.

The 91 has become an 81.

Okay, with that housekeeping out of the way, what do I think about the piece?

The beginning has a nice, appropriate ring of testosterone and masculinity to it. I still can't quite make out exactly what happened, though. Humphrey's on his last legs, and the trainer appears to throw in the towel, and I know that it's up to the referee's discretion to accept the towel. Then Humphrey (I think?) spits out a molar and goes down? Did the opponent do something illegal in there somewhere?

What follows at Humphrey's home loses that momentum and sense of direction you previously had, though. The narrative kind of flounders and looks backwards then comes back to itself then glances back again and is distracted by knocking on the door. It's just odd. It starts very strong and all muscle, then begins to shuffle and hem and haw and interject little bits of somewhat weak flashback.

13-8558-91-8180.

Just a small technicality, but it's not like his dad said the dashes, did he? Or maybe he did. He was crazy. As for his craziness, I imagine we'll learn more about that later on? How his crazy dad and his crazy confinement affected anything, instead of just, "my dad was crazy but he may have spoken some kind of truth"?

Now the regret that seeped came in a jet, in his eyes, still shifting about the relics, and in the sour tone of his voice.

I feel like a word or something is missing here. Or the wording is just strange.

sitting before half a bottle of gin, his mind toiling over the series of events that led to his marriage to, then his divorce from, Anna Callous, a South African acrobat.

This just kind of sticks out like a sore thumb, squeezed in there. Also, there are a lot of commas in there. There are a lot of commas in a lot of places, actually, such as the "regret that seeped came in a jet" line above, too. It makes it difficult to read at times. And possibly contributes to the kind of shuffling, stop-start narration I referred to earlier.

almost slipped of the leather seat.

Typo. "off"

It was a queer moment, like a dry thunderclap.

Not sure what you're referring to here.

He let it slip from his lap, the silver tray.

For example, here is a use of a comma that is unnecessarily disorienting.

Humphreys gaze

Apostrophe wanted.

Humphreys gaze denied the peripheries; it was set on the atlas. He moved with slow short steps, his eyes framed with deep creases. And Esteban stood at hand, his plump face, glum yet seemingly disinterested. And Humphrey’s trance continued. He was close to the atlas, his nose touched.

A lot of words, but they seem to be repeating themselves or taking much longer than is appropriate. Like a long, slow shot with plenty of cuts and zooms of the same thing, just with a slight change of position.

Edmund’s Endeavour

Edmond’s Endeavour

The boat's spelling changed...

A name Wolf Is.

It took me a while to figure out that you meant the abbreviation for "island." It wasn't much, but a brief confusion that can be avoided by pretending that maps spell out "island."

I did rather enjoy his trait for playing with the numbers. Is this something imbued in his personality? I'd like to see evidence of this kind of mentality elsewhere, too.

I am looking forward to the next part! Curious what's up with the father's madness and what Wolf Island has to do with anything.
  





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Fri Oct 21, 2011 2:39 am
confetti says...



Not my favourite work of yours, and I will explain why in a bit.

"Esteban!"

Rolling footfalls up the stairs preceded Esteban's wheezy entry.

"Yes si-" he began, before his fish eyes fell to the green mess sprouting between Humphreys toes, "Let me get that sir, my apologies."

"No leave it Esteban, I need a shower anyway."

Rather pointless to call Esteban over. This probably bothered me more than it should though.

"thirteen-Eight thousand five hundred and fifty eight-ninety one-eight thousand one hundred and eighty."

Why is the Eight capitalized, but the start, "thirteen", is not? I don't know if you did it on purpose, because if you did, I don't understand why.

Those were just some specifics I thought I would point out. I didn't really want to point out any comma nitpicks, I feel like I do that too often, and it's never a big deal.
So, your story overall didn't hold much interest to me, I found myself struggling to get through it. I don't mean any disrespect, it was written quite well, and there were parts when I found myself impressed.
Like so:
It all hit the hardwood like a lonely widow's leap.

Stunning.

But I think the problem for me was that you used so much description and there were so many words I didn't understand, and I really just felt young and stupid. I had to push my way through the story and I had to reread so many parts that it felt more like homework. I've read a lot of your things, and so I've grown used to your style for the most part, but I felt like this story was taking your style and making it more extreme. Almost like you were trying really hard to use fancy words and paint fancy pictures in people's minds. I was reading it and wondering what it reminded me of, and I think it's a Picasso painting. You know, one of those crazy ones that you can stare at all you want, but you never fully understand.
The beginning doesn't seem to match up with the rest of the story, but I don't suggest changing it, it was my favourite part, the most interesting.
I guess I'm more into the simple and to the point stories, or the ones that leave you thinking, I'm not one for colourful ones like this. It was written well, but it held no interest to me. BUT, I'm sure there are so many people that would love this to bits. Hope this helped, even if it was only a bit
"So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads."
— Dr. Seuss
  





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Fri Oct 21, 2011 3:54 pm
JabberHut says...



Hi! I'm sorry this came later than intended. I can't really begin to explain how many distracting distractions got in the way!

So I usually don't go through grammarchecks, but your grammar is actually very good. So I'm totes going to notify you of this little guy here:

Then Esteban, who saved generally saved his voice for yes, sir or no, sir spoke, "And a man discovered that tiny particles, you can't even see, are forever popping in and out of existence, that's also impossible."


You also tend to get a little comma-happy, so there's a run-on here or there. Something to comb through when you look back at it later!

fffff. You've got me going on line-by-lines. But I really loved this:

Humphrey knew he was home, in his bedroom, he could see his violin case propped against the wall, he could see his bicycle which was set on its seat and handlebars, and when – with an agonizing lurch forward – he sat up he could see his decks of cards, collapsible flowers and cape . He cast about over all the relics of his once endeavours.


It's amazing how much you can learn about someone just by seeing their room. This wasn't too long, too short, and explains so much about what kind of person he is already. It's brilliant.

Then when he returned with the leather-bound note book notebook Humphrey told him to write down a series of numbers 13-8558-91-8180.


Silly!

Also, your humor in that mashed-meal bit was fantastic. XD I love your style.

So the beautiful math in the middle there pretty much sent me on one of those really happy fangirlish squees. I actually drew out a calculator just for kicks (well, it was notepad by accident at first) and did the calculations. I suppose Humphrey wrote his equations like that, so it was particularly confusing before I did the calculations myself. I matched up answer with equation at that point. But at first, it was confusing. But! Humphrey probably doesn't care about formatting and such, so that might not make a difference at all.

Ooh, wait! I new scribble session! He actually wrote out where the numbers came from though, so. He might have a little smidgen of concern as to how his notes look or make sense, ja? Therefore, perhaps arrange ze equations from earlier into an actual y = mx + b fashion?

“Thirteen-Eight thousand five hundred and fifty eight-ninety one-eight thousand one hundred and eighty.”


This is going to be probably the most annoying nitpick you will ever get in your entire life. Or close to it, at least. But is there a better formatting for this? It was confusing since a hyphen was used instead of a dash. You could also try commas instead. The hyphens, though, I don't think belong! Hyphens join words, not separate phrases!

----

H'okay, this is actually my first time reading something of yours. Fresh eyes, ja? Ja! I actually enjoyed this piece very much. It might be due to the fact that there was maaaaath mingled in there, and I was really excited about it. It was like a giant puzzle though, and I'm really anxious to read the next part. 'Cause, like. I'm still confused. and I need to figure this out. Anyhow.

So content-wise, I think this is fun times! Esteban's role was a bit confusing for a while there. I thought he was a friend, then a brother, and now I'm thinking butlerrr. If I'm right by some sort of helperbutlerservant thing, then yay! Otherwise, a little more clarification mayhaps? Up to you!

I had to read the intro twice to figure out what that was about. I missed details on the first read though, so when I read it again, it all made sense! I really liked it though. I think sarg put it perfectly: "a nice, appropriate ring of testosterone and masculinity to it." Now, this is something that isn't as apparent in the rest of the narration. I think that works out well, at least for now, since he seems to be a very different kind of person outside of the ring. There's a clear distinction between the ring and the world outside of it.

Anyhow, I look forward to the next part! Then I can piece things together better. I found myself reading this for pure entertainment though, and I'm pretty sure that's a good thing!

Keep writing!

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Fri Oct 21, 2011 8:05 pm
Rydia says...



Hi! Well let's see what you have here...

Specifics

1.
He was bent and sucking like a landed carp. His eyes vacant, peering out at the canvas from looped bruise – oddly, it reminded him of the sail of his father’s old ship, blotted with dry salt stains. The crowd was a raucous din, waiting for the final blow. It was just the fourth round of his amateur career as a lightweight boxer. [Everything was great until this line, which I felt was a little telling and a bit too much of a step back to fill in some detail. I think you could have been a bit smoother.] His moustache, usually oiled, scrolled and pointed, was a snarl of bent bristles. And even as his plump trainer and best friend flung a grey rag in the ring, the crowd called for more blood.


2. Second paragraph is lovely, particularly that last line.

3. I think maybe the numbers should be in words instead of laid out like that. Since it's the last thing his father said, it would make more sense to write it as, 'Thirteen. Eight thousand, five hundred and fifty eight. Ninety one. Eight thousand, one hundred and eighty.'

4. Estaban is a tricky name to get your mouth around after spitting out a molar and just groggily working up. It makes the dialogue sound unnatural so I'd suggest either no name, or a nickname.

5. I'm not feeling the relationship between the first men. You introduce them as friends at first mention but then apparently it's more serving man and sir. But it feels awkward and I'm not sure why. I think it's just that you haven't given us enough grounding on either of them, or maybe that first introduction as though they were friends?

General thoughts

Okay so you kicked off really strongly with this: a clear cut scene, some emotions, an introduction to his money troubles and daddy issues. All very good stuff. But then you floundered. The scenes got harder to follow, the time skipped about, but you didn't give us enough details to fill in the blanks. We don't know if he's done with the boxing or recovering still from his last fight or if he's looking into some other way to earn money on the side. He's allowed to become obsessed over the numbers, but I want to see that obsession hit him and then wane through the frustration of finding nothing and then creep up on him again. And I want to see what else is going on in his life. That way we can get to know him more, you can leak more about his past and present situation and we're not left with a cardboard cut out.

Some interesting stuff going on here and the beginning was good enough that I would read on, but I do wish you could make that initial burst of energy continue throughout the piece.

The next thing is those numbers. Now some people will be all like, oooh maths! While others will start skimmingover them. Is there a way you can present them different to make it more dramatic/ interesting each time? Like, could you have him doing something ordinary/ just going through the life process, such as catching a train and show us the numbers flicking through in his head. Like... he realises there are eight people on board which sets him to thinking about it again. Or he sees a wall poster with one of the numbers. Basically, I want to see some funky montage stuff going on before he reaches the realisation of the atlas' significance.


That's all for now! Let me know when you have another part up/ have made revisions,

Heather xxx
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Tue Oct 25, 2011 4:04 pm
SmylinG says...



JP, :mrgreen:

So I've finally gotten around to posting a reply to this, and the first thing I must say is, well, I think you've written better. :[ This piece seemed to hold the same rugged and intriguing style of writing you always pull through with, and you seemed to have a pretty sturdy foothold on where you intend on taking this, but it just didn't spark as big for me. There wasn't that constant hook I look forward to when reading something of yours. Which is a shame I think. That's what I love about your writing most.

I'm not saying that this was bad. That is the farthest away word I can use to describe what I thought of this. Though, it simply rang as more or less flimsy. Similar to what Sarg said, I thought your beginning was held in so tight and it was sure as hell packed in with a lot of adrenaline and rugged imagery, which I like. I got the vibe of the beginning of a fight movie or something. It was cool. But then you sort of wandered off into an unexpected turn. The writing began to slow down quite abruptly after the beginning, to where it was pretty much just this MC left with his thoughts. I found myself having to cling my attention to whatever it was he was going on about with numbers, and that didn't really ring as interesting for me.

The one large thing I can grasp from this is that Humphrey's father is missing. And even still, I feel that the sureness of my guess of this is a tad flimsy. It's one of those pieces where I feel the necessary need to read things over to make double sure I'm receiving your message loud and clear. Clearly the father is not in the picture though and clearly Humphrey is doing all this thinking about his father. Come toward the end, with the known fact that his father sailed a ship and was one with the sea, and the suggestion of coordinates, I'd like to say to say you're going to turn this into a "father-search" story? Forgive me if I just sound silly with all my meager conclusions, and if I'm only tending to point out the obvious. It leaves me with an odd taste in my mouth that the thought in this story was a little more twisty/windy to the point that I feel only vaguely clued in on things.

In any sense, I do want to say that I can dig the direction you plan on perhaps taking this. Though, amidst the center of things in this first part, you had me a little caught up in clinging to the larger picture. There was a lot of tiny details that I wasn't sure were unnecessary or not. Normally details, like what you've inserted, can either bare definite purpose, or simply just be there to fluff up and beautify the writing. Normally I can tell the difference. Here I had some trouble. Just some food for thought. Though I do indeed think this makes a sturdy first draft. I don't think you'll have to go through many drafts at all to get things just perfect. There are a few oddities hanging about, but your previous reviewers caught most all of them for you.

My biggest advice as a general first impression, would be to keep the rhythm of the opening of your story radiating. Don't just let it fall flat altogether. When I reached the middle I was so unbelievably bored in comparison to the energy your opening left me with. Also, be a bit more tight with the bigger picture. ;]

Hope this helps. And sorry again for showing late to the party!

-Smylin'
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Sun Oct 30, 2011 1:28 pm
Charlie II says...



Hello again Mr Paul!

Characters

Ironically, though perhaps intentionally, there doesn't seem to be anything magnificent about Humphrey Wolf Adams so far! He's got the endearing "oh dear the family fortune is disappearing" side to him, and his resignation (though not without pain) to how many heirlooms he has to sell is amusing. But apart from this, he's not actually a very interesting character.

He's flippant and starts foolish endeavours, but he doesn't seem barmy or eccentric enough to be loveable because of it. I think you've got potential to make Humphrey an amusing and likeable character as long as that doesn't cheapen him in your eyes.

Concerning Esteban, I think he has slightly more of a personality (especially with his extra bit of characterisation at the start of Part Two) but it doesn't really shine through. He's got that "used but loyal servant" air which works but doesn't strike me as particularly original or unique. Considering you usually create wonderful characters, or find a kind of poetry in the average man, I've gotta say I'm a bit disappointed.

But then again perhaps that's because I'm always one for the light-hearted humorous directions in this kind of story. If that's not what you're trying to achieve then it could be that I'm just not seeing what I'm expecting!

Engaging

The conflict seems distant, as if the characters are resigned and detached from it. The money situation doesn't seem to worry them in the slightest and no nerves are frazzled from the stress. Do either Humphrey or Esteban have any friends or close relatives that might miss them when they disappear off on the ship? Do the servant and the master always get along so effortlessly? I'm not seeing the natural human conflict between men who are quickly running out of cash.

The bit about the numbers is good and intriguing and definitely hooks the reader in to find out what's on the island, but the opening scene (although well written) seems to be there just to fit some action into the opening chapter -- I'm not overly convinced by it. It also reminds me a lot of the latest Sherlock Holmes movies (with Jude Law etc) and I'd be very careful how closely you tread that line.

Nevertheless, we probably need to talk about Sherlock Holmes. :P

Conan Doyle

This trailer.

It's not exactly how Conan Doyle imagined or intended Watson and Holmes to be portrayed, but you can't deny there's a real magic between their characters. If you're going to have an isolated pair, like Humphrey and Esteban, then I think it's important that you take a look at this case study and see if you can develop something similar for yours.

Due to the way copyrighted material "runs out" you can now get Conan Doyle's works for free (legitimately) with either the Amazon Kindle app or something similar. If you haven't read any of his books before then I thoroughly recommend it!

Overall

Technically speaking, the piece is fine grammatically and structurally. I always enjoy your turns of phrases and ability to craft sentences together, but I feel this work is lacking that spark of humanity that readers connect to. And so while it's well-written and got the potential, I'm not sure it's achieved half of it yet.

Obviously take my review in the context of your others, but I'd wager I'm not the only one to say that you could do more than this. I hope I've helped.


Charlie
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