The Quarter (flash fiction)

Hi there! This story is very beautifully painted, and the imagery makes me feel like I can see everything perfectly. The only thing I would say, and it's mostly just my personal style, but I would have liked to hear some words maybe, just a sentence or two, to help cement the emotion of the story. Other than that, it's a beautiful story, and I like it a lot! If you don't mind, I would greatly appreciate it if you were to look over on my profile and review "Trouble on the Homefront." It's a prologue for a lager idea, and maybe you could advise me how to proceed.
Thanks very much, and keep writing!
- SOCKS

Hey there! Wonderful description, this is one of the few truly well-written pieces I've seen here in a while. It may go a little to the detriment of other things in your story, like little details as someone before me mentioned, but for the most part, it's a welcome change. While you do spend a lot of time setting up and describing every nuance of the scene, there is almost nothing of the characters. I know this is flash fiction, but make sure you give your main character a face and a personality. Characterization is very important. Now that this has all been said, on to the meat of this review!

Working quickly, he takes out the aged-guitar and sets it on his lap, twisting the knobs to force it into tune

The incessant buzz of human voices pummels his ears, making it difficult to hear the small sounds produced by the quivering strings.

Someone shouts, and the smack of a fish carcass changing hands resonates through the market.

The customers moving along the isle between them duck,

The wind gusts again, scattering a pile of leaves across the parking lot. One large maple leaf, blown from who knows where, catches the fading light as the wind lifts it off the dirty concrete. A brilliant white stripe, formed by a carefully drawn line of paint, blazes a trail across the mottled yellow and red lobes. He studies it, wondering who drew the line, and why. Maybe it came from a ball field, or a park. He smiles at the image, but then recalls where he is, with concrete high rises all around and little evidence of anything green, other than the cut flowers sold by the vendors. The smile fades as he realizes it’s much more likely that someone painting lines for a parking lot marred the leaf.

This morning he spent the last of his change for breakfast

Now he has nothing to his name, save for the weathered guitar and his thoughts, neither of which seem to be worth much.

That was before his hands got so rough he couldn’t play right.

There is a flicker of movement, the flash of a young, pale face rimmed with short, dark hair peering at him from the second floor balcony.

He picks up the guitar and begins to play again.

Thanks so much!

Ok, so I guess I'll have to edit some of the description in the beginning. I'm not really sure what else could happen, but I'll think about it.

Thanks again!

Lupis

Here to review as requested

The Quarter

The late afternoon breeze is chilly with the coming winter. He feels the cold deep in his joints, hands fumbling with the catch on the cracked, black leather case. Working quickly, he takes out the aged-guitar and sets it on his lap, twisting the knobs to force it into tune. As he works, he watches the ground before his eyes, studying the trash scudding along the dirty, gum-encrusted concrete. The incessant buzz of human voices pummels his ears, making it difficult to hear the small sounds produced by the quivering strings. I liked this opening paragraph, it was nice and descriptive.

Most of the day-crowd has left by now. The sellers remain, standing watchfully behind their counters, hoping to make a few more sales off the dwindling crowds. Everything is available here, at least for those who have the money to buy it: Fresh flowers, granola, tie-dyed shirts, sheepskin slippers, souvenir models of the Space Needle, CDs This should be Cd's., and honey. It’s all available, and just down the hall from the fish sellers, whose fragrant wares fill the entire area with the stink of decaying sea life, despite the brisk wind.
Someone shouts, and the smack of a fish carcass changing hands resonates through the market.

“Trout for James!” one calls, baring a set of rotten teeth as he hurls the dead fish across the aisle to his compatriot behind the cash register, who wraps it deftly in a sheet of white packing paper and sets it on a scale.

The customers moving along the isle between them duck, trying to avoid the cold, fishy water scattered by the fishmongers.

He should move somewhere else. The fish-sellers are a spectacle by themselves, and the people are distracted, too interested in flying fish to pay any attention to an aging street musician. Still, the crowds here are big enough that he has to try anyway. Setting out an old plastic cup for change, he begins to play a faint, melancholy tune that hardly penetrates the hum of voices.

The wind gusts again, scattering a pile of leaves across the parking lot. One large maple leaf, blown from who knows where, catches the fading light as the wind lifts it off the dirty concrete. A brilliant white stripe, formed by a carefully drawn line of paint, blazes a trail across the mottled yellow and red lobes. He studies it, wondering who drew the line, and why. Maybe it came from a ball field, or a park. He smiles at the image, but then recalls where he is, with concrete high rises all around and little evidence of anything green, other than the cut flowers sold by the vendors. This sentence was a bit long. Maybe you could try shortening it a bit?The smile fades as he realizes it’s much more likely that someone painting lines for a parking lot marred the leaf.

He concentrates on the song, the swarm of feet blurring in front of his eyes. The plastic cup in the case is still empty. This morning he spent the last of his change for breakfast, so he has no money to put in the cup to encourage donations. Now he has nothing to his name, save for the weathered guitar and his thoughts, neither of which seem to be worth much. I liked this sentence, it had a nice flow.

The song trails off, I don't think you really need the comma here. and he stares at the endless procession of faces going past. They are all the same. Does anyone see him? Leaning back against a cement post, he wills someone to stop, to notice him. He remembers a time, years ago, when he finished a song to look up and see a small crowd of people watching. That was before his hands got so rough he couldn’t play right. That was also before he looked like a cross between an average bum and Santa Claus, Now that is what you call a good simile with his scraggly gray beard and red-rimmed eyes. He smiles to himself at the thought and gently, reverently places his guitar back in the ancient case, ready to pack up and search for a more receptive audience. Maybe he’ll scrounge around here for a while to see which of the vendors might give him a free sample or two. The salted nut man is nice.

Plink!

Just as he’s about to close his case, a bright silver quarter lands in the cup. Startled, he looks around in surprise. No one has stopped. Bodies move in an endless rush around him; no one is even looking his way. Who, then?

He looks up.

There is a flicker of movement, the flash of a young, pale face rimmed with short, dark hair peering at him from the second floor balcony. Then it is gone, leaving nothing but the quarter, still rolling around on its edge in the bottom of the cup. He lowers his gaze back to the shifting crowd and finds himself sitting up straighter, contemplative, but also strangely happy for the first time that day. This sentence was a bit on the long side as well.He picks up the guitar and begins to play again.

Hi!

Thanks so much for the review. I'll try and edit for the things you mentioned.

About the street/hall thing: This is based off the Pike Place Market in Seattle. It's both inside and outside--some places are open to the street, and some are enclosed.

And were you saying that I should make it more action-heavy, or just that you preferred different types of stories?

Either way, thanks for the critique. I really appreciate it.

Lupis

Comments in red.

canislupis wrote:Flash fiction written for a contest. All comments appreciated.
_____________________

The Quarter

The late afternoon breeze is chilly with the coming winter. I'm not so sure about the flow of this sentence. Fix. He feels the cold deep in his joints, hands fumbling with the catch on the cracked, black leather case. Working quickly, he takes out the aged-guitar and sets it on his lap, twisting the knobs to force it into tune. As he works, he watches the ground before his eyes, studying the trash scudding along the dirty, gum-encrusted concrete. The incessant buzz of human voices pummels his ears, making it difficult to hear the small sounds produced by the quivering strings.

Most of the day-crowd has left by now. The sellers remain, standing watchfully behind their counters, hoping to make a few more sales off the dwindling crowds. I'm not really a big fan of description but it's all your story has so far. I'm getting bored. Everything is available here, at least for those who have the money to buy it: Fresh flowers, granola, tie-dyed shirts, sheepskin slippers, souvenir models of the Space Needle, CDs, and honey. It’s all available, and just down the hall I thought it was a street?from the fish sellers, whose fragrant wares fill the entire area with the stink of decaying sea life, despite the brisk wind. "Despite the brisk wind" sounds tacked on. Take it off if possible.
Someone shouts, and the smack of a fish carcass changing hands resonates through the market.

“Trout for James!” one calls, baring a set of rotten teeth as he hurls the dead fish across the aisle to his compatriot behind the cash register, who wraps it deftly in a sheet of white packing paper and sets it on a scale.

The customers moving along the isle between them duck, trying to avoid the cold, fishy water scattered by the fishmongers.

He should move somewhere else. The fish-sellers are a spectacle by themselves, and the people are distracted, too interested in flying fish to pay any attention to an aging street musician. Still, the crowds here are big enough that he has to try anyway. Awkward wording. Change the last sentence. Setting out an old plastic cup Let's pause, shall we? You mentioned a brisk wind. Brisk wind + plastic cub = fly away cup. So he might want something heavier. for change, he begins to play a faint, melancholy tune that hardly penetrates the hum of voices.

The wind gusts again, scattering a pile of leaves across the parking lot. One large maple leaf, blown from who knows where, catches the fading light as the wind lifts it off the dirty concrete. A brilliant white stripe, formed by a carefully drawn line of paint, blazes a trail across the mottled yellow and red lobes. He studies it, wondering who drew the line, and why. Maybe it came from a ball field, or a park. He smiles at the image, but then recalls where he is, with concrete high rises all around and little evidence of anything green, other than the cut flowers sold by the vendors. The smile fades as he realizes it’s much more likely that someone painting lines for a parking lot marred the leaf.

He concentrates on the song, the swarm of feet blurring in front of his eyes. The plastic cup in the case is still empty. This morning he spent the last of his change for breakfast, so he has no money to put in the cup to encourage donations. Now he has nothing to his name, save for the weathered guitar and his thoughts, neither of which seem to be worth much.

The song trails off, and he stares at the endless procession of faces going past. They are all the same. Does anyone see him? Leaning back against a cement post, he wills someone to stop, to notice him. He remembers a time, years ago, when he finished a song to look up and see a small crowd of people watching. That was before his hands got so rough he couldn’t play right. That was also before he looked like a cross between an average bum and Santa Claus, with his scraggly gray beard and red-rimmed eyes. He smiles to himself at the thought and gently, reverently places his guitar back in the ancient case, ready to pack up and search for a more receptive audience. Maybe he’ll scrounge around here for a while to see which of the vendors might give him a free sample or two. The salted nut man is nice.

Plink!

Just as he’s about to close his case, a bright silver quarter lands in the cup. Startled, he looks around in surprise. No one has stopped. Bodies move in an endless rush around him; no one is even looking his way. Who, then?

He looks up.

There is a flicker of movement, the flash of a young, pale face rimmed with short, dark hair peering at him from the second floor balcony. Then it is gone, leaving nothing but the quarter, still rolling around on its edge in the bottom of the cup. He lowers his gaze back to the shifting crowd and finds himself sitting up straighter, contemplative, but also strangely happy for the first time that day. He picks up the guitar and begins to play again.