i write short stories for fun...does anyone else? or even poems or whatever it is you write down...share with us!! =)
please post or send a link to your short stories :] tell me what you think.
CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM ONLY, PLEASE.
this one is called "The Y District"
Delainie, Florida was really a beautiful city. Not for any one reason in particular, it was a beautiful city in the same way most beautiful cities manage to get that title. It lived. The whole place lived, and even if the people who busied their lives away there didn't see it, it breathed even and calm breaths of life. It had it all, all the things that big cities had. The bustling downtown, the busy outskirts, the serene country just outside of that. It possessed the people all big cities need to be called big cities. The lawyer with the wife, two children, and red-headed mistress. The police man with a chiseled past and no patience for punks, the single working mother with the adoring big-eyed son. They were all there in fronds, and they were all what gave Delainie breath. The city was a lovely, blooming metropolis, and though far from a heaven, it was wonderful. Of course though, as it is with all people, the ones who lived there, they couldn't appreciate the city for it's beauty, since it was much easier to dislike it for it's flaws, as few and far between as they were.
There wasn't crime in Delainie, not really. Nothing like other cities. There wasn't a gang problem, there weren't many stores robbed, and the ones that were, were robbed without causalities. It wasn't a crime-free haven, but it was safe there, so crime wasn't Delainie's problem. No, it wasn't crime. The law-enforcement was nice, because there was no crime. There was the plump little mayor with his suit always slightly messy, which made people able relate to him of course, his dark grey mustache always puffed out in his excitement. His bald head, with the crown of hair the same color as his puffy mustache, always reflected the sun when he gave speeches. The people of Delainie loved him, because he was familiar, he was comforting, he was one of them. No, the law in Delainie wasn't the problem. It was actually so much more simple then that, more simple because it was so easy to avoid. So easy to just push out of mind, until one of your relatives turned up there dead from drug overdose.
The problem in Delainie was The Y District.
The Y District wasn't really a district as most would think of it, instead of being composed of a few buildings, a few roads, it consumed Delainie's east side, over one fourth of the city. It was just as thriving as the rest of Delainie, and just like the rest of the city breathed, so did The Y District. But, even though Delainie breathed slow, calm breaths, The Y took in deep gasps and exhaled them with the equal amount of force. It breathed like a dying animal that refused to let go, but that where were the similarities between The Y and something dying ended. It was, if anything, even more alive then the rest of the city. People there knew what they wanted, and they took it. It was simple as that. The whole district was a mess of bars, clubs, strip joints, and apartments. It was a thriving metropolis just like the rest of Delainie, but unlike the rest, it thrived completely on it's own. It was an alien place, a different town, and the people who lived there liked it that way. They liked twelve hookers to a pimp, three pimps to a boss, and one boss every five blocks. They liked falling to sleep to the sound of bass thudding, car alarms, and windows breaking. Well, most of them. The Y was where you came if that was the life you wanted, or if you wanted a break away from the life you had.
The District didn't act as a whole though, just like The Y was cut off from Delainie, a city divided, it was a district divided. There was your drug slum, complete with the dealers, the junkies, and the squatters. Your straight hooker section, equipped with clubs and all the pussy you could ever hope for, and finally your gay hooker section, equipped with a few more clubs then the straight, all the dick and fake pussy you could ever dream of. It was heaven for men cheating on their wives, wives cheating on their husbands. It was a safe haven for men in the closet, and women who couldn't get any on their own. The rest of Delainie wasn't heaven, but The Y District, it was.
That was what The Y was to Sasha. More then anything else, it was his heaven, and there was nothing he would trade for it. The only problem was, The Y wouldn't trade anything for him either. You breathed the air of that place long enough, you lived the life that it offered for so many years, and you became a prisoner to it. That's what Sasha was, he was a prisoner to The District. All though, unlike most prisoners, he loved it, and he breathed in The Y District of Delainie, Florida just as violently as it breathed in him. The smell of sex, alcohol, cheap make-up, and ocean got him through every day, and he was happy living life that was, because it was what he had pushed himself into. Life in The Y wasn't a cruel turn of fate for him, it was a life he choose, and one he had worked hard to perfect.
Sasha's name wasn't really Sasha at all, at least not according to his mother. According to her, and by law, Sasha's name was Shelton Roderick DeVay. Sasha sounded much better in his opinion. At the tender age of eleven, Shelton realized he was unhappy in the way most eleven year old boys living on a farm in the middle of no where in Kentucky shouldn't be unhappy. The house was square, white washed, with high windows. It was a nice house. The yard was fenced in with a white picket fence in the front, there were cows, ducks, chickens, four dogs, everything a young boy could want in the back. There was a pond on their land, a creek, other houses with other boys and even little girls. It was perfect, or would have been for most boys.
Shelton had no friends in his neighborly farmer's boy life. None of the boys wanted to be near him, which was fair enough, he didn't want to be near them either. The little girls had nothing to do with him either, which also suited him. If you laid eyes on him at eleven you couldn't see why all the children in the neighborhood would avoid him, there was no reason for it. He wasn't visually unpleasing, with dirty blonde hair cut evenly just above his shoulders to frame a round face, skin the color of a coffee with just enough creamer, and pale green eyes. He was an interesting boy too, his father had taught him a lot when he was younger, things that all young boys want to know. No, those weren't the reasons the children of the neighborhood avoided him, the only ones who /really/ knew the reasons, besides the children, were the strangers who passed through town.
While other little boys would run down to the creek on the DeVay land and catch craw fish, Shelton DeVay stood on the edge of the dirt road a mile from his house, and waited for strange cars to pass. Once they did, once they slowed down, and asked him what he was doing there, in the middle of nowhere, and once he told them, almost every time they would ask him to get in. Once Shelton DeVay got in these cars, they would drive off into a field somewhere nearby, and by his own freewill, Shelton DeVay, would have sex with the men who picked him up. You would think it would be an easy secret to keep, but Shelton never tried to keep it a secret. The fact that all the children his own age knew about him, it spiced up his boring farm life. He wanted them to know about him, and avoid him, because it made his life easier.
It was when he was almost 12 that Shelton realized the country wouldn't work for him. Waiting on his dirt road, a familiar truck stopped in front of him, and looking in, to the owner of the local feed store, he was confused. The man told him to get in, and he did. They drove to their field, and instead of having sex, the owner of the local feed store called him a faggot, beat the shit out of him, and left him there.
Two weeks later the same man returned after his wife ran out on him, to ask for a hand job.
It was then that he left, promising himself that he would never smell the stink of cows ever again, hitch-hiking with a stranger who came into town, paying him the only way he could. He had wandered till he was almost 14, then somehow ended up in The Y District of Delainie. It was heaven to him, because it was everything he had ever longed for in his life, put in one place. After three weeks on the streets he had enough to pay for a shitty apartment. After three months, he had enough to pay for a better one, and after three years, he had enough to pay for the nicest in the district, which was pretty damn nice, seeing as the rent was nearly twelve hundred dollars a month. But he could afford it, and more, because he had that many regulars, because he was that good.
Sasha, standing on a corner, his face lit with the neon of the street, looked nothing like Shelton. The only thing he had retained from his childhood was his skin tone, and his round face. His hair was lighter now, expensively done a paler blonde with undertones of brown, cut touching his collarbones with layers up to his crown, bangs to hitting the middle of his cheeks on both sides. His hair had a sharp, jagged feel to it because it was razored, no one edge cut flat. His eyes had darkened with age, and the pale green of youth had faded, becoming a dark vivid green, that looked black in the neon. The ratty farmers boy clothes had been replaced, black pants that looked more expensive then the club he was standing in front of, knee high fasten up black boots, a purposefully tattered, tight black shirt with an emblem on the front that had long ago lost it's meaning, an interesting looking dark red coat that hit him at the bottom of the thigh, thick, buckles here and there.
Occasionally people stopped, acknowledged him, and he ignored them, drawing on the cigarette he had between his index and middle finger. He knew the people here, at 19 he had been here long enough just to know, and he didn't fuck trash.
A man in drag passed in front of him and he made a disgusted face, dropping the cigarette onto the cement and crushing it with a soft grinding sound under his boot. Men were men, and that was how it should be, or at least that was what he thought. The transvestites, drag-queens, cross-dressers that roamed the district were so fake to him, it made him sick to his stomach. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned, cocking one eyebrow at the man who was grinning at him, crossing his arms over his chest slowly.
"It's more then you can afford old man."
"Oh, oh I have the money, believe you me," the man pulled a wad of what looked like twenties out of his pocket and Sasha cocked his mouth in a smirk.
"Funny, you don't look like you can afford fifty-seven a half-hour," the man's smile faded and turned into a look of surprise mixed with anger.
"You don't honestly charge that! You must not get to many customers, some whore you are!" It was Sasha's turn to be angry, his face twisting with rage as his body stance changed and he turned to face the man.
"I probably live in a nicer house then you, you god damn perv so why don't you fucking get lost before I facefuck you with my fist! I don't FUCK, TRASH." He jerked his fist back, it was intimidating looking, despite his height of only 5'6, mostly because his fingers were covered in rings, and the man backed up, giving Sasha one more disgusted look before he turned and disappeared around the nearby corner. Sasha sighed, blowing his hair out of his face before he leaned back against the wall. Okay, so he didn't charge that much, but the man still couldn't afford him, even with his wad of twenties.
