#1
chapter 1 - tete a demi-tete


It's a grey night in a small town in England. The weather is damp, to say the least, and having recently stopped raining the roads and pavements that wind though the hills are filled with puddles and small rivers of water running into drains.

There's a car accelerating in the distance.

The night is one that promises another day much the same as the present one just ending. Wet underfoot, traffic in the town centre, umbrellas flexing their length and those paranoid about losing an eye risking a limb as they dodge them by jumping into the roads. February always reeks of the same waste, waste of time spent moving slower than forward.

The car passes in a flash.

Edward Andrews is thirty-three years old and was a paraplegic. In an event unknown to man, even to the smartest men on the planet, how he is now able to press down on the accelarator pedal of a car is beyond them.

On a night much like this one, thirteen years a go, a thunderstorm broke out. Edward Andrews was jogging the roads with blind enthusiasm, the sort that comes with running the marathon for charity in two months time. In the rain an SUV carrying a father, a mother and three children swerved on the road and span into the running Edward Andrews, and Edward was thrown a remarkable distance to the side of the road. The family, all present and correct thanks to the integrity of the SUV, phoned for an ambulance immidietely.

He would never walk again. Except he did.

The car pulls into a pub car park.

No-one had heard much from Edward since it was known he could once more utilise the lower half of his body. Apart from the media circus when the news first broke through hospital walls, he'd managed to seclude himself quite nicely, to the point where he now had to mention to strangers who he was, rather than them know instantaneously most of his backstory (as is the want of the tabloid press to dig and undcover most of a mans life for public exposure). Edward could now manouevre around the country with relative annonymity, that is, compared to some of his older friends.

A man in a long black jacket suit exits the car, slams the door shut and enters the pub.

Inside he sits and he waits for the bartender, or, lucky as he was the last time he came here, one of the lovely barmaids. But no one served him immidietely.

Across the bar, a man wearing little more than an obvious disguise sat staring at the new customer. Edward knew this man knew he would be there, and was hoping that he would have time to size him up. Thanks to the slow service of the staff at the Queen's Legs, he had now had the chance to compare height, weight, body build etc.

Edward had already won the fight. He put a cigarette to his mouth.

"You can't smoke in here." The bartender had arrived. "It's against the law." He'd brought back up. Edward took the cigarette out of his mouth.

"I wasn't smokin' on it. I was suckin' on it."

Edward could sense the man with the terrible disguise was watching him, a hawk following a field mouse threw the farmers rows of grain.

"Would you like a drink, Sir?"

"I'll take a beer. Make it good." Most bartenders would threaten to throw him out, but this one was solid, this one could play Edward's game. Edward knew he would, too, being an old acquaitance of his brother. There was a reason behind this pub. There was always a reason.

The bartender poured the beer with talent, even letting it to settle halfway for a moment. He slapped it on the bar in front of Edward. Edward duly drank it.

"That was the best damn beer I've had since I arrived back in England." He'd got the bartender, all smiles. "Now where the fuck is my Darling?"

Out of the corner of Edward's eye, the man with the awful disguise rose up from his stool, his hand already halfway to his jacket pocket.

It was going to be a long night.
#2
This is a song?
Do you feel warm within your cage?

And have you figured out yet -


Life goes by?
Quote by Hydra150
There's a dick on Earth, too
It's you
#3
if the title of the first chapter is in french, then should be "tête à demi-tête", and it pretty much doesn't mean anything. oO (didn't see any link with the text anyway).

Anyway, i'm waiting for chapter 2.
#4
Good. It certainly improved towards the end.
The main problem here was that some of the sentences were extremely awkward. I could understand what you were saying, but when I read these monsters, it made the whole thing sound amateurish.

I'll be back to point out specifics.
#5
chapter 1 - tete a demi-tete
I'm going to bold sentences that need restructuring.

It's a grey night in a small town in England. The weather is damp, to say the least, and having recently stopped raining the roads and pavements that wind though the hills are filled with puddles and small rivers of water running into drains.

There's a car accelerating in the distance.

The night is one that promises another day much the same as the present one just ending. Wet underfoot, traffic in the town centre, umbrellas flexing their length and those paranoid about losing an eye risking a limb as they dodge them by jumping into the roads. February always reeks of the same waste, waste of time spent moving slower than forward.

The car passes in a flash.

Edward Andrews is thirty-three years old and was a paraplegic. In an event unknown to man, even to the smartest men on the planet, how he is now able to press down on the accelarator pedal of a car is beyond them.

On a night much like this one, thirteen years a go, a thunderstorm broke out. Edward Andrews was jogging the roads with blind enthusiasm, the sort that comes with running the marathon for charity in two months time. In the rain an SUV carrying a father, a mother and three children swerved on the road and span into the running Edward Andrews, and Edward was thrown a remarkable distance to the side of the road. The family, all present and correct thanks to the integrity of the SUV, phoned for an ambulance immidietely.

He would never walk again. Except he did.
This whole section was confusing, because it's just inserted into the middle of the main story. Maybe put it in italics?
The car pulls into a pub car park.

No-one had heard much from Edward since it was known he could once more utilise the lower half of his body. Apart from the media circus when the news first broke through hospital walls, he'd managed to seclude himself quite nicely, to the point where he now had to mention to strangers who he was, rather than them know instantaneously most of his backstory (as is the want of the tabloid press to dig and undcover most of a mans life for public exposure). Edward could now manouevre around the country with relative annonymity, that is, compared to some of his older friends.

A man in a long black jacket suit exits the car, slams the door shut and enters the pub.

Inside he sits and he waits for the bartender, or, lucky as he was the last time he came here, one of the lovely barmaids. But no one served him immidietely.

Across the bar, a man wearing little more than an obvious disguise sat staring at the new customer. Edward knew this man knew he would be there, and was hoping that he would have time to size him up. Thanks to the slow service of the staff at the Queen's Legs, he had now had the chance to compare height, weight, body build etc.

Edward had already won the fight. He put a cigarette to his mouth.

"You can't smoke in here." The bartender had arrived. "It's against the law." He'd brought back up. Edward took the cigarette out of his mouth.

"I wasn't smokin' on it. I was suckin' on it."

Edward could sense the man with the terrible disguise was watching him, a hawk following a field mouse threw the farmers rows of grain.

"Would you like a drink, Sir?"

"I'll take a beer. Make it good." Most bartenders would threaten to throw him out, but this one was solid, this one could play Edward's game. Edward knew he would, too, being an old acquaitance of his brother. There was a reason behind this pub. There was always a reason.

The bartender poured the beer with talent, even letting it to settle halfway for a moment. He slapped it on the bar in front of Edward. Edward duly drank it.

"That was the best damn beer I've had since I arrived back in England." He'd got the bartender, all smiles. "Now where the **** is my Darling?"

Out of the corner of Edward's eye, the man with the awful disguise rose up from his stool, his hand already halfway to his jacket pocket.

It was going to be a long night.


this didn't feel like it was well-crafted, to be honest.
The idea is there, the mood, but I have to wonder if you have much experience writing in a prose form. So many of the sentences are painfully awkward. that all said, I'm reading the next entry.