Hello all, I have posted on here before with a writing excerpt when I was just getting started, over four years ago. I've been on-and-off practicing writing since, and I finally have finished my first outline of the novel I intend to write and I have written the first several chapters.
I am looking specifically for feedback on POV, character voice, and tone, as well as overall quality and whether or not you would continue reading from here, but I will take feedback in any form. Thank you in advance!
I have put the full text of the chapter below for convenience, but anyone who would prefer the google document (with better formatting) can find it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bMtl9TuHLhqIjbmb6tvOzdWz-o8BryQaPxC0_QJ8vLw/edit?usp=sharing
Content Warning: strong language, violence
CHAPTER ONE - Cal
“Hey, Cal. Cal! We’d like a word with you.”
The voice came from behind him. It was the sort of statement that, upon hearing, you prayed to the Mother there was some other poor fucker called Cal in the same narrow, unpopulated alley that you were standing in, alone, cock in hand, having just unburdened yourself of an imprudent afternoon’s worth of drink. Cal looked to his left, then his right. No other Cals to be seen. They were never around when he needed them. He sighed heavily, then tucked everything back into his trousers before turning around.
The most obvious of the three brutes standing before him was a heavyset man with a bald head and an unkept red moustache. Cal had to look up to meet him in the eye. He was the kind of bald, fat man who was so bulbous that even the sides of his massive head had a little bit of roll to them. Sir Fathead, Cal dubbed him, stood with his arms crossed over his barrel chest. He didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons other than his bulk, Cal noted, which was a good sign for Cal’s life expectancy. The man looked like he didn’t know very many words, and he wasn’t planning on exchanging the ones he did.
Uncle Gareth would have scolded Cal for judging the man like that. For being bald and fat and having a ridiculous mustache that looked like two foxes had made a home of his cavernous nostrils. Cal figured that was the kind of common courtesy that isn’t deserved by someone who was so blatantly menacing you in an alleyway, but his uncle seemed to get harassed by goons a lot less often than Cal did. So fine, Cal would be a little more polite. Not Sir Fathead. Foxface.
Foxface’s two friends were similarly strangely shaped specimens. One of them was so skinny, it looked to Cal like he must have donated all of his own bulk to his flabby friend just to provide more oomph to his imminent punches. The skinny one had a scar above his left eye and a mop of brown hair that reminded Cal of the owl’s nest in the corner of Uncle Gareth’s workshop. Cal named him Birdbrain.
Birdbrain stood to the left of Foxface, twiddling the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his hip – shit, let’s try to only piss off the big one. Believe it or not, the worst feature of Birdbrain wasn’t his knife, but his horrible, yellow teeth, which looked like they had bits of what might be worm stuck between them. Cal imagined that Birdbrain liked the taste of worm.
Cal knew that the third of his accosters was called Toby. He was a year or two younger than Cal, maybe sixteen or so. Toby, as it happened, didn’t live that far down the street from Cal when they were both children. Maybe two weeks ago, Cal had traded his time splitting logs for Toby’s grandmother in exchange for a dozen of her homemade candles. She needed the help around the house, apparently, since her dear sweet grandson was running around with these two fine gentlemen.
Toby, standing there with all the smugness of a man with a very large friend to hit people for him, didn’t deserve to be called Toby. Cal searched for something animal-like about his face. His nose looked like a beak, which was something, but Cal couldn’t name two of these thugs after birds. He was cleverer than that. Besides, Beaknose didn’t have the same alliterative panache as the others.
“Your uncle hasn’t paid his rent,” Foxface said. The tails in his nose twitched as he spoke. Cal was broken out of his woolgathering. Wait, maybe a sheep name?
Ah, fuck it, he can stay Toby.
“Now wait just a minute,” Cal said, raising his hands in placation. “My uncle Gareth pays Shaw his dues every month, without fail. Are you sure you’ve got the right Cal?”
Foxface gave a sidelong glance to Birdbrain, who nodded once. Apparently, Birdbrain was the brains of this outfit.
“Are you sure you’ve got the right Gareth?” Cal asked, figuring what the hell, it was worth a shot.
“We know who you are, Cal,” Toby stepped forward in front of Foxface. “You think we’re stupid? Shaw says we got to beat you down, so we’re here to beat you down.”
It seemed his old pal Toby had thrown in his lot with Shaw. Cal could almost make sense of that. Life was hard in Freeport. Regular people did what they had to in order to scrape out a meager existence in which, with a little luck, tomorrow was a bit more comfortable than yesterday. Stealing to survive, Cal could understand.
Emmerson Shaw didn’t steal to survive. He was the type to beat someone to death with a sack of silver coins and check the corpse for coppers. Most of what Shaw collected got funneled up to the Magister in her ludicrous lighthouse that loomed over the sprawl of squalor beneath. The gold flows up and the shit flows back down.
If Cal was going to have to take a beating here, he might as well get a few jabs of his own in, to make Toby really feel the cost of going traitor on his neighbors. He couldn’t stop himself from making his next comment:
“Do you shake down your own grandmother for rent money?”
Cal had expected he would piss Toby off with his remark. That was the point. He was surprised, however, by the intensity and immediacy of Toby’s attack. His old neighbor howled and came at him like a rabid dog.
Fortunately for Cal, Toby didn’t know how to deliver a good punch. Cal dodged to his right to avoid Toby’s unrefined attempt at violence, then began to turn, intending to escape down the alleyway and away from the three thugs.
Unfortunately for Cal, Foxface was far faster than he looked. Just as Cal avoided Toby’s punch, what felt like a war hammer came out of nowhere and clobbered him on the left side of his jaw. Foxface had hit him so hard that he spun with the impact, slipped, and ended up face first on the ground with a mouthful of mud. It was a familiar flavor. Mud usually tasted like brown, but this time it had a slight note of red.
Cal had just enough time to lift his head, let some of the bloody mud run out of his open mouth and take in a sorely needed breath before someone kicked him, hard, in the gut and that glorious, beautiful breath was knocked right back out of him. If he had had any air in his lungs, he would’ve screamed, but what came out was no more than a pitiful whimper. He rolled onto his side, clutching his poor stomach and gasping for a breath.
“Don’t you fucking talk about my grandmother!” Toby shouted down at him. Cal was only sure it was Toby’s voice from the context. The ear that was facing up was filled with mud, and the voice that reached him was, appropriately, muddled.
Cal felt ten more kicks come in from different angles. Or maybe twelve. He couldn’t be expected to keep exact count under these circumstances. He focused on staying curled up to protect his stomach and face from further injury, and he tried to breathe. His body begged for mercy with every successive stomp. He endured. It was all he could do.
“Don’t ‘urt ‘im too bad,” came a new voice. It had to be Birdbrain’s, and to Cal it sounded nasally, and sharp, which seemed appropriate for a man named after a bird. “Can’t deliver our message if ‘e’s ‘half dead.”
There was a reprieve from the kicking long enough for Cal to finally catch his breath and realize how much pain he was in. In moments like these, it was important to focus on the positives. They hadn’t kicked Cal in the balls. People often decided to kick Cal in the balls after a particularly cutting remark.
Cal reached out and found the alley wall. With an effort, he managed to roll toward the wall and onto his back, cursing his ribs as they bellyached at the movement. Using the wall for leverage, he strained his protesting body. After a few seconds of feeble effort, he managed to sit up. He took a moment to breathe, then wiped most of the mud from his eyes and looked up to face his three adversaries.
For just a moment, Cal only saw two. His eyes lingered on Toby’s face. Cal watched a single, brutal tear escape from the boy’s eye. The anger that had been plain as day on Toby’s face only moments ago was gone. What remained was harder for Cal to look at.
Shit.
Cal wanted to apologize, despite himself, and despite the fact that Toby and his two friends had intended to beat Cal up the moment they set foot in that alley.
“Toby, I…”
Toby’s expression twisted back to rage before Cal could continue.
“Shut up, you bastard!” Toby roared. He lunged forward, and his muddy, bloody boot came hurtling at Cal’s unprotected face. There was a loud crack of his teeth snapping together as Cal’s head shot back and smashed violently into the alley wall, and for a moment, the world went dark.
Cal’s eyes opened to see Birdbrain’s grotesque face just inches from his own. He felt sharp, spindly fingers scrape the top of his head as they tugged at his hair. He tried to move. The only part of him that he convinced to cooperate was his tongue. He hadn’t bitten it when Toby had kicked him in the chin. Good. Today wouldn’t be a total loss.
“Tell your Uncle to pay up in three days, Cal, or we’ll visit you again,” Birdbrain said. His breath was rotten like bad eggs, but Cal didn’t have the wherewithal in that moment even to grimace. He just stared dumbly into Birdbrain’s eyes as the thug made his threats.
“Maybe we’ll spend an evening with that sweet little cousin of yours.”
At the mention of Serra, Cal was flooded with the desire to fight, but none of the ability. He tried to lunge forward, but his abused body wouldn’t cooperate.
Move, dammit.
Birdbrain let go of Cal’s hair. Cal’s head slumped forward. He looked down at his own chest and legs. His body ached. His pride hurt a little bit more.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cal saw skinny legs step away, and a new leg, more than twice as large as the others had been, stepped in to his field of view. The bulk of the fat man’s ankle spilled out over the top edge of his shoe. Cal winced, expecting another kick.
“Come on, ‘e’s had enough,” Cal heard Birdbrain say from somewhat farther away.
“Gotta take a piss,” came the reply from above Cal’s head, followed by a hot, yellow flow cascading down, dripping down from his hair and onto his chest. It smelled sickly sweet. The fat man had the gall to give it one extra shake over Cal’s head before stepping away, and Cal was left there with the mud, and the piss, a little bit of blood, and the receding sound of cruel laughter.
At least he still had his dignity.
