So this is a constrained writing example. This limits your stories to whatever the original reddit poster wishes. This one required me to drop my reader into the middle of my book. What I put in was something I've been working on for the past two years. Like much of my stuff, I haven't really had the opportunity to get far.
My idea for this book is based on Oliver Twist, but focusing on an ancillary character, Jack Dawkins also known as The Artful Dodger. Always one of my favorite characters of the book, he isn't exactly the nicest but is considered cunning. He wasn't a good looking lad thus, Jackie isn't the prettiest girl. In Dickens's novel, Charley Bates is one of Dodger's closest friends. In my story, they are still good friends but it turns to something more. But just as Dodger's story doesn't end happily ever after, neither does it for Jackie and Charley.
I heard a gasp behind me and I whirled around, clutching my open shirt at the neck.
“Bloody hell, Dodger! You’re not supposed to have all them jiggly bits!”
I charged across the small room and banged the door behind him. I turned and slammed him against the wall.
“Shut yer, gob!” I hissed, pulling my boot knife out and placing it against Charley’s neck. “You wasn’t supposed to see none of that.”
I felt his Adam’s apple scrape the blade as he swallowed hard.
“Sweet Jesus, Dodge,” Charley breathed. “In the name of all saints, what the hell is going on? You’re a bleeding girl?”
“Yes, I’m a damned girl, you ninny. And you best not be breathin’ a word of it to anyone,” I snapped, pushing away from him and hoping the he would think the red on my cheeks was from my temper and not my embarrassing feelings.
“Does Fagin know?” he asked, rubbing his throat and sitting down hard on the worn stool by my mirror.
“Of course Fagin knows, you idiot,” I said, buttoning up my shirt and yanking my ratty vest on over it, trying to cover up the bits he weren’t supposed to have ever seen. “What the hell were you thinkin’ just walkin’ on up and into my room, Charley? You know better than that!”
“Well, it’s not like I were expecting you to be a girl,” Charley said, taking off his cap and scratching his head. “Makes sense why you never let me come up here. Is Jack Dawkins even your real name?”
“As it were, my real name’s Jacqueline or Jackie, but you best be calling me Jack or Dodger or I’ll knock you on your ass!” I threatened. “And you breathe a word of this to the lads, I’ll have your guts for garters and you’ll be floating down the Thames!”
“Hell, I ain’t gonna say anything, Jack,” Charley said. “You know me better than that.”
That were true. I trusted Charley more than most, but there was a reason I was cautious. Last time I made a friend, I were almost sold as an apprentice whore.
“I ain’t gonna throw you in the Thames, ya big baby,” I said to him, adjusting my trousers.
Charley noticed my movements and got a curious look on his face.
“Why is God’s name are you walkin’ about in kecks instead of a proper dress?” he asked, eyeing me differently.
“Because I’d be like Nancy, tumbling mean blokes like Bill Sikes or boys like you, barely into their trousers,” I said, sitting down in my threadbare chair and crossing my arms.
Charley had the decency to turn red at that.
“What!? I don’t-“
I scowled at him from my seat.
“I ain’t stupid, Charley Bates,” I said crossly, unhappy that we were even talking about this. “I know you tumble plenty of girls down at Madam Devereux’s.”
“Sometimes a man enjoys a woman’s touch,” he said defensively. “You’ve been there plenty! And them at Madam Devereux’s make good enough money. It’s sometimes profitable to be a whore.”
“Them at Madam Devereux’s know I’m a girl. And only if you’re a high class whore. Look at me. I’m nothing to toss more than a few shillings at for a quickie in some dark alley. I’d be dead by the time I was thirty, if I were lucky, with them dirty blighters that visit the Quay,” I said, naming one of the seediest places and a notorious whore nest in London, down by the Thames. “Hell if I’ll be some dockside whore. One bastard tried to sell me for extra coin as a whore’s apprentice when I was no older than eight.”
I noticed Charley’s brow furrow at my mention of almost being sold.
“I always knew you was too pretty for a boy,” he said, moving closer to inspect my face. “But blimey, you sure don’t have the face of a girl.”
I touched my crooked, upturned nose and bared my teeth at my friend. I pushed him away, not liking the tight feelin’ in my chest at his closeness.
“I knew I were too pretty a boy so I made sure I got into enough fights to make sure I weren’t pretty no more,” I said, venom behind my voice. “And I used to be a handsome little thing. But I make fair enough coin selling my hair to the wigmaker.”
“Not lately,” my friend said, nodding to the shiny, dark brown locks that were cascading down my front and my back. “You’re still right pretty enough, Jackie.”
He rolled my unfamiliar name ‘round his mouth like he were tasting a toffee he had just swiped.
I froze at his words. I liked my name on his tongue. I gave me the shivers.
“Don’t call me that,” I said softly, my insides turning to mush.
“Why can’t I call you by your proper name when we’re alone?”
“’Cause it ain’t right,” I snapped, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees.
“You don’t get to have it both ways, Jackie. Anyway, Fagin calls you Jackie.”
“That’s Fagin and he’s allowed to do as he pleases. It were him that took me in when I were starving and half beat to death in an alley. Knew I was a girl even though I was dressed as a lad.”
“Why do you parade around dressed like a boy?”
“Me da always wished for a boy, but he was stuck with me instead. Always called me Jack.”
Charley gave me a hard look.
“I hardly believe that’s why you’re struttin’ around as a gent,” he said. “What’s the real reason, Jack?”
“Because it’s easier bein’ a lad,” I said with a sigh. “Being a girl is rough, especially an orphan.”
No comments:
Post a Comment