A Deal The rain hit like nails but fell in corkscrews, tornadoing from the heavens onto the parched streets of southern Maine. Shotgun shell petals made crimson-gold gardens that smelled of gunpowder and hot brass. Obviously, the bullets hadn't helped. Winter in Maine isn't like winter anywhere else. It's colder than Washington but doesn't get the feet of snow in Alaska. But it should still be snowing. It was winter, below freezing, and I couldn't feel the wounds I knew were going to kill me. And it was raining. Not in sheets, but coming down like Icepicks, piercing more than just your wool shirt. More than your skin, frozen and angry with goosebumps. I am living anesthetic. The man in front of me is Wallace Geoff. He owns a .45 caliber Smith and Wesson magnum with an extended barrel and custom sights. All I can think about is the sky. Royal purple thunderheads shout lightning, their cumulus wrinkles like brain topography, festering with dark thoughts. I can smell the thick polish in it's steel guts, even in the rain. From a distance it looks like I'm praying. "You sure are a lousy shot" he says. I think I can't feel my tongue, but your mouth is always warm, even when you freeze to death. Your throat is always sore. Maybe it was your gun. I smile in perpendicular teeth. My mouth is warm with blood and the icy rain makes my gums ache. His face seems to bulge like a fruit; Red Delicious. "I always take care of my firearms, Harvey. I told you that." He had. You blink and you're at home with Abby. She's wearing that black dress that should really be called an 'undress'. She strips you with her eyes and your tie is gone, tossed into the corner where all your work clothes accessories end up. Leather shoes. Breath mints. Abby has a glass, dense with sangria, and you ask where the bottle is. She stands up, her small breasts firm in her dress that isn't one. She wraps her free arm around you and holds the glass to your lips. You drink and the smell pushes the question of how she got into your apartment away. Good boy. She bites your earlobe and whispers that the glass is yours, she finished the bottle already. The wine is cheap, but sweet. Her long, raven hair is a swarm and you're engulfed. Nothing matters and Christ, she's so warm down there. You're lost in Ragnarök and the gods are at war in semicircles of chaos, but you don't care. Her warmth becomes yours and for a moment you're nothing. For a moment you're the horizon of a sunset; abstract, untouchable. Her eyes are Spanish like her hair and you're so far gone you don't remember what back was. You blink and you smell gun polish. Everybody needs a montage. Your eyes blur like a storm. You wonder, in gray, where the black and white ran. White like the snow. It should be snowing. Sacrifice everything so that she may have nothing. None of this. She drifts like cigarette smoke, and lives like a gypsy. We're nomads and she smells like pine needles. She tastes like rose petals. The gun polish is thick and you want to gag. “What's it called Harvey?” The pistol reflects his grin, ear to ear. The rain is staining his hunting jacket in dark areolas. A compromise. He laughs. “That's right man. A compromise. Just like the old days. Remember those?” I did. “Wish it didn't hav'tah end this way. But business is business. You know that too.” You wish you could close your eyes, but you're sure Abby wont be there anymore. Abby and her minty pine needles. Abby and her dress. Abby was somewhere safe. You were in the rain, freezing more than just your crotch, frozen and placid without erection. The pistol hammer stretches backward, yawning in the rain. Wally doesn't blink and aims pointblank at your left temple, forcing your face to turn. Forcing your skin to wrinkle against the neck and barrel. The rain is colder than the weapon. Abby laughs somewhere and whispers love. Your breaths become heavy and painful. Your heart beings to pump the iron in your blood like a retired body builder. You tell Abby that your lost somewhere and it's cold. She says nothing and cradles your head, humming something familiar. Your breaths become choppy and are tumbling into the rain like splinters of glass. Wally pulls the trigger, and nothings cold. Something smells like smoke. Somewhere, Abby hushes and strokes your hair. Somewhere, it's snowing. ---------------------------------------------- I guess I'm not sure what game I'd make into this, but the Noir style of writing has always intrigued me. You've probably already noticed but this is the same style of writing as Max Payne(2), and the comic/movie Sin City. Begging for feedback!

Don't get me wrong, it's not bad at all, but you rely a little too heavily on metaphor. You're losing the story to the scene, an a lot of the prose is unnecessary. You describe the rain as nails, corkscrews, tornadoes, and icepicks - and all of that in the first two paragraphs (in fact all but one of those in the first sentence). Things like "I smile in perpendicular teeth." are stretching too far to fit in an adjective that doesn't make sense.

Again, I don't want you to think this isn't good. You've definitely captured a noir style of writing. A liberal use of similes is called for, and you can put them just about anywhere; just not everywhere.