Erythritol
Smoke and Arrogance
Yes, I know it's a little run-on sentence-y. It's meant to be. The assignment was to write a story that was like "Heart of Darkness." Joseph Conrad was the master of run-on sentences. Anyway, this is the first paragraph. I'm kind of fond of it 
The rest of the story I want to edit a bit to make less....well, Joseph Conrad-y.
The sunrise, almost imperceptible in the misty morning, slowly made its way into the dank sky and was lost in the clouds. Dawn having come, the street lights were extinguished, and people began stepping out into the cold morning. We walked along the Seine, as dark and secretive as a primeval deity. Without a word, we turned away from the murky river, walked down a narrow cobblestone street, water still puddled in the crevices between the stones from the rain of the previous evening, and entered a café. It was reminiscent of what I imagined a 1920s café might resemble; with cigarette smoke curling around the lipsticked smiles of women wearing delicate beaded dresses, sitting on almost faded maroon velvet padded chairs beneath the white tasseled lamps, and drinking liquor in stout crystal glasses that make a small clinking noise when the ice cubes rattle against the side. There was, however, no sultry jazz music emanating from a bronze colored phonograph and no bright electric lights twinkling in the mirrors on the wall, beset by strips of wood paneling and brass. The café offered only silence and darkness, slightly breached by the weak light from outside that cast a bluish and ethereal aura. We sat down at a table wordlessly.
The rest of the story I want to edit a bit to make less....well, Joseph Conrad-y. The sunrise, almost imperceptible in the misty morning, slowly made its way into the dank sky and was lost in the clouds. Dawn having come, the street lights were extinguished, and people began stepping out into the cold morning. We walked along the Seine, as dark and secretive as a primeval deity. Without a word, we turned away from the murky river, walked down a narrow cobblestone street, water still puddled in the crevices between the stones from the rain of the previous evening, and entered a café. It was reminiscent of what I imagined a 1920s café might resemble; with cigarette smoke curling around the lipsticked smiles of women wearing delicate beaded dresses, sitting on almost faded maroon velvet padded chairs beneath the white tasseled lamps, and drinking liquor in stout crystal glasses that make a small clinking noise when the ice cubes rattle against the side. There was, however, no sultry jazz music emanating from a bronze colored phonograph and no bright electric lights twinkling in the mirrors on the wall, beset by strips of wood paneling and brass. The café offered only silence and darkness, slightly breached by the weak light from outside that cast a bluish and ethereal aura. We sat down at a table wordlessly.
