Here is a bit from a story I'm thinking of starting- see what you think, and if it's undertandable without too much explanation. All that's happened is, the unknown son of a politician I've made up turns up on the doorstep, is let in by the wife of the politician (who is not the mother of the guy on the doorstep). Hope it's not too terrible.
* * *
The light shone on his face and the rain darkened the street behind him; he shone so much that she could see a fair hair on his ear, and a drop of sweat on his cheek. She looked at his clothes; wax jacket, the sleeves frayed, jeans, brown shoes, the leather cracked. She looked at his face and saw that is was red, with shame she supposed, and the eyes and nose and mouth seemed secretive, smiling almost, but she thought he was about to cry.
“I’m his son. I’m sorry” he said again. She thought his voice was all made up of one bass, disturbing note.
His son- not her son. No, impossible for him to be her son: he couldn’t have been much younger than she was, perhaps he was even the same age. An icy anger almost seemed to freeze her inside. She shivered. Not her son- his son- Theo’s son- Theo’s son who had been concealed from her, and concealed from Theo, and concealed from the newspapers and television and the insipid, trivial pages of glossy magazines- Theo’s son, Theo’s son, Theo’s son. Theo’s son with his shabby, country clothes and red face and sly, nervous smile, standing on the doorstep, becoming a step himself, a step between the life she had been living until the moment she opened the door, and the life she would to live once he had entered. Theo would be angry and ashamed, her own sons would be angry and ashamed, she would be angry and ashamed, and soon would be devastated and humiliated; there would be awkward discussions, the boys would be removed as quickly as possible to her mother’s home, Theo would weep and beg her to forgive him, she would forgive him but burn coldly inside, and burn coldly around the house and she would burn coldly in the newspapers and on the television and from the insipid, trivial pages of glossy magazines- Theo’s son was changing so many lives just by stepping off the step and onto the carpet, leaving a wet mark from his shoes, noticing and feeling like a criminal but not saying anything, just closing the door behind him and standing dripping on the carpet.
* * *
The light shone on his face and the rain darkened the street behind him; he shone so much that she could see a fair hair on his ear, and a drop of sweat on his cheek. She looked at his clothes; wax jacket, the sleeves frayed, jeans, brown shoes, the leather cracked. She looked at his face and saw that is was red, with shame she supposed, and the eyes and nose and mouth seemed secretive, smiling almost, but she thought he was about to cry.
“I’m his son. I’m sorry” he said again. She thought his voice was all made up of one bass, disturbing note.
His son- not her son. No, impossible for him to be her son: he couldn’t have been much younger than she was, perhaps he was even the same age. An icy anger almost seemed to freeze her inside. She shivered. Not her son- his son- Theo’s son- Theo’s son who had been concealed from her, and concealed from Theo, and concealed from the newspapers and television and the insipid, trivial pages of glossy magazines- Theo’s son, Theo’s son, Theo’s son. Theo’s son with his shabby, country clothes and red face and sly, nervous smile, standing on the doorstep, becoming a step himself, a step between the life she had been living until the moment she opened the door, and the life she would to live once he had entered. Theo would be angry and ashamed, her own sons would be angry and ashamed, she would be angry and ashamed, and soon would be devastated and humiliated; there would be awkward discussions, the boys would be removed as quickly as possible to her mother’s home, Theo would weep and beg her to forgive him, she would forgive him but burn coldly inside, and burn coldly around the house and she would burn coldly in the newspapers and on the television and from the insipid, trivial pages of glossy magazines- Theo’s son was changing so many lives just by stepping off the step and onto the carpet, leaving a wet mark from his shoes, noticing and feeling like a criminal but not saying anything, just closing the door behind him and standing dripping on the carpet.
