- Joined
- Nov 6, 2007
- Messages
- 3
Hey guys, regarding the posting guidelines: I guess I would like to know whether this short story is interesting enough in its first couple of pages, and whether a decent level of intrigue has been formed... enough so that a reader would want to continue the journey. It is still very much an initial draft, so any critiques would be greatly appreciated.
Torpid eyes gazed.
Rain from a gentle downpour striped dully illuminated windows, and a half-visible streetlight flickered eerily, hovering above vacant streets. Ordinary sounds saturated an ordinary bedroom, penetrating ordinary ears. A duo of amnesiac insects flapped diminutive wings incessantly as they flew into their glass barrier again, and again; and, overhead, a timeworn fan rotated methodically, circulating balmy air in vain. Dark, olive eyes tracked the spinning blades in a seemingly timeless stasis; all senses, all emotions were absent; he had learned long ago to separate his mind from the harrowing events that had determined his once idyllic life. Now, only a vacant expression veiled the form of a man who had once lived. A man who had once loved.
Three years, forty-four weeks, and six days prior, Colton Benn had stopped living. He was a walking, breathing – and to all outward appearances – existent being, yet, within, nothing stirred. No stray emotion surfaced unexpectedly when he witnessed young children gunned down in the brutal streets of Koranon; nor did any long forgotten sensations re-emerge when he utilised the services of the Seventh Street Courtesans. No. Ever since she had vanished, so had all purpose for life.
Only once had he attempted to end his suffering entirely. The shoddy rope had snapped, and never again had those dire intentions actualised. After that day, Colton became a shell of himself; a passionless spirit within a hollow vessel, wandering aimlessly through a desecrated land. Had Molly been able to see him then, to catch a glimpse of his absolute capitulation, doubtless she would have fallen apart.
Colton grunted in torment as the figure of Molly appeared behind his eyes. Clenching sweaty fists in frustration and gritting yellowed teeth, he dismissed the impending nightmare and rolled onto his side. The brazen white flicker of light past the windowpane distracted him for several minutes, and his thoughts swelled into nothingness. A sense of something akin to peace washed over the thirty-one-year-old, and his eyes slowly drooped shut. Silence was the harbinger of sleep.
A knock.
Colton cursed under his breath. Peeling reluctant eyelids apart, the blonde-haired man scanned his bedside table. The luminous red bars blazed into his night-adjusted vision and, aware that his day was to begin at five, he mumbled vulgarities again; the clock read 2:17a.m.
Embracing the boorish, often immature temperament of his sleep-deprived taxi counterpart, he shut green eyes firmly and folded the excess of a grimy pillow over his exposed ear.
Again, a knock was heard in the upstairs bedroom; this time firmer, and more erratic. Audibly resigning himself to a sleepless night, Colton cast off a sweaty, woollen blanket and lifted himself onto the floorboards. As he forced circulation through sluggish veins and made his way into a dim hallway, he made a promise to himself that, if the unwelcome visitor was, once again, Ricky from across the way, wanting a sympathetic ear against the myriad of relationship problems that plagued his existence, he would finally move across town.
Descending the lacquered oak staircase, soothingly warm against Colton’s taut feet, the impatient knock pierced the lower level a third time.
“Yeah, yeah,” Colton responded wearily; yet not without an aggravated inflection. “Keep your pants on, Ricky.”
As he reached the door and felt the striking chill of metal against his clammy palm, an unusual foreboding threatened to override his will. Colton’s brow furrowed. Again the door banged, this time an enraged collection of sharp raps and severe thuds. Not knowing how the sudden urge to ignore the knock upon his door had materialised, Colton swallowed against a barren mouth and twisted the crude knob.
His heart dropped. As it hit the very limit of disbelief, his soul shattered into a thousand shards of doubt and incredulity. What stood before him was impossible. And, even though he could feel the very real sprinkle of raindrops as they crashed upon his bare skin, Colton’s mind sealed off to all possibilities that this was anything but an illusion. The ridiculousness of the situation almost made him laugh, for although he had dreamed of this individual on more than several occasions, never had one felt so real, nor as painfully agonising.
Moments flew by and nothing changed. There were no distortions of scenery, no additions of random participants; and, as Colton felt an ominous shiver course along his spine, he began to realise that this was no desirous chimera.
[FONT="] “Molly?” [/FONT]
Torpid eyes gazed.
Rain from a gentle downpour striped dully illuminated windows, and a half-visible streetlight flickered eerily, hovering above vacant streets. Ordinary sounds saturated an ordinary bedroom, penetrating ordinary ears. A duo of amnesiac insects flapped diminutive wings incessantly as they flew into their glass barrier again, and again; and, overhead, a timeworn fan rotated methodically, circulating balmy air in vain. Dark, olive eyes tracked the spinning blades in a seemingly timeless stasis; all senses, all emotions were absent; he had learned long ago to separate his mind from the harrowing events that had determined his once idyllic life. Now, only a vacant expression veiled the form of a man who had once lived. A man who had once loved.
Three years, forty-four weeks, and six days prior, Colton Benn had stopped living. He was a walking, breathing – and to all outward appearances – existent being, yet, within, nothing stirred. No stray emotion surfaced unexpectedly when he witnessed young children gunned down in the brutal streets of Koranon; nor did any long forgotten sensations re-emerge when he utilised the services of the Seventh Street Courtesans. No. Ever since she had vanished, so had all purpose for life.
Only once had he attempted to end his suffering entirely. The shoddy rope had snapped, and never again had those dire intentions actualised. After that day, Colton became a shell of himself; a passionless spirit within a hollow vessel, wandering aimlessly through a desecrated land. Had Molly been able to see him then, to catch a glimpse of his absolute capitulation, doubtless she would have fallen apart.
Colton grunted in torment as the figure of Molly appeared behind his eyes. Clenching sweaty fists in frustration and gritting yellowed teeth, he dismissed the impending nightmare and rolled onto his side. The brazen white flicker of light past the windowpane distracted him for several minutes, and his thoughts swelled into nothingness. A sense of something akin to peace washed over the thirty-one-year-old, and his eyes slowly drooped shut. Silence was the harbinger of sleep.
A knock.
Colton cursed under his breath. Peeling reluctant eyelids apart, the blonde-haired man scanned his bedside table. The luminous red bars blazed into his night-adjusted vision and, aware that his day was to begin at five, he mumbled vulgarities again; the clock read 2:17a.m.
Embracing the boorish, often immature temperament of his sleep-deprived taxi counterpart, he shut green eyes firmly and folded the excess of a grimy pillow over his exposed ear.
Again, a knock was heard in the upstairs bedroom; this time firmer, and more erratic. Audibly resigning himself to a sleepless night, Colton cast off a sweaty, woollen blanket and lifted himself onto the floorboards. As he forced circulation through sluggish veins and made his way into a dim hallway, he made a promise to himself that, if the unwelcome visitor was, once again, Ricky from across the way, wanting a sympathetic ear against the myriad of relationship problems that plagued his existence, he would finally move across town.
Descending the lacquered oak staircase, soothingly warm against Colton’s taut feet, the impatient knock pierced the lower level a third time.
“Yeah, yeah,” Colton responded wearily; yet not without an aggravated inflection. “Keep your pants on, Ricky.”
As he reached the door and felt the striking chill of metal against his clammy palm, an unusual foreboding threatened to override his will. Colton’s brow furrowed. Again the door banged, this time an enraged collection of sharp raps and severe thuds. Not knowing how the sudden urge to ignore the knock upon his door had materialised, Colton swallowed against a barren mouth and twisted the crude knob.
His heart dropped. As it hit the very limit of disbelief, his soul shattered into a thousand shards of doubt and incredulity. What stood before him was impossible. And, even though he could feel the very real sprinkle of raindrops as they crashed upon his bare skin, Colton’s mind sealed off to all possibilities that this was anything but an illusion. The ridiculousness of the situation almost made him laugh, for although he had dreamed of this individual on more than several occasions, never had one felt so real, nor as painfully agonising.
Moments flew by and nothing changed. There were no distortions of scenery, no additions of random participants; and, as Colton felt an ominous shiver course along his spine, he began to realise that this was no desirous chimera.
[FONT="] “Molly?” [/FONT]
