Tecdavid
Verdentia's Gardener
Here's the opening to something I plan on entering into a competition. Just a short story of about 5000 words, the theme is general dystopian, and I'm trying to give it a character-centred touch. Nothing much to it, really. How d’you fancy it? Would you read on?
~~~~~~~
It all began with the suits, really. With the outfits of grey, pockets lined with green and gold. Theirs was a group who took such formal wear, and all the jewelled watches and gold-capped pens that came with it, to heart. They were young back then, after all – around mid to late twenties. Young, and all too easily impressed by their gain in life. The world was their oyster, and all that. The Class, they’d called themselves, and it was a fitting name; they were clever, of course, and class – socially speaking – was what they had to flaunt to keep their lessers awestruck. With awe came obedience.
Samuel Reed, one among the Class, looked out at the toppled tenement he and his boys once called home, with a rain-dampened cigarette held in his wrinkled, claw-like hand. Quite frankly, better memories were made of the day it fell, and shattered the street below, than of the days he’d lived inside it. And that building was not alone; this street – Bullchurch Street – consisted largely of ruins. The grand hotels and theatre houses now played home to the drifters and addicts, the places’ opulent contents either tossed aside or sold off to feed the owners’ habits. The whole city was a place of habits now – a place of addiction and helplessness. No drug nor substance had ever crippled a people quite the way Samuel’s had. How curious it had been to watch Mr. Reignhold – the uppity, prim, well-statured man who ran Samuel’s local – devolve in the shivering, unkempt wreck he was today. Scribblings and graffiti now smothered his tavern’s walls, and the walls of most buildings here, each speaking of “uprisings” against the Class, or “cures” for what the Class’s infamous product had done to the people. It had been curious to read those scribblings, too, and watch them turn less and less eligibly written as time passed by. As the addictions and their effects grew.
He licked his lips; the smoking oft left them dry. He took in the damp, sullen smell of this place, of Bullchurch Street, and tasted the way the recent rains’ scent mingled with the gripping smell of the smoke. The building had fallen during a rare riot against the city’s affluent. The affluent who let this happen. And Samuel simply smiled to drink in the sight of that building’s shattered windows, mangled radio mast, and broken brickwork. That riot, and the rush of excitement it brought, had opened his eyes. Things were better this way. Backing a popular product, and growing powerful off its success, was only satisfying for so long. Delighting in the fear and hatred that product had earned him, however, was a thrill.The world had been his oyster, but he’d long since split it open. Now all he had was the shell to entertain him.
~~~~~~
The story is mainly geared around Samuel's cruel outlook, which reveals more of itself as the story goes on. How does this feel as an opening to something like that?
~~~~~~~
It all began with the suits, really. With the outfits of grey, pockets lined with green and gold. Theirs was a group who took such formal wear, and all the jewelled watches and gold-capped pens that came with it, to heart. They were young back then, after all – around mid to late twenties. Young, and all too easily impressed by their gain in life. The world was their oyster, and all that. The Class, they’d called themselves, and it was a fitting name; they were clever, of course, and class – socially speaking – was what they had to flaunt to keep their lessers awestruck. With awe came obedience.
Samuel Reed, one among the Class, looked out at the toppled tenement he and his boys once called home, with a rain-dampened cigarette held in his wrinkled, claw-like hand. Quite frankly, better memories were made of the day it fell, and shattered the street below, than of the days he’d lived inside it. And that building was not alone; this street – Bullchurch Street – consisted largely of ruins. The grand hotels and theatre houses now played home to the drifters and addicts, the places’ opulent contents either tossed aside or sold off to feed the owners’ habits. The whole city was a place of habits now – a place of addiction and helplessness. No drug nor substance had ever crippled a people quite the way Samuel’s had. How curious it had been to watch Mr. Reignhold – the uppity, prim, well-statured man who ran Samuel’s local – devolve in the shivering, unkempt wreck he was today. Scribblings and graffiti now smothered his tavern’s walls, and the walls of most buildings here, each speaking of “uprisings” against the Class, or “cures” for what the Class’s infamous product had done to the people. It had been curious to read those scribblings, too, and watch them turn less and less eligibly written as time passed by. As the addictions and their effects grew.
He licked his lips; the smoking oft left them dry. He took in the damp, sullen smell of this place, of Bullchurch Street, and tasted the way the recent rains’ scent mingled with the gripping smell of the smoke. The building had fallen during a rare riot against the city’s affluent. The affluent who let this happen. And Samuel simply smiled to drink in the sight of that building’s shattered windows, mangled radio mast, and broken brickwork. That riot, and the rush of excitement it brought, had opened his eyes. Things were better this way. Backing a popular product, and growing powerful off its success, was only satisfying for so long. Delighting in the fear and hatred that product had earned him, however, was a thrill.The world had been his oyster, but he’d long since split it open. Now all he had was the shell to entertain him.
~~~~~~
The story is mainly geared around Samuel's cruel outlook, which reveals more of itself as the story goes on. How does this feel as an opening to something like that?
I liked it and would read on.
