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Greetings Chronners!
This is the opening extract from the first chapter of Kill The President, Again. I'm specifically interested in if this starts strong enough to hold the reader's interest. This has been quite a tricky opening to write - I know the broad outline of the plot but I've had trouble finding the right place to drop the reader in.
Quick note - although this is based around an election, and there are mentions of specific parties, this isn't intended to be critical of any one party or even about party politics or anything like that. I hope that comes across here.
I feel like character and dialogue are particularly tricky for me, but any comments would be warmly received!
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I. Wraiths of Harlem
When Noah got back from the job it was after sunset and the street was in almost complete darkness, save for the street lights by the depot entrance. A small crowd of day labourers haunted the sidewalk, lolling on the crumbling stoops of vacant brownstones or standing in line for the automatic soup kitchen.
The air was ripe with the usual downtown stink, all the stronger for having been in the perfumed confines of a plush model twelve driverless car. Harlem’s rotten sewers were the by-product of years of neglect by design. After all, what was the point in repairing infrastructure for a neighbourhood that hadn’t housed a living soul in fifteen years? Every surviving former occupant was now a resident of one of the many city run communes and poorhouses dotting the satellite districts north of Harlem’s Limbo.
To the south, the Afterlife loomed large over the Manhattan skyline, clearly visible even from this distance. It’s spire shaped superstructures pierced the night sky like a gothic cathedral made of steel, glass and neon. It had always struck Noah as perverse that the dead district was perpetually filled with light and motion, while everywhere else was darkness and decay.
It was election season and every advertising hoarding on Long Island had become a frontline in the battle to turn the nation red or blue. No more so than the area from Limbo down to the Afterlife, where it seemed endless amounts of money had been spent capturing all available space for the cause. This year the battle was expected to be particularly hard fought as, for the first time in history, the republicans were fielding a dead presidential candidate. This had caused some consternation amongst their rivals who were deeply worried about the outcome. They used to say death and taxes were life’s only certainties, but since the arrival of the Afterlife, a new one had emerged: The dead always vote in record numbers.
As Noah stepped out of the car, he was greeted by whoops, hollers and wolf whistles from his fellow labourers. A model twelve in Limbo was a rare thing, indeed. The guys would be busting his balls for weeks.
It had been a long day coding and as tired as Noah was he didn’t feel like heading back to the commune just yet. His employers had fed him round five and it had only just gone nine so he didn’t feel hungry, but, still, he had a mind not to let the chance of a free meal go to waste. Who knows when he’d get the chance of another.
The line for the soup kitchen was about ten long, but it moved swiftly. You tapped your ID to the screen and a bowl of thick white paste was dispensed from the machine. The gloop was a nutrient dense liquid resembling chicken soup but with none of the taste. With successive tax cuts, this was all the city could afford to feed its fifty thousand remaining residents.
Noah had just used his coupon when a firm hand on his shoulder startled him. He turned to find a middle aged man with a pale complexion and a shock of red hair receding in the way you never see in real life. The street lights cast strong shadows across the man’s brow making his features look drawn and corpse-like.
“Well la-de-da if it ain’t the prince of New York city,” said the man, his voice nasal and piercing with more than a trace of Boston.
It took a moment until realisation dawned, then Noah grabbed the man’s hand and shook it warmly, “Petey! I didn’t recognise you. What you still doin’ here?”
“Well, I been waiting for my magic carriage all day, but looks like it got lost on the New Jersey turnpike.”
The vending machine dropped a bowl into the server slot and began to fill with mush. Once full, a ghostly face popped up on the view screen and said “Have a nice day!” with the kind of vapid wide-mouthed smile that only the dead could muster. Noah picked up his bowl and waited for Pete Nolan to get served, but Pete motioned to say he’d already used his coupon. They headed kerbside to take a seat and as they walked Noah took in Pete’s appearance.
Pete had lost a lot of weight since Noah had seen him last. Tattered and frayed clothes hung loosely on his frame and he took weak steps, limping almost imperceptibly. His skin was bloodless and pale, and you could almost see the muscles and tendons wasting away underneath; his arms were so thin his wrist bones jutted out from beneath oversize sleeves.
Noah had known Pete for nigh on five years, ever since he’d started coming to the depot. He’d learned to code through the portals installed in the commune by the Mitra institute. Although he’d excelled in a Self Orientated Learning Environment, there were still gaps in his knowledge that Pete had gladly covered in the long days when work was scarce and there was nothing to do except hang about and brush up on theory. Back in those days Pete was a force of nature, always quick to roast or pick you up with a crude joke. Now, he was quite literally half the man he used to be. The twinkle in his eye had been replaced by weariness and hunger.
They took a seat at the roadside, perched on the kerb with their legs in the road. Noah put the spoon to his lips.
“So no luck, huh?” he said and then took a mouthful of gruel. Pete’s eyes were fixed on the spoon.
“Not a bite,” he said, “I ain’t worked in almost two weeks.” Two weeks was a long time to live on nothing but mush, even if it was regular – which it never was.
“Too bad, man. Too bad.” Noah placed the spoon back into the bowl and stirred mindlessly. “Say, where you been? I ain’t seen you in forever.”
“Eh, the city moved us over to Melrose – you know the commune on Third? Now I gotta walk an hour just to get over here.”
An hour’s walk, in his condition? That was rough. It was bad enough getting here from Washington Heights on foot and that was just a few blocks. “You should get yourself down to Claremont, they'd fix you up for sure.” said Noah.
“Claremont? They closed that place down last year. Harlem’s the only depot this side of the Afterlife.”
“No chance of relocating?”
“About as much as he has of being president.” Noah nodded towards a billboard across the street bearing a picture of the democratic hopeful, Solomon Gulp. A broad smile with perfect white teeth that spoke of apple pie summers and chilli cookouts; a jutting chin raised up and to the right in the traditional American manner symbolising hope for the future. Someone had graffitied the words ‘LIFE IS FOR THE LIVING’ across the advert in four feet high letters.
This is the opening extract from the first chapter of Kill The President, Again. I'm specifically interested in if this starts strong enough to hold the reader's interest. This has been quite a tricky opening to write - I know the broad outline of the plot but I've had trouble finding the right place to drop the reader in.
Quick note - although this is based around an election, and there are mentions of specific parties, this isn't intended to be critical of any one party or even about party politics or anything like that. I hope that comes across here.
I feel like character and dialogue are particularly tricky for me, but any comments would be warmly received!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I. Wraiths of Harlem
When Noah got back from the job it was after sunset and the street was in almost complete darkness, save for the street lights by the depot entrance. A small crowd of day labourers haunted the sidewalk, lolling on the crumbling stoops of vacant brownstones or standing in line for the automatic soup kitchen.
The air was ripe with the usual downtown stink, all the stronger for having been in the perfumed confines of a plush model twelve driverless car. Harlem’s rotten sewers were the by-product of years of neglect by design. After all, what was the point in repairing infrastructure for a neighbourhood that hadn’t housed a living soul in fifteen years? Every surviving former occupant was now a resident of one of the many city run communes and poorhouses dotting the satellite districts north of Harlem’s Limbo.
To the south, the Afterlife loomed large over the Manhattan skyline, clearly visible even from this distance. It’s spire shaped superstructures pierced the night sky like a gothic cathedral made of steel, glass and neon. It had always struck Noah as perverse that the dead district was perpetually filled with light and motion, while everywhere else was darkness and decay.
It was election season and every advertising hoarding on Long Island had become a frontline in the battle to turn the nation red or blue. No more so than the area from Limbo down to the Afterlife, where it seemed endless amounts of money had been spent capturing all available space for the cause. This year the battle was expected to be particularly hard fought as, for the first time in history, the republicans were fielding a dead presidential candidate. This had caused some consternation amongst their rivals who were deeply worried about the outcome. They used to say death and taxes were life’s only certainties, but since the arrival of the Afterlife, a new one had emerged: The dead always vote in record numbers.
As Noah stepped out of the car, he was greeted by whoops, hollers and wolf whistles from his fellow labourers. A model twelve in Limbo was a rare thing, indeed. The guys would be busting his balls for weeks.
It had been a long day coding and as tired as Noah was he didn’t feel like heading back to the commune just yet. His employers had fed him round five and it had only just gone nine so he didn’t feel hungry, but, still, he had a mind not to let the chance of a free meal go to waste. Who knows when he’d get the chance of another.
The line for the soup kitchen was about ten long, but it moved swiftly. You tapped your ID to the screen and a bowl of thick white paste was dispensed from the machine. The gloop was a nutrient dense liquid resembling chicken soup but with none of the taste. With successive tax cuts, this was all the city could afford to feed its fifty thousand remaining residents.
Noah had just used his coupon when a firm hand on his shoulder startled him. He turned to find a middle aged man with a pale complexion and a shock of red hair receding in the way you never see in real life. The street lights cast strong shadows across the man’s brow making his features look drawn and corpse-like.
“Well la-de-da if it ain’t the prince of New York city,” said the man, his voice nasal and piercing with more than a trace of Boston.
It took a moment until realisation dawned, then Noah grabbed the man’s hand and shook it warmly, “Petey! I didn’t recognise you. What you still doin’ here?”
“Well, I been waiting for my magic carriage all day, but looks like it got lost on the New Jersey turnpike.”
The vending machine dropped a bowl into the server slot and began to fill with mush. Once full, a ghostly face popped up on the view screen and said “Have a nice day!” with the kind of vapid wide-mouthed smile that only the dead could muster. Noah picked up his bowl and waited for Pete Nolan to get served, but Pete motioned to say he’d already used his coupon. They headed kerbside to take a seat and as they walked Noah took in Pete’s appearance.
Pete had lost a lot of weight since Noah had seen him last. Tattered and frayed clothes hung loosely on his frame and he took weak steps, limping almost imperceptibly. His skin was bloodless and pale, and you could almost see the muscles and tendons wasting away underneath; his arms were so thin his wrist bones jutted out from beneath oversize sleeves.
Noah had known Pete for nigh on five years, ever since he’d started coming to the depot. He’d learned to code through the portals installed in the commune by the Mitra institute. Although he’d excelled in a Self Orientated Learning Environment, there were still gaps in his knowledge that Pete had gladly covered in the long days when work was scarce and there was nothing to do except hang about and brush up on theory. Back in those days Pete was a force of nature, always quick to roast or pick you up with a crude joke. Now, he was quite literally half the man he used to be. The twinkle in his eye had been replaced by weariness and hunger.
They took a seat at the roadside, perched on the kerb with their legs in the road. Noah put the spoon to his lips.
“So no luck, huh?” he said and then took a mouthful of gruel. Pete’s eyes were fixed on the spoon.
“Not a bite,” he said, “I ain’t worked in almost two weeks.” Two weeks was a long time to live on nothing but mush, even if it was regular – which it never was.
“Too bad, man. Too bad.” Noah placed the spoon back into the bowl and stirred mindlessly. “Say, where you been? I ain’t seen you in forever.”
“Eh, the city moved us over to Melrose – you know the commune on Third? Now I gotta walk an hour just to get over here.”
An hour’s walk, in his condition? That was rough. It was bad enough getting here from Washington Heights on foot and that was just a few blocks. “You should get yourself down to Claremont, they'd fix you up for sure.” said Noah.
“Claremont? They closed that place down last year. Harlem’s the only depot this side of the Afterlife.”
“No chance of relocating?”
“About as much as he has of being president.” Noah nodded towards a billboard across the street bearing a picture of the democratic hopeful, Solomon Gulp. A broad smile with perfect white teeth that spoke of apple pie summers and chilli cookouts; a jutting chin raised up and to the right in the traditional American manner symbolising hope for the future. Someone had graffitied the words ‘LIFE IS FOR THE LIVING’ across the advert in four feet high letters.
