| | My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives | |
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Makkine Moderator
Posts : 2772 Join date : 2010-05-17 Age : 26 Location : Woah
| Subject: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Sun Nov 20, 2011 1:30 pm | |
| Hey! I want some motivation, and you guys are awesome so I decided to post it here. It's rough and unedited, so all critiques are appreciated. There's some profanity. I censored it, but if that bothers you then I'm just warning you. - Prologue, Bread-stale coffee:
The air tastes of lightning. A phone rings.
We should end this story like a circle. Since we stopped with a beginning, let’s start with an ending. I'm well aware of how inaccurate this sounds. This story doesn’t start, it is. This story doesn’t end, it continues. And the plot it describes is but the holey curtain before a play starts, when the events are floating around somewhere but hidden in a way where you are still able to catch a glimpse of them.
Nobody wants to describe a curtain. So I have, though I had no idea what it was at first. That’s the way you’re tricked into doing it, into watching a play through insinuation and implication, into drinking bread-stale coffee and wanting to see your breath curl up in the cold. And f--k it, the air tastes of post-storm anxiety and everyone is gone or holding onto something they can’t quite see yet. Yet.
“But they have seen it”
Screw you.
I’m rushing, quick in my accusations. Crying isn’t rushing any more, and neither is praying. But you still sneak in the blasphemy between your praise of God; you can’t pray without hating Him. What are you praying for, otherwise?
You must be confused by now.
“I’m not”
Not you. Them. It.
I’m going to give them one chance to look away; I’ll let them piece it all together. Understand what comes in shining through the blinds and look at the light, at the forms of the shadows. See how it all fits together in an imperfect manner that works. We start at the end for a reason.
“Start? End? I taught you better than this.”
We are were we shouldn’t for a reason.
“Should we be anywhere?”
Not here. I shouldn’t be here.
“Very vague.”
I can’t speak like a shadow does, I can’t create something from the negative space, I can’t describe a silhouette. That’s what we all are. And we can’t be self-aware, can we?
“You’re writing, aren’t you?”
Yes. I need to finish this somehow. The smell of coffee is overpowering. But at least it’s not smelling like lightning any more. Claustrophobia has had its hand around my neck and I’ve been strangled by it too many times. I stand up, accidentally bumping myself on the ledge. The office has browned paper lying as though dead everywhere, plaster is peeling off the walls and the steady hum of our weather control is suffocating. The table is dusty, as well. But I take my coffee. It tastes like the air does, thick and dry for a liquid, bread-stale.
- Chapter 1, Perspectives:
There were two red sunsets that day. One outside the window, and one reflected in the room’s mirror. Marya couldn’t help but admire the duality of them, how perfectly reproduced nature could be on a flat surface. Her hair, in the afternoon, was copper instead of its regular brown, and the empty sheets of homework on her desk also had a reddened hue to them. It would soon be too dark to read. Perhaps afternoons weren’t so beautiful at all, actually. They were smoldering, ready to give way to darkness with only a ribbon of smoke to their name. They were dying. That’s it, it was like watching the slow death of a graceful beast.
She rested her back against the spine of the chair, and the dual sight of red-city-see-red-reflection began to grow blurry, muted, fading. Her own breath became slower as Marya closed her eyes. It was becoming dark again. What a perfect time to sleep.
Suddenly, the lights in the room where turned on. Marya fell, bumping her thigh against the edge of the seat. She stood, blinking to adjust to the light.
“Marya, your friend’s here,” her mother smiled, and her now mauve-coloured lips stretched thinly as she did so. “Go get her, she’s been bothering us for a while.”
“Uh-huh,” she pulled on a sweater and somehow managed to stumble out of the room without tripping on anything. “Bye, mom.”
“Be home tomorrow before lunch, all right? And be careful. I don’t know how her family is about-”
“Uh-huh” Marya waved, without even turning around. “Bye, mom,” Marya could hear her mother sigh once, but since it seemed like she wasn’t going to say anything else, Marya continued making her way down the flight of stairs to the front hall.
Tona was waiting there, red-cheeked like she always was in the winter. Her hair was coming up at the tips, and in the not-yet-gone sunset it seemed to halo her. “Finally.”
“I’m sorry, I was falling asleep and my mom woke me up and everything was a mess and all,” Marya said. She has, or had, a particular way of speaking where all the words clutter up inside her mouth and trip on themselves as they fall out. She puffs her cheeks up during long pauses, as though she were storing them. “And I couldn’t even get my good sweater and I’m not even out of my uniform yet and I probably look like a mess.”
Tona shook her head, chuckling. “You’re so silly sometimes,” she said. “Are we going to get going, or are we just going to stand around here awkwardly like idiots? Come on, let’s go.” Tona pulled open the door and pulled up her hood. The sleeves were too short for her. Her bony wrists stuck out, a medley of pink and white. Marya couldn’t imagine a city on fire could possibly be cold, even in the winter.
And now, let us focus elsewhere, and elsewhen. It was later that night, in an entirely different part of the city. People still lived here, but sporadically. A man ran down the streets, only lit when he passed under the momentary brightness of a street lamp. A young couple hid themselves in an alley after what was probably the first party of the winter. This was not a busy street, or even an occupied street; there was only one window lit.
The person I need to focus on was someone who hadn’t had a home for the past few weeks. He had a gun in hand. He had orders, though he didn’t know from who and he didn’t know for what. He was told that everyone worked together like a kaleidoscope and moved in the same way, that everyone was a part of the Mandelbrot set, that no one made sense until they worked together. He didn’t know if he agreed, but he loved the concept and that’s why he was holding a weapon.
He counted off the houses as he walked. The number was burnt into his head already, and the streetlights shone on the number plates in front of the houses, setting shadows where a stray tree branch created an intricate design on the brick below. There was a sleepy chaos to this place, certainly, with the streets twisted around themselves as they were. Like a sleeping body strewn on a bed, sheetless.
There he was. 47. The door was unlocked, and it swung inward in an almost perfect silence. The shadows were dramatic here, too. Dust was caught in the moon’s rays, and the door was perfectly silhouetted on the floor. The boy lit his flashlight. Blue on yellow on black. Like bruised skin, he thought. That was a perfect way to say it, actually. The house was bruised and collapsed on itself, using nothing but its own unstable foundations as a crutch to stay up. Even his breath was unwary, but his footsteps somehow found stability as he entered. The door swung shut.
“I’m the one you’re been looking for, ‘ough I don’t know why,” The voice wasn’t desperate, no, there was something solid to it. It was resigned. A final breath, a final line, something defiant to death in its certainty. “‘o are you?”
The boy tried to speak, but his voice caught in the back of his neck. Funny, how the murderer is more afraid than the victim. He swallowed and tried again, suddenly feeling his breathing, the double-beat of his heart. “I’m the one sent to kill you.” He was aware of the silence that followed.
And now, somewhere else and somewhen else entirely. My own office, a few years before. A woman sitting next to me, or rather lounging next to me, legs over the armrest and right arm dangling an inch from the floor. Her hair is dark brown and cut around her ears, and her breath curls up every time she exhales. I am entranced by it, enamoured with the way it disperses through the air.
“I don’t know why you keep it so cold in here all the time, really.” She says.
I don’t know why you complain. I’m not in charge of that.
“Well, you should still be able to change it,” she exhales, and I try to think of what the smoke is so evocative of. Cigarettes? No, it’s purer, and somehow less substantial. I can hear her heartbeat, I can hear her diaphragm expand and contract and her brain explode in an electric interaction of information with her thoughts. How does she have time to think between so much living? “Anyway, you know what to do, right?”
Yes.
“Good.” and she smiles. Or rather, bares her teeth. “Don’t mess this up. You can’t, you know,” I can’t place that smile, but I know it sets me on edge.
I know what I’m supposed to do.
“Explain it,” she says.
It’s impossible. Right now, at least.
“Very good,” she pulls up the collar of her parka to hide her growing smile. “Why?”
Because we don’t know yet. Our purpose is to find our purpose (Poetic, no? Much like a philosopher).
“And how are we going to accomplish this?”
By examining inconsistencies in already established patterns of cause-and-effect (I’m not sure what this has to do with our goal, or how it will help us. And it’s strange to think of these kids as inconsistencies. I refuse to believe it).
“Excellent,” she tosses her legs down from the armrest and swings into a sitting position. “We’re very glad to have talent of your calibre here. We’ve given you access to them and to all their influences. We expect you to use these resources wisely, and based on what we’ve seen we have no reason to believe otherwise.” She stands up with her back to me. “Good-bye”.
In what was then my future, two teenaged girls made their way to one of their houses. At first, they talked and it seemed like their conversation was the only one in the world. But gradually, as the sluggish twilight came and left, their discussion became a silence so complete they couldn’t help but slow down their steps. The streets became narrower as they approached Tona’s house, the people scarcer. The radio station’s unwavering red light was their north star that day.
They knocked the door of a house that seemed to want to blend into its much larger neighbours. There was no response. The windows were darkened.
“Mom’s usually home by now. And so are my brothers.” Tona said, more to herself than to anyone. “That’s strange,” she turned around and looked at Marya, then pointed to an odd outcropping that looked down into the city. “You can see them come home from over there sometimes, if they’re where they should be.”
“They often aren’t?” Tona’s brothers were known to be magnificent at causing trouble, and not so good at getting out of it.
“They often are. They might be stupid, but not so stupid that they’ll be doing drugs or whatever the h--l they’re planning if ma’s gonna stay home.” She sighed and sat down on the ledge. “It’s a pretty sight though, ain’t it? ‘Cause we’re able to see all the lights.” Marya couldn’t help but agree. Tona’s ledge was much better at seeing the nighttime city than any other observation point. She could be saying that just because they were close friends. But then again, she could be saying that because you weren’t quite out of the city yet and so it was lit all around you, as well.
They sat together for a while, seeing the hustle-bustle of the town below them and pointing out the different buildings, the different spots of green or blue or red on a sea of yellow-white pinpricks. Sometimes they could see people, small greyish shapes that came out of cars, and they made up conversations for them.
“See, that one’s talking to himself,” Marya said, pointing to one of the more distinct shapes that was entering an unlit street. “That’s why he’s walking like that, all slow and with his head down.”
“He could just be thinking about sad things.”
“People talk to themselves when they think,” Marya laughed, which was hard with her teeth chattering. She wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s cold.”
“What did you expect from the winter, a f-----g coat?” She laughed. “Look, there they are.” And, yes, two dots of light wound themselves up the mountain. “Let’s go catch them. I’ll tell ma’s come home already, that’ll scare them into opening the door on time tomorrow.” She started making her way down the ledge. It was only a short distance between the outcropping and the street, a short distance Tona and Marya had both become used to passing. It still required a degree of concentration, though, and they didn’t talk as they made their way down to the sidewalk.
That night, in the unlit street Marya had pointed out earlier, a murderer was about to commit what he had set out to do, not without dying first. It was a roundabout method, to be sure, but an effective one nonetheless. And a perfect catalyst to connecting our stories in one fell swoop, as you could call it. One could say it’s predestined. I’d rather say it was something our own future selves had decided for us.
“Stand up, so I can see you,” the flashlight didn’t shine so far as to show the victim.
“I’m ‘ere,” the voice said, to the left. And though the boy managed to whip around just in time to see the imprint of someone in the shadows, his chest began to tighten. It hurt, to have it wrapped around itself like that. He fell to the floor, coughing, though no air could come in. The gun was set off when he fell on top of it, a final blow that succeeded in killing him.
The would-be victim stood up, wiped his hands off on his shirt, and sighed. It wasn’t pleasant. It was never pleasant. But it dulled him, and maybe that’s what he was looking for. It wasn’t as though he could help it, anyway. It was a reflex, a demonstration of his own will to survive. But still, there was blood pooling on the floor. A perfect crime, really, and the police would be wondering for ages who committed it. Once again, the ugly thoughts came back, whispering things he didn’t want to hear. The flashlight was still turned on. He picked it up and examined his almost-murderer.
It was a young boy, no older than 17. He had red hair, and rather messily cut. He was wearing grey. He was rather tall, and built with broad shoulders and muscled arms. The kid who should have died in his place picked up his face and examined it. The tone was hard to see in the night and with so much blood. The nose had broken during the fall, apparently. There was a downwards-sloping quality to his eyes. His mouth was open, as though trying to speak, and his eyes were still moving. Perhaps they were studying Saloy’s own face, as he was doing to the red-haired man.
“ You’re not dead yet, aren’t you?” no response came, as expected. “I’m sorry this is taking longer than it needs to. I’m sorry for both you and I. I hope you understand I’m not trying to-”
The gunman’s mouth closed itself, and he groaned. There was a gunshot.
There had been a rockfall exactly two hours earlier. And a contract three years before that. The police that came to investigate four bodies the next day chalked up the first two to a mere accident, the second to a gunfight where both parties were dead already. And both parties had no former records. They didn’t exist, as far as the law was concerned.
But what if there were another instigator? I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about a thin-lipped woman with a fur coat whose breath looks like smoke, especially in the winter.
Last edited by Makkine on Mon Nov 21, 2011 12:33 pm; edited 1 time in total | |
| | | Guest Guest
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Sun Nov 20, 2011 1:33 pm | |
| Guurekfdhgfsdgren-- your grammar. It's beautiful.
|
| | | Makkine Moderator
Posts : 2772 Join date : 2010-05-17 Age : 26 Location : Woah
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Sun Nov 20, 2011 1:35 pm | |
| - Mr.Taost wrote:
- Guurekfdhgfsdgren-- your grammar. It's beautiful.
It actually isn't, English teachers hate sentence fragments. Anyway, I'd rather you'd comment on the writing or the story rather than on the grammar. That's like complimenting me for going to school.
Last edited by Makkine on Sun Nov 20, 2011 1:59 pm; edited 2 times in total | |
| | | **♥ Anni Hart♥** Regular Fantagian
Posts : 246 Join date : 2011-10-14 Age : 71 Location : You like krabby patties dont you squidward
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Sun Nov 20, 2011 1:41 pm | |
| o-o
That. Was. BEAUTIFUL 0U0 | |
| | | Relora Hero Fantagian
Posts : 6776 Join date : 2010-11-30 Age : 26 Location : Define "Location"
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Sun Nov 20, 2011 3:28 pm | |
| I always look up to your writing. It's so poetic in nature. Someday I hope to achieve what you can do :3 | |
| | | Makkine Moderator
Posts : 2772 Join date : 2010-05-17 Age : 26 Location : Woah
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Sun Nov 20, 2011 3:29 pm | |
| @Anni and Relora: Thank you two, much appreciated! C: | |
| | | no Passionate Fantagian
Posts : 873 Join date : 2010-09-16 Age : 25 Location : no
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Sun Nov 20, 2011 3:44 pm | |
| Makki, I love your writing. It's got a lot of depth and hidden meaning, which I like. It reminds me of a puzzle. I'm no english major, so I can't really give you any critques. But I have some questions. "We are were we shouldn’t for a reason." Either I don't get this, or there's a missing word/spelling mistake. "And the plot it describes is but the holey curtain before a play starts," Holy, or holey?
....That's all. Great job Makki >u< | |
| | | Relora Hero Fantagian
Posts : 6776 Join date : 2010-11-30 Age : 26 Location : Define "Location"
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Mon Nov 21, 2011 10:08 am | |
| Actually when I was reading this, it some how reminded me of the book "1984". Have no clue why though. That might be another reason why I like it xD | |
| | | Makkine Moderator
Posts : 2772 Join date : 2010-05-17 Age : 26 Location : Woah
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Mon Nov 21, 2011 12:13 pm | |
| @Tahtie: "We are where we shouldn't for a reason." I dunno if it would be clearer had I said "We are where we shouldn't BE for a reason"? Holey, as in with holes. My spellcheck says it's a word, so .... FUN FACT: I had originally spelt it "holy" until I realised my typo. So you could be half-right, if I had shown you the original draft :PP @Relora: 1984? Really? Wow, that's interesting! I dunno how you would connect it to the book, but it's really something (I love 1984, by the way). - Chapter 1, Perspectives:
There were two red sunsets that day. One outside the window, and one reflected in the room’s mirror. Marya couldn’t help but admire the duality of them, how perfectly reproduced nature could be on a flat surface. Her hair, in the afternoon, was copper instead of its regular brown, and the empty sheets of homework on her desk also had a reddened hue to them. It would soon be too dark to read. Perhaps afternoons weren’t so beautiful at all, actually. They were smoldering, ready to give way to darkness with only a ribbon of smoke to their name. They were dying. That’s it, it was like watching the slow death of a graceful beast.
She rested her back against the spine of the chair, and the dual sight of red-city-see-red-reflection began to grow blurry, muted, fading. Her own breath became slower as Marya closed her eyes. It was becoming dark again. What a perfect time to sleep.
Suddenly, the lights in the room where turned on. Marya fell, bumping her thigh against the edge of the seat. She stood, blinking to adjust to the light.
“Marya, your friend’s here,” her mother smiled, and her now mauve-coloured lips stretched thinly as she did so. “Go get her, she’s been bothering us for a while.”
“Uh-huh,” she pulled on a sweater and somehow managed to stumble out of the room without tripping on anything. “Bye, mom.”
“Be home tomorrow before lunch, all right? And be careful. I don’t know how her family is about-”
“Uh-huh” Marya waved, without even turning around. “Bye, mom,” Marya could hear her mother sigh once, but since it seemed like she wasn’t going to say anything else, Marya continued making her way down the flight of stairs to the front hall.
Tona was waiting there, red-cheeked like she always was in the winter. Her hair was coming up at the tips, and in the not-yet-gone sunset it seemed to halo her. “Finally.”
“I’m sorry, I was falling asleep and my mom woke me up and everything was a mess and all,” Marya said. She has, or had, a particular way of speaking where all the words clutter up inside her mouth and trip on themselves as they fall out. She puffs her cheeks up during long pauses, as though she were storing them. “And I couldn’t even get my good sweater and I’m not even out of my uniform yet and I probably look like a mess.”
Tona shook her head, chuckling. “You’re so silly sometimes,” she said. “Are we going to get going, or are we just going to stand around here awkwardly like idiots? Come on, let’s go.” Tona pulled open the door and pulled up her hood. The sleeves were too short for her. Her bony wrists stuck out, a medley of pink and white. Marya couldn’t imagine a city on fire could possibly be cold, even in the winter.
And now, let us focus elsewhere, and elsewhen. It was later that night, in an entirely different part of the city. People still lived here, but sporadically. A man ran down the streets, only lit when he passed under the momentary brightness of a street lamp. A young couple hid themselves in an alley after what was probably the first party of the winter. This was not a busy street, or even an occupied street; there was only one window lit.
The person I need to focus on was someone who hadn’t had a home for the past few weeks. He had a gun in hand. He had orders, though he didn’t know from who and he didn’t know for what. He was told that everyone worked together like a kaleidoscope and moved in the same way, that everyone was a part of the Mandelbrot set, that no one made sense until they worked together. He didn’t know if he agreed, but he loved the concept and that’s why he was holding a weapon.
He counted off the houses as he walked. The number was burnt into his head already, and the streetlights shone on the number plates in front of the houses, setting shadows where a stray tree branch created an intricate design on the brick below. There was a sleepy chaos to this place, certainly, with the streets twisted around themselves as they were. Like a sleeping body strewn on a bed, sheetless.
There he was. 47. The door was unlocked, and it swung inward in an almost perfect silence. The shadows were dramatic here, too. Dust was caught in the moon’s rays, and the door was perfectly silhouetted on the floor. The boy lit his flashlight. Blue on yellow on black. Like bruised skin, he thought. That was a perfect way to say it, actually. The house was bruised and collapsed on itself, using nothing but its own unstable foundations as a crutch to stay up. Even his breath was unwary, but his footsteps somehow found stability as he entered. The door swung shut.
“I’m the one you’re been looking for, ‘ough I don’t know why,” The voice wasn’t desperate, no, there was something solid to it. It was resigned. A final breath, a final line, something defiant to death in its certainty. “‘o are you?”
The boy tried to speak, but his voice caught in the back of his neck. Funny, how the murderer is more afraid than the victim. He swallowed and tried again, suddenly feeling his breathing, the double-beat of his heart. “I’m the one sent to kill you.” He was aware of the silence that followed.
And now, somewhere else and somewhen else entirely. My own office, a few years before. A woman sitting next to me, or rather lounging next to me, legs over the armrest and right arm dangling an inch from the floor. Her hair is dark brown and cut around her ears, and her breath curls up every time she exhales. I am entranced by it, enamoured with the way it disperses through the air.
“I don’t know why you keep it so cold in here all the time, really.” She says.
I don’t know why you complain. I’m not in charge of that.
“Well, you should still be able to change it,” she exhales, and I try to think of what the smoke is so evocative of. Cigarettes? No, it’s purer, and somehow less substantial. I can hear her heartbeat, I can hear her diaphragm expand and contract and her brain explode in an electric interaction of information with her thoughts. How does she have time to think between so much living? “Anyway, you know what to do, right?”
Yes.
“Good.” and she smiles. Or rather, bares her teeth. “Don’t mess this up. You can’t, you know,” I can’t place that smile, but I know it sets me on edge.
I know what I’m supposed to do.
“Explain it,” she says.
It’s impossible. Right now, at least.
“Very good,” she pulls up the collar of her parka to hide her growing smile. “Why?”
Because we don’t know yet. Our purpose is to find our purpose (Poetic, no? Much like a philosopher).
“And how are we going to accomplish this?”
By examining inconsistencies in already established patterns of cause-and-effect (I’m not sure what this has to do with our goal, or how it will help us. And it’s strange to think of these kids as inconsistencies. I refuse to believe it).
“Excellent,” she tosses her legs down from the armrest and swings into a sitting position. “We’re very glad to have talent of your calibre here. We’ve given you access to them and to all their influences. We expect you to use these resources wisely, and based on what we’ve seen we have no reason to believe otherwise.” She stands up with her back to me. “Good-bye”.
In what was then my future, two teenaged girls made their way to one of their houses. At first, they talked and it seemed like their conversation was the only one in the world. But gradually, as the sluggish twilight came and left, their discussion became a silence so complete they couldn’t help but slow down their steps. The streets became narrower as they approached Tona’s house, the people scarcer. The radio station’s unwavering red light was their north star that day.
They knocked the door of a house that seemed to want to blend into its much larger neighbours. There was no response. The windows were darkened.
“Mom’s usually home by now. And so are my brothers.” Tona said, more to herself than to anyone. “That’s strange,” she turned around and looked at Marya, then pointed to an odd outcropping that looked down into the city. “You can see them come home from over there sometimes, if they’re where they should be.”
“They often aren’t?” Tona’s brothers were known to be magnificent at causing trouble, and not so good at getting out of it.
“They often are. They might be stupid, but not so stupid that they’ll be doing drugs or whatever the h--l they’re planning if ma’s gonna stay home.” She sighed and sat down on the ledge. “It’s a pretty sight though, ain’t it? ‘Cause we’re able to see all the lights.” Marya couldn’t help but agree. Tona’s ledge was much better at seeing the nighttime city than any other observation point. She could be saying that just because they were close friends. But then again, she could be saying that because you weren’t quite out of the city yet and so it was lit all around you, as well.
They sat together for a while, seeing the hustle-bustle of the town below them and pointing out the different buildings, the different spots of green or blue or red on a sea of yellow-white pinpricks. Sometimes they could see people, small greyish shapes that came out of cars, and they made up conversations for them.
“See, that one’s talking to himself,” Marya said, pointing to one of the more distinct shapes that was entering an unlit street. “That’s why he’s walking like that, all slow and with his head down.”
“He could just be thinking about sad things.”
“People talk to themselves when they think,” Marya laughed, which was hard with her teeth chattering. She wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s cold.”
“What did you expect from the winter, a f-----g coat?” She laughed. “Look, there they are.” And, yes, two dots of light wound themselves up the mountain. “Let’s go catch them. I’ll tell ma’s come home already, that’ll scare them into opening the door on time tomorrow.” She started making her way down the ledge. It was only a short distance between the outcropping and the street, a short distance Tona and Marya had both become used to passing. It still required a degree of concentration, though, and they didn’t talk as they made their way down to the sidewalk.
That night, in the unlit street Marya had pointed out earlier, a murderer was about to commit what he had set out to do, not without dying first. It was a roundabout method, to be sure, but an effective one nonetheless. And a perfect catalyst to connecting our stories in one fell swoop, as you could call it. One could say it’s predestined. I’d rather say it was something our own future selves had decided for us.
“Stand up, so I can see you,” the flashlight didn’t shine so far as to show the victim.
“I’m ‘ere,” the voice said, to the left. And though the boy managed to whip around just in time to see the imprint of someone in the shadows, his chest began to tighten. It hurt, to have it wrapped around itself like that. He fell to the floor, coughing, though no air could come in. The gun was set off when he fell on top of it, a final blow that succeeded in killing him.
The would-be victim stood up, wiped his hands off on his shirt, and sighed. It wasn’t pleasant. It was never pleasant. But it dulled him, and maybe that’s what he was looking for. It wasn’t as though he could help it, anyway. It was a reflex, a demonstration of his own will to survive. But still, there was blood pooling on the floor. A perfect crime, really, and the police would be wondering for ages who committed it. Once again, the ugly thoughts came back, whispering things he didn’t want to hear. The flashlight was still turned on. He picked it up and examined his almost-murderer.
It was a young boy, no older than 17. He had red hair, and rather messily cut. He was wearing grey. He was rather tall, and built with broad shoulders and muscled arms. The kid who should have died in his place picked up his face and examined it. The tone was hard to see in the night and with so much blood. The nose had broken during the fall, apparently. There was a downwards-sloping quality to his eyes. His mouth was open, as though trying to speak, and his eyes were still moving. Perhaps they were studying Saloy’s own face, as he was doing to the red-haired man.
“ You’re not dead yet, aren’t you?” no response came, as expected. “I’m sorry this is taking longer than it needs to. I’m sorry for both you and I. I hope you understand I’m not trying to-”
The gunman’s mouth closed itself, and he groaned. There was a gunshot.
There had been a rockfall exactly two hours earlier. And a contract three years before that. The police that came to investigate four bodies the next day chalked up the first two to a mere accident, the second to a gunfight where both parties were dead already. And both parties had no former records. They didn’t exist, as far as the law was concerned.
But what if there were another instigator? I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about a thin-lipped woman with a fur coat whose breath looks like smoke, especially in the winter.
Last edited by Makkine on Mon Nov 21, 2011 12:33 pm; edited 2 times in total | |
| | | Oliver Moderator
Posts : 4588 Join date : 2010-03-03 Age : 23 Location : *lights up a fire* yeah, trying to surivve in a fores.t *smokse a cig* il kill you
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Mon Nov 21, 2011 12:15 pm | |
| sofiafadhausas this is good okay okay OKAY. | |
| | | Relora Hero Fantagian
Posts : 6776 Join date : 2010-11-30 Age : 26 Location : Define "Location"
| Subject: Re: My novel - currently on chapter 1, Perspectives Mon Nov 21, 2011 1:58 pm | |
| - Makkine wrote:
- @Tahtie: "We are where we shouldn't for a reason."
I dunno if it would be clearer had I said "We are where we shouldn't BE for a reason"? Holey, as in with holes. My spellcheck says it's a word, so .... FUN FACT: I had originally spelt it "holy" until I realised my typo. So you could be half-right, if I had shown you the original draft :PP
@Relora: 1984? Really? Wow, that's interesting! I dunno how you would connect it to the book, but it's really something (I love 1984, by the way).
- Chapter 1, Perspectives:
There were two red sunsets that day. One outside the window, and one reflected in the room’s mirror. Marya couldn’t help but admire the duality of them, how perfectly reproduced nature could be on a flat surface. Her hair, in the afternoon, was copper instead of its regular brown, and the empty sheets of homework on her desk also had a reddened hue to them. It would soon be too dark to read. Perhaps afternoons weren’t so beautiful at all, actually. They were smoldering, ready to give way to darkness with only a ribbon of smoke to their name. They were dying. That’s it, it was like watching the slow death of a graceful beast.
She rested her back against the spine of the chair, and the dual sight of red-city-see-red-reflection began to grow blurry, muted, fading. Her own breath became slower as Marya closed her eyes. It was becoming dark again. What a perfect time to sleep.
Suddenly, the lights in the room where turned on. Marya fell, bumping her thigh against the edge of the seat. She stood, blinking to adjust to the light.
“Marya, your friend’s here,” her mother smiled, and her now mauve-coloured lips stretched thinly as she did so. “Go get her, she’s been bothering us for a while.”
“Uh-huh,” she pulled on a sweater and somehow managed to stumble out of the room without tripping on anything. “Bye, mom.”
“Be home tomorrow before lunch, all right? And be careful. I don’t know how her family is about-”
“Uh-huh” Marya waved, without even turning around. “Bye, mom,” Marya could hear her mother sigh once, but since it seemed like she wasn’t going to say anything else, Marya continued making her way down the flight of stairs to the front hall.
Tona was waiting there, red-cheeked like she always was in the winter. Her hair was coming up at the tips, and in the not-yet-gone sunset it seemed to halo her. “Finally.”
“I’m sorry, I was falling asleep and my mom woke me up and everything was a mess and all,” Marya said. She has, or had, a particular way of speaking where all the words clutter up inside her mouth and trip on themselves as they fall out. She puffs her cheeks up during long pauses, as though she were storing them. “And I couldn’t even get my good sweater and I’m not even out of my uniform yet and I probably look like a mess.”
Tona shook her head, chuckling. “You’re so silly sometimes,” she said. “Are we going to get going, or are we just going to stand around here awkwardly like idiots? Come on, let’s go.” Tona pulled open the door and pulled up her hood. The sleeves were too short for her. Her bony wrists stuck out, a medley of pink and white. Marya couldn’t imagine a city on fire could possibly be cold, even in the winter.
And now, let us focus elsewhere, and elsewhen. It was later that night, in an entirely different part of the city. People still lived here, but sporadically. A man ran down the streets, only lit when he passed under the momentary brightness of a street lamp. A young couple hid themselves in an alley after what was probably the first party of the winter. This was not a busy street, or even an occupied street; there was only one window lit.
The person I need to focus on was someone who hadn’t had a home for the past few weeks. He had a gun in hand. He had orders, though he didn’t know from who and he didn’t know for what. He was told that everyone worked together like a kaleidoscope and moved in the same way, that everyone was a part of the Mandelbrot set, that no one made sense until they worked together. He didn’t know if he agreed, but he loved the concept and that’s why he was holding a weapon.
He counted off the houses as he walked. The number was burnt into his head already, and the streetlights shone on the number plates in front of the houses, setting shadows where a stray tree branch created an intricate design on the brick below. There was a sleepy chaos to this place, certainly, with the streets twisted around themselves as they were. Like a sleeping body strewn on a bed, sheetless.
There he was. 47. The door was unlocked, and it swung inward in an almost perfect silence. The shadows were dramatic here, too. Dust was caught in the moon’s rays, and the door was perfectly silhouetted on the floor. The boy lit his flashlight. Blue on yellow on black. Like bruised skin, he thought. That was a perfect way to say it, actually. The house was bruised and collapsed on itself, using nothing but its own unstable foundations as a crutch to stay up. Even his breath was unwary, but his footsteps somehow found stability as he entered. The door swung shut.
“I’m the one you’re been looking for, ‘ough I don’t know why,” The voice wasn’t desperate, no, there was something solid to it. It was resigned. A final breath, a final line, something defiant to death in its certainty. “‘o are you?”
The boy tried to speak, but his voice caught in the back of his neck. Funny, how the murderer is more afraid than the victim. He swallowed and tried again, suddenly feeling his breathing, the double-beat of his heart. “I’m the one sent to kill you.” He was aware of the silence that followed.
And now, somewhere else and somewhen else entirely. My own office, a few years before. A woman sitting next to me, or rather lounging next to me, legs over the armrest and right arm dangling an inch from the floor. Her hair is dark brown and cut around her ears, and her breath curls up every time she exhales. I am entranced by it, enamoured with the way it disperses through the air.
“I don’t know why you keep it so cold in here all the time, really.” She says.
I don’t know why you complain. I’m not in charge of that.
“Well, you should still be able to change it,” she exhales, and I try to think of what the smoke is so evocative of. Cigarettes? No, it’s purer, and somehow less substantial. I can hear her heartbeat, I can hear her diaphragm expand and contract and her brain explode in an electric interaction of information with her thoughts. How does she have time to think between so much living? “Anyway, you know what to do, right?”
Yes.
“Good.” and she smiles. Or rather, bares her teeth. “Don’t mess this up. You can’t, you know,” I can’t place that smile, but I know it sets me on edge.
I know what I’m supposed to do.
“Explain it,” she says.
It’s impossible. Right now, at least.
“Very good,” she pulls up the collar of her parka to hide her growing smile. “Why?”
Because we don’t know yet. Our purpose is to find our purpose (Poetic, no? Much like a philosopher).
“And how are we going to accomplish this?”
By examining inconsistencies in already established patterns of cause-and-effect (I’m not sure what this has to do with our goal, or how it will help us. And it’s strange to think of these kids as inconsistencies. I refuse to believe it).
“Excellent,” she tosses her legs down from the armrest and swings into a sitting position. “We’re very glad to have talent of your calibre here. We’ve given you access to them and to all their influences. We expect you to use these resources wisely, and based on what we’ve seen we have no reason to believe otherwise.” She stands up with her back to me. “Good-bye”.
In what was then my future, two teenaged girls made their way to one of their houses. At first, they talked and it seemed like their conversation was the only one in the world. But gradually, as the sluggish twilight came and left, their discussion became a silence so complete they couldn’t help but slow down their steps. The streets became narrower as they approached Tona’s house, the people scarcer. The radio station’s unwavering red light was their north star that day.
They knocked the door of a house that seemed to want to blend into its much larger neighbours. There was no response. The windows were darkened.
“Mom’s usually home by now. And so are my brothers.” Tona said, more to herself than to anyone. “That’s strange,” she turned around and looked at Marya, then pointed to an odd outcropping that looked down into the city. “You can see them come home from over there sometimes, if they’re where they should be.”
“They often aren’t?” Tona’s brothers were known to be magnificent at causing trouble, and not so good at getting out of it.
“They often are. They might be stupid, but not so stupid that they’ll be doing drugs or whatever the h--l they’re planning if ma’s gonna stay home.” She sighed and sat down on the ledge. “It’s a pretty sight though, ain’t it? ‘Cause we’re able to see all the lights.” Marya couldn’t help but agree. Tona’s ledge was much better at seeing the nighttime city than any other observation point. She could be saying that just because they were close friends. But then again, she could be saying that because you weren’t quite out of the city yet and so it was lit all around you, as well.
They sat together for a while, seeing the hustle-bustle of the town below them and pointing out the different buildings, the different spots of green or blue or red on a sea of yellow-white pinpricks. Sometimes they could see people, small greyish shapes that came out of cars, and they made up conversations for them.
“See, that one’s talking to himself,” Marya said, pointing to one of the more distinct shapes that was entering an unlit street. “That’s why he’s walking like that, all slow and with his head down.”
“He could just be thinking about sad things.”
“People talk to themselves when they think,” Marya laughed, which was hard with her teeth chattering. She wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s cold.”
“What did you expect from the winter, a f-----g coat?” She laughed. “Look, there they are.” And, yes, two dots of light wound themselves up the mountain. “Let’s go catch them. I’ll tell ma’s come home already, that’ll scare them into opening the door on time tomorrow.” She started making her way down the ledge. It was only a short distance between the outcropping and the street, a short distance Tona and Marya had both become used to passing. It still required a degree of concentration, though, and they didn’t talk as they made their way down to the sidewalk.
That night, in the unlit street Marya had pointed out earlier, a murderer was about to commit what he had set out to do, not without dying first. It was a roundabout method, to be sure, but an effective one nonetheless. And a perfect catalyst to connecting our stories in one fell swoop, as you could call it. One could say it’s predestined. I’d rather say it was something our own future selves had decided for us.
“Stand up, so I can see you,” the flashlight didn’t shine so far as to show the victim.
“I’m ‘ere,” the voice said, to the left. And though the boy managed to whip around just in time to see the imprint of someone in the shadows, his chest began to tighten. It hurt, to have it wrapped around itself like that. He fell to the floor, coughing, though no air could come in. The gun was set off when he fell on top of it, a final blow that succeeded in killing him.
The would-be victim stood up, wiped his hands off on his shirt, and sighed. It wasn’t pleasant. It was never pleasant. But it dulled him, and maybe that’s what he was looking for. It wasn’t as though he could help it, anyway. It was a reflex, a demonstration of his own will to survive. But still, there was blood pooling on the floor. A perfect crime, really, and the police would be wondering for ages who committed it. Once again, the ugly thoughts came back, whispering things he didn’t want to hear. The flashlight was still turned on. He picked it up and examined his almost-murderer.
It was a young boy, no older than 17. He had red hair, and rather messily cut. He was wearing grey. He was rather tall, and built with broad shoulders and muscled arms. The kid who should have died in his place picked up his face and examined it. The tone was hard to see in the night and with so much blood. The nose had broken during the fall, apparently. There was a downwards-sloping quality to his eyes. His mouth was open, as though trying to speak, and his eyes were still moving. Perhaps they were studying Saloy’s own face, as he was doing to the red-haired man.
“ You’re not dead yet, aren’t you?” no response came, as expected. “I’m sorry this is taking longer than it needs to. I’m sorry for both you and I. I hope you understand I’m not trying to-”
The gunman’s mouth closed itself, and he groaned. There was a gunshot.
There had been a rockfall exactly two hours earlier. And a contract three years before that. The police that came to investigate four bodies the next day chalked up the first two to a mere accident, the second to a gunfight where both parties were dead already. And both parties had no former records. They didn’t exist, as far as the law was concerned.
But what if there were another instigator? I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about a thin-lipped woman with a fur coat whose breath looks like smoke, especially in the winter.
It might be the tone your producing. I can't quite put my finger on it. | |
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