The "Creative Writing" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
The streetlamp spun its orange hue in a blurred sphere, as it would through light rain – a soothing hum, partly reflected by the shiny black of the narrow road. Was it raining? I couldn’t tell. My eyes were not sharp enough to see, but I hoped it was. I lingered on the edge of the pavement, waiting, and as I did so, I felt the top of my hat – cold, perhaps damp, but unreliably so. It was only when I saw him, and stepped forwards into the road, that I felt the fine refreshing spray across my skin – liberating, and at the same time relaxing.
He was facing the other direction on the corner at the far end, and failed to notice me as I strolled past the parked cars, glowing their deceptive colours, and down the middle of the road, as if I was Mayor. The surface was perfect. To call it damp would be too suffocating, yet wet would suggest it was uncomfortable. It was solid, absorbent of footsteps but sturdy and sure. I hopped onto the pavement behind him and he turned to face me.
“Good evening.”
For no less than five seconds he stood rigid and stared at me, evidently taken aback by my sudden appearance, but was quick soon after to remember his duty.
“Sir, I must advise you to return to your house. The rules are there for your protection.”
I had not prepared an excuse, though if I had, it would have been of little use. He sighed and removed a gold pocket watch from his front-right jacket pocket.
“The curfew began at ten o’clock. It is now four minutes past two.” He paused to let this sink in. I hadn’t known the time, but I didn’t care – it made little difference to what I was doing. “Do you need me to escort you home?”
“Cigarette?”
I presented the unopened box in an outstretched palm. The universal gesture of a helping hand towards a slow death momentarily disarmed him from his placid professionalism, but he refused, and returned the watch to his pocket.
“No thank-you Sir, I’m on duty.”
At last I had an opening.
“Isn’t it a little quiet around here for a graveyard shift? I’d have thought you’d have more to do in the town centre.”
He cleared his throat gruffly. “Too bloody right, I’ve seen nothing but foxes and rain all week.” The transition my comment provoked from orderly to emotional was so immediate that it forced a smile – an unfortunately naked reaction that was instantly misconstrued. “And what the hell do you think you’re smiling at?”
“No, no, I know what you’re saying.” I made a pressing down motion with my hands as if attempting to physically defuse the situation. “I live just up the road, and there’s never any sign of trouble.”
He made a surrendered “h’m” sound, possibly apologetic. I had worried at this point that he would recognise the irony of what he was saying, and send me home, or arrest me, but he pressed on, and began offloading a career’s worth of personal aggravations. I had obviously struck a familiar chord.
“I never really wanted this job.” he began slowly, “I know none of us get to choose, but I really thought I could be different. Every night I stand here, and for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There’s no point, but there’s nothing I can do about it. You’d have thought I’d have some comfort at home, with my wife, my children.” He laughed sharply and sarcastically. “Believe me, working ten hour night shifts doesn’t give you much time to stay awake elsewhere.” He hesitated, and I felt again the anxiety that the conversation may fizzle and I would have to leave, but it was quickly defeated. “And this bloody rain!” I smiled and nodded, but didn’t speak. He held a second-long pause, then said “What do you do?”
I smiled once more, and he echoed a similar albeit less convincing reflection. The equality was now perfectly established.
“I’m an accountant.” and before he could comment, I said, relishing the control, “Listen, I need to get going. It was nice talking to you.” He blinked as if jerking awake, and straightened his back a little.
“Very well Sir, please hurry along.”
I walked briskly back down the road, enjoying the pleasures of the street in reverse, and stepped onto the opposite pavement. Checking behind to see if he was watching – he was, but looked around when I turned – I pushed through the hole in the fence into a small wooded area that surrounds a path and a stream.
At the base of the thickest trunk was my nest. Carefully, I removed my shoes, socks, trousers (taking the cigarettes out of the pocket and the belt out of the loops), shirt, jacket and hat and placed them in their black bin liner, tucking the package into a hollow beneath the tree. Then I picked up the rags from the floor and shook the damp dirt from them, pulled the torn garments on and collapsed between the thick roots, smiling, and drifting into a comfortable sleep.
He was facing the other direction on the corner at the far end, and failed to notice me as I strolled past the parked cars, glowing their deceptive colours, and down the middle of the road, as if I was Mayor. The surface was perfect. To call it damp would be too suffocating, yet wet would suggest it was uncomfortable. It was solid, absorbent of footsteps but sturdy and sure. I hopped onto the pavement behind him and he turned to face me.
“Good evening.”
For no less than five seconds he stood rigid and stared at me, evidently taken aback by my sudden appearance, but was quick soon after to remember his duty.
“Sir, I must advise you to return to your house. The rules are there for your protection.”
I had not prepared an excuse, though if I had, it would have been of little use. He sighed and removed a gold pocket watch from his front-right jacket pocket.
“The curfew began at ten o’clock. It is now four minutes past two.” He paused to let this sink in. I hadn’t known the time, but I didn’t care – it made little difference to what I was doing. “Do you need me to escort you home?”
“Cigarette?”
I presented the unopened box in an outstretched palm. The universal gesture of a helping hand towards a slow death momentarily disarmed him from his placid professionalism, but he refused, and returned the watch to his pocket.
“No thank-you Sir, I’m on duty.”
At last I had an opening.
“Isn’t it a little quiet around here for a graveyard shift? I’d have thought you’d have more to do in the town centre.”
He cleared his throat gruffly. “Too bloody right, I’ve seen nothing but foxes and rain all week.” The transition my comment provoked from orderly to emotional was so immediate that it forced a smile – an unfortunately naked reaction that was instantly misconstrued. “And what the hell do you think you’re smiling at?”
“No, no, I know what you’re saying.” I made a pressing down motion with my hands as if attempting to physically defuse the situation. “I live just up the road, and there’s never any sign of trouble.”
He made a surrendered “h’m” sound, possibly apologetic. I had worried at this point that he would recognise the irony of what he was saying, and send me home, or arrest me, but he pressed on, and began offloading a career’s worth of personal aggravations. I had obviously struck a familiar chord.
“I never really wanted this job.” he began slowly, “I know none of us get to choose, but I really thought I could be different. Every night I stand here, and for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There’s no point, but there’s nothing I can do about it. You’d have thought I’d have some comfort at home, with my wife, my children.” He laughed sharply and sarcastically. “Believe me, working ten hour night shifts doesn’t give you much time to stay awake elsewhere.” He hesitated, and I felt again the anxiety that the conversation may fizzle and I would have to leave, but it was quickly defeated. “And this bloody rain!” I smiled and nodded, but didn’t speak. He held a second-long pause, then said “What do you do?”
I smiled once more, and he echoed a similar albeit less convincing reflection. The equality was now perfectly established.
“I’m an accountant.” and before he could comment, I said, relishing the control, “Listen, I need to get going. It was nice talking to you.” He blinked as if jerking awake, and straightened his back a little.
“Very well Sir, please hurry along.”
I walked briskly back down the road, enjoying the pleasures of the street in reverse, and stepped onto the opposite pavement. Checking behind to see if he was watching – he was, but looked around when I turned – I pushed through the hole in the fence into a small wooded area that surrounds a path and a stream.
At the base of the thickest trunk was my nest. Carefully, I removed my shoes, socks, trousers (taking the cigarettes out of the pocket and the belt out of the loops), shirt, jacket and hat and placed them in their black bin liner, tucking the package into a hollow beneath the tree. Then I picked up the rags from the floor and shook the damp dirt from them, pulled the torn garments on and collapsed between the thick roots, smiling, and drifting into a comfortable sleep.
Page:
Ahh, very good.
I can see why Black Glove chose this.
I liked the "evening-ish" description, if you see what I mean. And the forced conversations. Nice one.
I can see why Black Glove chose this.
I liked the "evening-ish" description, if you see what I mean. And the forced conversations. Nice one.
Mmmm ... yes, very tasty.
Like Rickoss said ... kind of soothing.
You know, I don't I ever comment on a story without saying 'like ayospds said'
Ain't that a thing?
*shakes fake internet-person hand*
Well met, sah.
Like Rickoss said ... kind of soothing.
You know, I don't I ever comment on a story without saying 'like ayospds said'
Ain't that a thing?
*shakes fake internet-person hand*
Well met, sah.
Mav wrote:
> But I think I know what they meant. The setting itself and in
> particular the first sentence perhaps created a sort of dreamy haze,
That's what I took it as.
> But I think I know what they meant. The setting itself and in
> particular the first sentence perhaps created a sort of dreamy haze,
That's what I took it as.
Yeah, it's not technically surrealism, nor was it ever intended to be.
But I think I know what they meant. The setting itself and in particular the first sentence perhaps created a sort of dreamy haze, or the oppressive world I hinted at maybe suggested some obscure parallel universe not too far removed from ours.
Something like that, anyway.
But I think I know what they meant. The setting itself and in particular the first sentence perhaps created a sort of dreamy haze, or the oppressive world I hinted at maybe suggested some obscure parallel universe not too far removed from ours.
Something like that, anyway.
I fail to see how this is possibly surrealism... seriously, how on earth?
Do you folks know what surrealism is?
Do you folks know what surrealism is?
Winnar, I tell thee.
Certainly my favorite of the lot. Some lovely phrases.
FFF better have something 'gold' up his sleeve, or else I fear he shall not even be considered.
Certainly my favorite of the lot. Some lovely phrases.
FFF better have something 'gold' up his sleeve, or else I fear he shall not even be considered.
Accomplished writing style. Like another one of your previous stories, there is a feeling of ‘strange familiarity’ – which I like a lot.
I knew the phrase, but I only put it in because it was in the lyrics of a song I was listening to. Called 'Backlash Love Affair' or something. The random letters are so horribly cliched I'm ashamed of them, but it's actually the last letter of every word (unless you count 's as a word).
Mav wrote:
> Your tagline is interesting.
>
> I was reading about "Art Nouveau" the other day, the
> Aesthetic movement in literature pushed forward by the likes of Oscar
> Wilde - of which the phrase "art for art's sake" comes
> from. Is this where you heard of it?
He did coin the phrase.
> Your tagline is interesting.
>
> I was reading about "Art Nouveau" the other day, the
> Aesthetic movement in literature pushed forward by the likes of Oscar
> Wilde - of which the phrase "art for art's sake" comes
> from. Is this where you heard of it?
He did coin the phrase.
Your tagline is interesting.
I was reading about "Art Nouveau" the other day, the Aesthetic movement in literature pushed forward by the likes of Oscar Wilde - of which the phrase "art for art's sake" comes from. Is this where you heard of it?
Also - what's with the random letter capitalisation?
I was reading about "Art Nouveau" the other day, the Aesthetic movement in literature pushed forward by the likes of Oscar Wilde - of which the phrase "art for art's sake" comes from. Is this where you heard of it?
Also - what's with the random letter capitalisation?
Page: