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Hey guys,
I'm currently writing what could a novel and would like to hear your thoughts on some work so far, so I'm sharing an extact with you.
----------
Chapter Three
00:37 am. The soft glow from my father’s digital clock laughed at me in the darkness. I rolled over, pulling the itchy covers right up to my chin. My eyes were wide open, mouth dry. Sleep was a luxury I could not enjoy often. I sat up in bed, and stared at the window. The moonlight blended with London’s silver glow, casting cold shadows everywhere, and filling the small bedroom with a ghostly shimmer. I struggled out of bed and moved over to the window sill, brushing the curtains aside and pressing my face to the frosty glass. The city stretched before me like a dying animal, head baying at the moon. The skyline was littered with factories, oozing noxious smoke into the surrounding breathing space. The Thames below rushing, gurgling, fleeing, as though even nature itself longed to leave London. I imagined how it would feel to jump into the smoky night, the rush of air as the world below would churn into a grim reality, and the morbid satisfaction of flesh hitting water, death filling each lung, promising eternal peace. I opened the window, hoisting myself onto the sill with some difficulty. Panting, I gazed down.
Tears began rolling down my face, falling into the dark. Then I began weeping uncontrollably. I began slipping a little, my legs dangling in the icy wind. Various windows gleamed in the darkness, laughing at me with wicked eyes. urging me to let myself fall, to end this constant misery. I thought of my younger brother Richard, taken from me years earlier. An illness had eaten him alive. Had he felt like this? Staring into a constant void of sadness, unable able to see any escape bar the cold abyss we call death. Richard reached a pointed where he felt he had been pushed to far, he once described to me how it felt as though his insides had burnt themselves out. Weak like me, he had pulled himself over to this same window, hurling himself to God, leaving me soulless and empty. I thought of my father, my brother’s death had aged him considerably, he’s a shell of his former self, a lonely ghost. The tears fell faster as I thought of what my death could do to him. Push him over the edge? Take away his dignity, a dead, wife and two dead children. I stopped sliding towards the edge, and gripped a pipe close to the ledge for support. My father, I want to continue living for my father. I repeated this mantra in my mind. Then aloud.
“Do it for him, do it for him”. I stared out into the night.
With some difficulty, I pulled myself back through the opening, falling into a heap on the floor. The tears had stopped flowing and I managed to stand up. I walked over to my dresser which was illuminated by the gap in the curtains and the still open window, picking up a photo of my mother and pausing as memories came back through time to me. Her frozen smile seemed out of place in this room, the African sun lighting up a magical world I may never know. She had always been proud of my militaristic career path, which had chosen me long before the war in the Pacific had even begun. I paused for a moment, staring at the space my right arm once occupied. I laughed a cold, unhappy chuckle, realising that the tears had once again begun streaming down my face. A breeze worked its way into the room, and for a moment, I was back, flying high above the rolling seas of East-Asia.
“Are you awake Private Falcon?”, the lieutenant leered down at me. I took my head from my hands, and gazed up at him. How could I sleep? The rumbling of the jet engine was louder than any noise I had ever heard before, and at any rate, this growing nausea would never grant me sleep.
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Then look alive boy!”
My eyes moved to the window, jets screamed through smoke and clouds across a crimson sky. Parachute packs were being handed out, it was like a bad dream, only you know you may never wake up. The lieutenant paced up and down the length of the drop-room, looking extremely calm for someone who knew full well he might die by nightfall.
“Listen up soldiers! Now is not the time for sentimentality. You are not fighting for your loved ones, you are not fighting for your families, you aren’t even fighting for this country. All of this is meaningless without the future, this is everything. This is you. All you care about. This is what you are about to fight for, this is what you will hurt for, and this is what you will die for!”
I came back, and realised my joyless laughter had not yet ceased. I was still staring at my stump of a right arm, and something about the sight was so ridiculous, I just had to laugh. The medals on the dresser winked up at me, I snapped and shook the dresser with my left. Pieces of my life started falling to the floor, the glass frame behind which my mother stood shattering, and I collapsed unto the floor from exhaustion. After a few minutes, I came to and realised I was lying next to the government stamped letter concerning my “rehabilitation”. I rolled over, and took it in my hand, the words burned as I struggled to read them in the cold moonlight.
Private James Falcon,
We would once more like to congratulate you regarding your heroic work, and bravery in the War for the Future currently taking place in the Pacific. When we heard of your terrible injury, we took it upon ourselves to ensure your safe journey home, and allowed you two months work-leave as a form of compensation. We trust you have used this time to rebuild your self-esteem, and recover amidst your family. However, you are part of the clockwork that runs this society, James. As such, your medical examination has shown you have recovered to some extent, and you are now expected to return to work. We have realised that a career in the military is unfitting for someone with your disability, and have assigned you a new position as a cleansing specialist at the centre for sanitation. You are expected to report to Facility XA, Block D reception on November 26th at 9:00. We hope you will enjoy your new position, and continue to function as a productive member of society.
Career-centre Overseers
Headquarters, Whitehall.
My face grew hot, and I began rolling around on the floor like a wounded animal. Reduced to this, working with London’s dregs in the most humiliating career path crafted in this wretched country. November 26th. Only a few hours left, and I would be left to live out the rest of my life in misery. Future? If this is what I was fighting for then I felt sicker than ever, that familiar wave of nausea swarming up to greet me like an old friend. I beat the ground with my fist, before growing tired. I fell asleep right there on the floor, shattered memories surrounding me, and a grim future beckoning.
I'm currently writing what could a novel and would like to hear your thoughts on some work so far, so I'm sharing an extact with you.
----------
Chapter Three
00:37 am. The soft glow from my father’s digital clock laughed at me in the darkness. I rolled over, pulling the itchy covers right up to my chin. My eyes were wide open, mouth dry. Sleep was a luxury I could not enjoy often. I sat up in bed, and stared at the window. The moonlight blended with London’s silver glow, casting cold shadows everywhere, and filling the small bedroom with a ghostly shimmer. I struggled out of bed and moved over to the window sill, brushing the curtains aside and pressing my face to the frosty glass. The city stretched before me like a dying animal, head baying at the moon. The skyline was littered with factories, oozing noxious smoke into the surrounding breathing space. The Thames below rushing, gurgling, fleeing, as though even nature itself longed to leave London. I imagined how it would feel to jump into the smoky night, the rush of air as the world below would churn into a grim reality, and the morbid satisfaction of flesh hitting water, death filling each lung, promising eternal peace. I opened the window, hoisting myself onto the sill with some difficulty. Panting, I gazed down.
Tears began rolling down my face, falling into the dark. Then I began weeping uncontrollably. I began slipping a little, my legs dangling in the icy wind. Various windows gleamed in the darkness, laughing at me with wicked eyes. urging me to let myself fall, to end this constant misery. I thought of my younger brother Richard, taken from me years earlier. An illness had eaten him alive. Had he felt like this? Staring into a constant void of sadness, unable able to see any escape bar the cold abyss we call death. Richard reached a pointed where he felt he had been pushed to far, he once described to me how it felt as though his insides had burnt themselves out. Weak like me, he had pulled himself over to this same window, hurling himself to God, leaving me soulless and empty. I thought of my father, my brother’s death had aged him considerably, he’s a shell of his former self, a lonely ghost. The tears fell faster as I thought of what my death could do to him. Push him over the edge? Take away his dignity, a dead, wife and two dead children. I stopped sliding towards the edge, and gripped a pipe close to the ledge for support. My father, I want to continue living for my father. I repeated this mantra in my mind. Then aloud.
“Do it for him, do it for him”. I stared out into the night.
With some difficulty, I pulled myself back through the opening, falling into a heap on the floor. The tears had stopped flowing and I managed to stand up. I walked over to my dresser which was illuminated by the gap in the curtains and the still open window, picking up a photo of my mother and pausing as memories came back through time to me. Her frozen smile seemed out of place in this room, the African sun lighting up a magical world I may never know. She had always been proud of my militaristic career path, which had chosen me long before the war in the Pacific had even begun. I paused for a moment, staring at the space my right arm once occupied. I laughed a cold, unhappy chuckle, realising that the tears had once again begun streaming down my face. A breeze worked its way into the room, and for a moment, I was back, flying high above the rolling seas of East-Asia.
“Are you awake Private Falcon?”, the lieutenant leered down at me. I took my head from my hands, and gazed up at him. How could I sleep? The rumbling of the jet engine was louder than any noise I had ever heard before, and at any rate, this growing nausea would never grant me sleep.
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Then look alive boy!”
My eyes moved to the window, jets screamed through smoke and clouds across a crimson sky. Parachute packs were being handed out, it was like a bad dream, only you know you may never wake up. The lieutenant paced up and down the length of the drop-room, looking extremely calm for someone who knew full well he might die by nightfall.
“Listen up soldiers! Now is not the time for sentimentality. You are not fighting for your loved ones, you are not fighting for your families, you aren’t even fighting for this country. All of this is meaningless without the future, this is everything. This is you. All you care about. This is what you are about to fight for, this is what you will hurt for, and this is what you will die for!”
I came back, and realised my joyless laughter had not yet ceased. I was still staring at my stump of a right arm, and something about the sight was so ridiculous, I just had to laugh. The medals on the dresser winked up at me, I snapped and shook the dresser with my left. Pieces of my life started falling to the floor, the glass frame behind which my mother stood shattering, and I collapsed unto the floor from exhaustion. After a few minutes, I came to and realised I was lying next to the government stamped letter concerning my “rehabilitation”. I rolled over, and took it in my hand, the words burned as I struggled to read them in the cold moonlight.
Private James Falcon,
We would once more like to congratulate you regarding your heroic work, and bravery in the War for the Future currently taking place in the Pacific. When we heard of your terrible injury, we took it upon ourselves to ensure your safe journey home, and allowed you two months work-leave as a form of compensation. We trust you have used this time to rebuild your self-esteem, and recover amidst your family. However, you are part of the clockwork that runs this society, James. As such, your medical examination has shown you have recovered to some extent, and you are now expected to return to work. We have realised that a career in the military is unfitting for someone with your disability, and have assigned you a new position as a cleansing specialist at the centre for sanitation. You are expected to report to Facility XA, Block D reception on November 26th at 9:00. We hope you will enjoy your new position, and continue to function as a productive member of society.
Career-centre Overseers
Headquarters, Whitehall.
My face grew hot, and I began rolling around on the floor like a wounded animal. Reduced to this, working with London’s dregs in the most humiliating career path crafted in this wretched country. November 26th. Only a few hours left, and I would be left to live out the rest of my life in misery. Future? If this is what I was fighting for then I felt sicker than ever, that familiar wave of nausea swarming up to greet me like an old friend. I beat the ground with my fist, before growing tired. I fell asleep right there on the floor, shattered memories surrounding me, and a grim future beckoning.
Alfonse wrote:
> It's similiar?
Reading it gave me the same 'feeling' as when playing Max Payne - very dark, short descriptive sentences, personal comments on life and 'his' situation etc etc
> It's similiar?
Reading it gave me the same 'feeling' as when playing Max Payne - very dark, short descriptive sentences, personal comments on life and 'his' situation etc etc
No idea what he meant either. Although I didn't like Max Payne so ....
It reads well though. Kinda edgy.
It reads well though. Kinda edgy.
It's similiar?
Max Payne.....:-)
Hey guys,
I'm currently writing what could a novel and would like to hear your thoughts on some work so far, so I'm sharing an extact with you.
----------
Chapter Three
00:37 am. The soft glow from my father’s digital clock laughed at me in the darkness. I rolled over, pulling the itchy covers right up to my chin. My eyes were wide open, mouth dry. Sleep was a luxury I could not enjoy often. I sat up in bed, and stared at the window. The moonlight blended with London’s silver glow, casting cold shadows everywhere, and filling the small bedroom with a ghostly shimmer. I struggled out of bed and moved over to the window sill, brushing the curtains aside and pressing my face to the frosty glass. The city stretched before me like a dying animal, head baying at the moon. The skyline was littered with factories, oozing noxious smoke into the surrounding breathing space. The Thames below rushing, gurgling, fleeing, as though even nature itself longed to leave London. I imagined how it would feel to jump into the smoky night, the rush of air as the world below would churn into a grim reality, and the morbid satisfaction of flesh hitting water, death filling each lung, promising eternal peace. I opened the window, hoisting myself onto the sill with some difficulty. Panting, I gazed down.
Tears began rolling down my face, falling into the dark. Then I began weeping uncontrollably. I began slipping a little, my legs dangling in the icy wind. Various windows gleamed in the darkness, laughing at me with wicked eyes. urging me to let myself fall, to end this constant misery. I thought of my younger brother Richard, taken from me years earlier. An illness had eaten him alive. Had he felt like this? Staring into a constant void of sadness, unable able to see any escape bar the cold abyss we call death. Richard reached a pointed where he felt he had been pushed to far, he once described to me how it felt as though his insides had burnt themselves out. Weak like me, he had pulled himself over to this same window, hurling himself to God, leaving me soulless and empty. I thought of my father, my brother’s death had aged him considerably, he’s a shell of his former self, a lonely ghost. The tears fell faster as I thought of what my death could do to him. Push him over the edge? Take away his dignity, a dead, wife and two dead children. I stopped sliding towards the edge, and gripped a pipe close to the ledge for support. My father, I want to continue living for my father. I repeated this mantra in my mind. Then aloud.
“Do it for him, do it for him”. I stared out into the night.
With some difficulty, I pulled myself back through the opening, falling into a heap on the floor. The tears had stopped flowing and I managed to stand up. I walked over to my dresser which was illuminated by the gap in the curtains and the still open window, picking up a photo of my mother and pausing as memories came back through time to me. Her frozen smile seemed out of place in this room, the African sun lighting up a magical world I may never know. She had always been proud of my militaristic career path, which had chosen me long before the war in the Pacific had even begun. I paused for a moment, staring at the space my right arm once occupied. I laughed a cold, unhappy chuckle, realising that the tears had once again begun streaming down my face. A breeze worked its way into the room, and for a moment, I was back, flying high above the rolling seas of East-Asia.
“Are you awake Private Falcon?”, the lieutenant leered down at me. I took my head from my hands, and gazed up at him. How could I sleep? The rumbling of the jet engine was louder than any noise I had ever heard before, and at any rate, this growing nausea would never grant me sleep.
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Then look alive boy!”
My eyes moved to the window, jets screamed through smoke and clouds across a crimson sky. Parachute packs were being handed out, it was like a bad dream, only you know you may never wake up. The lieutenant paced up and down the length of the drop-room, looking extremely calm for someone who knew full well he might die by nightfall.
“Listen up soldiers! Now is not the time for sentimentality. You are not fighting for your loved ones, you are not fighting for your families, you aren’t even fighting for this country. All of this is meaningless without the future, this is everything. This is you. All you care about. This is what you are about to fight for, this is what you will hurt for, and this is what you will die for!”
I came back, and realised my joyless laughter had not yet ceased. I was still staring at my stump of a right arm, and something about the sight was so ridiculous, I just had to laugh. The medals on the dresser winked up at me, I snapped and shook the dresser with my left. Pieces of my life started falling to the floor, the glass frame behind which my mother stood shattering, and I collapsed unto the floor from exhaustion. After a few minutes, I came to and realised I was lying next to the government stamped letter concerning my “rehabilitation”. I rolled over, and took it in my hand, the words burned as I struggled to read them in the cold moonlight.
Private James Falcon,
We would once more like to congratulate you regarding your heroic work, and bravery in the War for the Future currently taking place in the Pacific. When we heard of your terrible injury, we took it upon ourselves to ensure your safe journey home, and allowed you two months work-leave as a form of compensation. We trust you have used this time to rebuild your self-esteem, and recover amidst your family. However, you are part of the clockwork that runs this society, James. As such, your medical examination has shown you have recovered to some extent, and you are now expected to return to work. We have realised that a career in the military is unfitting for someone with your disability, and have assigned you a new position as a cleansing specialist at the centre for sanitation. You are expected to report to Facility XA, Block D reception on November 26th at 9:00. We hope you will enjoy your new position, and continue to function as a productive member of society.
Career-centre Overseers
Headquarters, Whitehall.
My face grew hot, and I began rolling around on the floor like a wounded animal. Reduced to this, working with London’s dregs in the most humiliating career path crafted in this wretched country. November 26th. Only a few hours left, and I would be left to live out the rest of my life in misery. Future? If this is what I was fighting for then I felt sicker than ever, that familiar wave of nausea swarming up to greet me like an old friend. I beat the ground with my fist, before growing tired. I fell asleep right there on the floor, shattered memories surrounding me, and a grim future beckoning.
I'm currently writing what could a novel and would like to hear your thoughts on some work so far, so I'm sharing an extact with you.
----------
Chapter Three
00:37 am. The soft glow from my father’s digital clock laughed at me in the darkness. I rolled over, pulling the itchy covers right up to my chin. My eyes were wide open, mouth dry. Sleep was a luxury I could not enjoy often. I sat up in bed, and stared at the window. The moonlight blended with London’s silver glow, casting cold shadows everywhere, and filling the small bedroom with a ghostly shimmer. I struggled out of bed and moved over to the window sill, brushing the curtains aside and pressing my face to the frosty glass. The city stretched before me like a dying animal, head baying at the moon. The skyline was littered with factories, oozing noxious smoke into the surrounding breathing space. The Thames below rushing, gurgling, fleeing, as though even nature itself longed to leave London. I imagined how it would feel to jump into the smoky night, the rush of air as the world below would churn into a grim reality, and the morbid satisfaction of flesh hitting water, death filling each lung, promising eternal peace. I opened the window, hoisting myself onto the sill with some difficulty. Panting, I gazed down.
Tears began rolling down my face, falling into the dark. Then I began weeping uncontrollably. I began slipping a little, my legs dangling in the icy wind. Various windows gleamed in the darkness, laughing at me with wicked eyes. urging me to let myself fall, to end this constant misery. I thought of my younger brother Richard, taken from me years earlier. An illness had eaten him alive. Had he felt like this? Staring into a constant void of sadness, unable able to see any escape bar the cold abyss we call death. Richard reached a pointed where he felt he had been pushed to far, he once described to me how it felt as though his insides had burnt themselves out. Weak like me, he had pulled himself over to this same window, hurling himself to God, leaving me soulless and empty. I thought of my father, my brother’s death had aged him considerably, he’s a shell of his former self, a lonely ghost. The tears fell faster as I thought of what my death could do to him. Push him over the edge? Take away his dignity, a dead, wife and two dead children. I stopped sliding towards the edge, and gripped a pipe close to the ledge for support. My father, I want to continue living for my father. I repeated this mantra in my mind. Then aloud.
“Do it for him, do it for him”. I stared out into the night.
With some difficulty, I pulled myself back through the opening, falling into a heap on the floor. The tears had stopped flowing and I managed to stand up. I walked over to my dresser which was illuminated by the gap in the curtains and the still open window, picking up a photo of my mother and pausing as memories came back through time to me. Her frozen smile seemed out of place in this room, the African sun lighting up a magical world I may never know. She had always been proud of my militaristic career path, which had chosen me long before the war in the Pacific had even begun. I paused for a moment, staring at the space my right arm once occupied. I laughed a cold, unhappy chuckle, realising that the tears had once again begun streaming down my face. A breeze worked its way into the room, and for a moment, I was back, flying high above the rolling seas of East-Asia.
“Are you awake Private Falcon?”, the lieutenant leered down at me. I took my head from my hands, and gazed up at him. How could I sleep? The rumbling of the jet engine was louder than any noise I had ever heard before, and at any rate, this growing nausea would never grant me sleep.
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Then look alive boy!”
My eyes moved to the window, jets screamed through smoke and clouds across a crimson sky. Parachute packs were being handed out, it was like a bad dream, only you know you may never wake up. The lieutenant paced up and down the length of the drop-room, looking extremely calm for someone who knew full well he might die by nightfall.
“Listen up soldiers! Now is not the time for sentimentality. You are not fighting for your loved ones, you are not fighting for your families, you aren’t even fighting for this country. All of this is meaningless without the future, this is everything. This is you. All you care about. This is what you are about to fight for, this is what you will hurt for, and this is what you will die for!”
I came back, and realised my joyless laughter had not yet ceased. I was still staring at my stump of a right arm, and something about the sight was so ridiculous, I just had to laugh. The medals on the dresser winked up at me, I snapped and shook the dresser with my left. Pieces of my life started falling to the floor, the glass frame behind which my mother stood shattering, and I collapsed unto the floor from exhaustion. After a few minutes, I came to and realised I was lying next to the government stamped letter concerning my “rehabilitation”. I rolled over, and took it in my hand, the words burned as I struggled to read them in the cold moonlight.
Private James Falcon,
We would once more like to congratulate you regarding your heroic work, and bravery in the War for the Future currently taking place in the Pacific. When we heard of your terrible injury, we took it upon ourselves to ensure your safe journey home, and allowed you two months work-leave as a form of compensation. We trust you have used this time to rebuild your self-esteem, and recover amidst your family. However, you are part of the clockwork that runs this society, James. As such, your medical examination has shown you have recovered to some extent, and you are now expected to return to work. We have realised that a career in the military is unfitting for someone with your disability, and have assigned you a new position as a cleansing specialist at the centre for sanitation. You are expected to report to Facility XA, Block D reception on November 26th at 9:00. We hope you will enjoy your new position, and continue to function as a productive member of society.
Career-centre Overseers
Headquarters, Whitehall.
My face grew hot, and I began rolling around on the floor like a wounded animal. Reduced to this, working with London’s dregs in the most humiliating career path crafted in this wretched country. November 26th. Only a few hours left, and I would be left to live out the rest of my life in misery. Future? If this is what I was fighting for then I felt sicker than ever, that familiar wave of nausea swarming up to greet me like an old friend. I beat the ground with my fist, before growing tired. I fell asleep right there on the floor, shattered memories surrounding me, and a grim future beckoning.