Should I continue with this - whaddaya think? (917 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesRating: 1 on 7 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Dean Jehan <dean_jehan.at.hotmail.com> (View user info) at 2004-03-18 07:29:08 EST
Ok, so I'm writing a novel, and having passed this to friends(who all incidentally say I should continue) I'm after objective views. I've never written before. I may never write again. But what do you reckon....?(first four chapters, more to come if ya like it....)
Much love....Deano
1)
The silence was broken only by the light breeze whipping around the autumnal leaves still clinging to the Elm trees on the far bank and the light crunch of frosty gravel as she uneasily ground the ball of her foot, in quiet contemplation of what she had just witnessed.
Of what she had been a party to.
Nobody would ever really understand the pain she had endured watching the final preparations, nor would they ever appreciate the simplicity of the plan. In short - they would never believe her.
She turned vacantly from the water's edge, burying her smooth, well cared-for hands under her armpits, shifting up the neck on her fleece to cover her exposed chin, her breath displaying itself in intricate swirling patterns, the vapours vanishing as quickly as they appeared. The cold breeze caused her squinting eyes to water and it blurred her vision as she leant forward to take her first step. Still, she hesitated and shot a glance back to the surface of the now vacant pool, her mind filled with wonder and fear and adoration and intrigue. Only the distant lights of the far bank gave away any sign that its surface had been violated by the most sordid of gestures, by way of vague ripple and ambiguous movement.
2)
I looked up, looked towards the last of the shimmering light.
Each metre I dropped darkened my view as I sank deeper and deeper into the cool, but comforting, unknown, the breath I had taken for granted was replaced by soothing saline fluid which caressed my lungs like a thousand lover's fingers.
As my arms trailed above me, my fingers playing a soft pianist's ballad, my feet pulled me towards depths I had never known, depths which would soon become the final resting place for my cooling form.
A warmth came over me, a contented and fuzzy glow that the ravages of the bitter cold could not penetrate. A relaxed smile formed at the corners of my mouth as my nervous state softened to a feeling of sublime achievement and accomplishment, less and less the stabs of freezing temperature biting into my extremities. No taste or smell distracted my thoughts. No sound was audible, no sight stimulated me.
I eventually comprised a mere collection of thoughts, which were slowly becoming dream-like, fading away into the blackness, melting into the inky totality of the final goal. No fears or foes corrupted the completeness of the ultimate end and, as my depleting neurons sent their final morphineous messages to their receptors, there was only darkness.
There was only utter silence.
There was only perfection.
3)
My name is Harry, Harry Marks, and I'm just like you.
Chances are, like you, I have two arms, two legs, two eyes and all of the other wonderful features that god blessed us with.
I say "God" but I'm not religious, it's just easier to assign the glory of the immeasurable achievement that is the human body (and more amazingly the human mind) to a mythical character, than to begin to comprehend the complexities of evolution and infinity.
I also have a mouth. Some people may have said I've used mine more than I should and if I'm honest, I'd probably agree with them. I have always had a voice which people seem to pay attention to, albeit for the wrong reasons.
You see, I have never really been entirely comfortable with myself, I guess I have always felt I that deserve more. I guess you'd call it insecurity. So, I guess that in the usual way that insecure voices tend to be a little louder than the rest, I have the extra volume too.
I'm the quick-witted, slightly risqué response to the double entendre.
I'm the crude and vulgar opinion that's shared by many, voiced by few.
I'm the "once too many".
The "too much".
The "Jesus, did he say that?"
But I'm not unique. In fact, I'd bet that if you're feeling powerful and superior because of my benign confession, chances are you've been me too. The only difference is, I have an excuse. A real one.
His name is David.
4)
The pre-ring click of my alarm clock shattered the stillness.
In three or four seconds my waking sequence was over, and each and every time was the same. It had been for months. Faint sparkles of light on the back of my eyelids. The subtle draft of tepid air seeping into the bed and the comforting hum of hope as my blood sugars kicked in and endorphins flooded my brain, the fibrous texture of the bulky cover laying delicate pattern on my cheek.
But then, my memory would to rise too. The shrill beckoning of daylight. A growing suggestion that all was not well. A shroud encompassed every thought which dared to form, a nauseating, stabbing sensation impressing cruel lacerations into every facet of my mind, my body following quickly as adrenaline forced through my veins towards my stomach, filling it with cavernous space. The pang of hunger. The pang I always mistook for hunger until my conscious mind caught up and made allies with the rampaging dark forces in my head. Opening eyes filled with hopelessness, dread feasting on my gut with teeth of steel, every nerve ending screaming with pain and frustration......
Awake.
I surveyed the view. Crystal blue sky framed by the pallid white of a modern window frame. The ruffles of the cheap hollow fibre bedspread falling around my thin ankles gave scant consolation to me during the comedown of reality. I was cold.
The early light, yet to pierce the curtain, gave me sign that it was still before the hour that I should rise, but this gave me no comfort. My routine had been one of rare pleasure and lengthy anguish.
She had been taken away from me with acquiesce of such profoundly unjust proportions, it would take my breath away just to consider it. But consider it I did, each and every waking moment. Every stroke of my toothbrush, each bleep of my programmed microwave meal. Each click of the washing machine cycle. My every breath......
I contemplated for a second, shadowy scenes briefly flashing through my mind. Then in one swift movement I threw back the cover and turned onto my knees, forcing my alcohol weary body into a hunched stance, the foetid smell of unwashed sheets and stale towels pierced the thin mucus in my running nostrils. A veil of broken sleep still clung to me like warm damp linen, accentuating the dull throb in my lower back. My body temperature still contrasted that of the air around me, reminding me that I was still here. That I may get a moment's reprieve.
I thought only of the morning mail.
Living in a second floor apartment meant that a sortie to the main entrance to collect my daily post involved negotiating two flights of steep, thinly carpeted stairs and three landings. It was still fairly early, maybe 6.45am meaning that the other residents in my block were unlikely to witness my semi nakedness in the thirty or so seconds it would take to rush out to retrieve them and return.
I paced the few steps from my bedroom to the front door, the iridescent light through the glass brick wall to my left creating warm hues on the laminate flooring in front of me. I reached for the switch lock, twisting it down and depressing the latch, each movement closer to the stairwell gradually lifting my mood. As I opened the door the swishing sound of the bristles against the shiny floor surface seemed louder than normal as I peered into the lobby. All was clear and silent except for the squeak of my heels against the varnished surface.
I quickly made my way along the thin corridor, the coarse fibres of the carpet scraping my feet as I turned to descend the first of the stairwells. My legs pumped downwards and my pace increased as I reached the first landing, aware that any occupant of the neighbouring apartments could appear at any time. Within a few seconds I reached the bottom of the second staircase and jogged towards the pile of mail, already reaching down in anticipation of finding my prize. I sorted the letters with a conjurer's sleight of hand, my keen eye searching for the handwriting which would give me that brief release and I was not disappointed.
The off-white envelope with its precious cargo felt good to the touch, the promise of its contents briefly dispersing the veil of negativity which had enveloped me since I had awoken. After a quick glance through the remainder I turned on my heels and half sprinted back up the stairs taking two or three at a time, my knees almost touching my chest as I climbed.
I gave no thought to the volume of the closing door as I vacantly slammed it behind me using my foot, my fingers tearing greedily at the envelope. I slid right, entering my lounge, my breath thick and fast from the climb as I turned and fell backward into the comfort of my white cotton drill sofa, my eyes transfixed on the lined pages as they were prised from their packaging. The glorious sunlight now beginning to penetrate the front windows of my flat added to the excitement of what I held in my hands.
A letter from the one person who meant more to me than life itself.
Jennifer.
5)
Envy is a funny thing. Envy can drive the meek to be masterful, a perpetual crusade towards material or psychological supremacy motivated by vanity and lack of social acceptance. Inspired by another man's idol, an obsessive homage to an ideal which is less rewarding than degrading.
More devastatingly, envy can devour the strong.
The envy I knew was merely sinister and destructive and subtle. The fear of being runner up, of being left behind in a race in which the winner was never declared. Back then I envied David.
I could not put my finger on the exact time or place I first encountered him, nor can I explain what made us develop such a close relationship. We were so utterly different - he, the confident aspiring go-getter, with an army of sycophants swooning his every move, and me, the downtrodden opportunist taking advantage of every slim scrap of chance that befell me. Chalk and cheese made the feast so interesting, I guess.....
Me, I detested the routine of working in a sterile office environment. I resented my faceless contribution to the onslaught of the capitalist machine, the forced acceptance of commune with the unwashed, the ignorant, the arrogant and the bland.
But mostly, my under-rewarded exertions lining the pockets of unseen fatcats, in exchange for a meagre salary infuriated me. The exhaustion, boredom and frustration only fuelled my desire for something more, for something unique and selfish which I could carry mentally through the following week to help me ignore my hopeless resignation to the fact that there was no alternative. I lived for the weekends.
David, well he was just a lucky bastard. David was a club DJ. He had no difficulty satisfying his employers, to the contrary his was a position of immense satisfaction and enjoyment. He earned a ludicrously high hourly fee by (admittedly) skilfully blending obscure four-to-the-floor vinyl records until the early hours, on a PA system so loud you would sometimes feel that it was interfering with your heartbeat. A man with power and control over a following of adoring ecstacy fuelled revellers, who would come to hear him play every Friday and Saturday evening at the Roadmender nightclub, a haven for large scale drug consumption and social melee.
I was one of them. I frequently spent long nights dancing trance-like to his manipulation of metallic beats. Something deeply attracted me to the seedy, dark world of the house music club and the undiluted escapism that it, and the widespread acceptance of drug taking, offered.
I would start to plan excursions midweek to relieve the monotony of my monochrome existence, reviewing the different events which were advertised in the clubbing bible - Mixmag, weighing up the names of the DJ's who were playing on a particular evening against the length of the journey to the club (did someone have to drive and therefore stay straight?).
There were a number of clubs within an hour of my home town, Northampton, but wherever possible I'd always try to stay fairly local to ensure a safe and hassle free return home.
I remember one particular evening vividly.
David was booked to play a warm up slot for Gordon Kaye on the Radio One Essential tour at the local university on the coming Friday. This was guaranteed to be a special evening. As usual, my closest circle of club-going friends were excited about a potentially barnstorming night of debauchery, excessive drug taking, lucid behaviour and very pretty girls, so over the next few days a schedule began to formulate. I contacted the usual suspects who all confirmed their eagerness to attend, so all I had left was to confirm our names on the guest list for the event and get through the 48 or so hours which preceded it.
As usual we were all to meet at Ellis Jones' house for the pre-bash merriment, and as I made my way there on the cold, crisp Friday evening, now smartly dressed in black, I felt a warm rush of expectancy fill my body. The toil of the week was finally laid to rest for another two days and three nights by the feel of my clean hair and neatly shaven chin, the shine of my prized leather shoes and the tightness of my fitted black shirt. Damn, I felt good!
I rapped on his large wooden front door. The dull repetitive thud of constricted bass leaking through the window of his front room mingled with the distant sounds of a car passing the end of the street. I heard the distant clomp of heels moving in quick succession, draw nearer to me then slow down, as he finished descending the stairs and arrived at the other side. As he opened it he was greeted with a wry smile and a pre-requisite offering of a cheap blue carrier bag filled with cold lager and cigarettes. In return I was met by the loud pounding of dance music emerging from somewhere behind him inside.
"Yey, Harry! Come in mate!" He exclaimed, the length of time since we'd last seen each other apparent in the wide smile immediately forming on his face.
"Hello mate, how are you!" I beamed back as I started to lean forward in anticipation of entering. I could feel the cool breeze which had explored my mouth replaced by the warm air escaping from inside the house swirling around my freshly brushed teeth, the faint taste of spearmint offset by the tobacco from the cigarette I had just put out, adding to my feeling of cleanliness. The hair on my neck stood up in both anticipation and relief. This was going to be a good night.....
The brightness of the bulb in his hallway stunned my eyes for a second as he moved to the side to allow me to pass. The orange sodium haze of the street was now dissected by a thin strip of creamy white light emanating from the doorway, my silhouette shortening behind me as I advanced through towards its source.
"Nice aftershave mate..." I ribbed, as I hurried past into the warmth of the house nearly choking at the pungent fumes which seemed to be hugging him like an invisible fog bank. I heard the door being firmly closed behind me and footsteps following me as I headed towards the lounge.
"Alright isn't it! Some Calvin Klein shit Robin left in the bathroom! Poor bloke....." he said, looking at me with mock guilt.
We both laughed out loud.
"Come 'ere Harry son, come and check out what I've saved for ya - you'll lav it!" he proudly proclaimed in a mockney drawl, as he motored past me in the hallway towards the kitchen at the back of the house, his beckoning demeanour too much too resist. I followed his excited figure down the narrow corridor, my loud footsteps on his wooden floor hardly audible above the booming speakers as I passed the open doorway to the lounge. My head briefly turned as I noticed a pair of legs extending from the sofa within, their owner's identity masked by the door which was only slightly ajar, the sickly sweet smell of skunkweed briefly diverting my attention from the overbearing fumes of Ellis' cologne.
As I followed him at pace, I thrust my hand into the bag and tugged at a can trying to liberate it one-handed from the other three, my progress slightly hampered by the plastic loops holding them together. It snapped free just as I entered the kitchen, and as I saw what he'd saved for me already chopped out into six-inch lines on the counter, I clicked it open, knowing I'd be needing it's soothing contents in a few seconds. As usual he'd come up with the goods.
Coke. Lots of it.
The seductive quartz-like twinkling from the powder captivated my attention and I felt a rush of excitement coarse through me.
"Wicked Charlie this, wicked mate. It's straight off the block" he proudly explained. "My whole face went completely numb earlier after I'd chopped it up, I only licked the edge of the card. It's fucking rocket mate!"
If Ellis said it was rocket (we'd abbreviated our previous slang - Rocket Fuel), then it would be rocket.
"I fucking love you mate!" I smiled as I searched for the wallet in my left pocket somewhere, to pick out a crisp banknote. He saw me fumble and turned towards me presenting me a perfectly rolled £20 note in the manner that a 5 year old child would proudly present a parent a picture painted at school. In ritual exchange I passed him a cold beer and grinned as I walked over towards him, right hand outstretched. I liked Ellis. I liked him a lot.
Ellis Jones was about three years older than me - maybe 26 at the time, tall, slim, good looking, a very vocal market trader with a prolific track record of taking very attractive women home, and being ejected forcefully from nightclubs for less than savoury behaviour. If Ellis was in attendance, a good night was guaranteed by all with him, not only because of his exuberant nature but because he could always be relied upon to procure above-average-quality drugs in below-average times.
Working as a flower trader on the local market, Ellis had the ability to use his height and voice to command attention in the noisiest environment and this had its benefits. No evening could ever be boring in his presence, although his over zealous nature could present complications in surroundings where the testosterone flowed as freely as the alcohol. Jealousy and resentment tended to grow him as a swarm of wasps would eventually flock around a sweet scent. His voice would always be recognisable over the humdrum of the local pub and his boisterous nature meant that he was less than invisible in most crowds.
It struck me that the reaction of the locals would be the same in the insular social capsule of any province. In proof it was not uncommon to regularly find myself exiting a bar or nightclub with haste following his extravagant and unsubtle behaviour, but hey, this was part of his allure and charm!
I stepped away from the worksurface.
Consumed by a crisp, dizzy clarity I staggered backwards. Rogue granules dropped from my nose like crumbs from a cake tin as the medicinal fragrance immediately overwhelmed my senses. The coarse unrefined energy provided by the coke instantly counteracted my natural fatigue, it's momentum instantaneously building into a vivid crescendo smashing me into hyper reality. It felt like I had suddenly been plugged into a power source too strong for my neural circuits. My brain went into overdrive as all at once it desperately sought to process the multitude of images, sounds and smells all suddenly fighting for supremacy. The slightest distant sound became all encompassing, intriguing and fascinating, whereas the obvious melted into irrelevance in an instant.
It felt as though my brain had been flossed with a cheese wire.
"Fuck El, This is mental!" I wheezed, my eyes rolling back behind my eyelids.
My immediate reaction was to grab for the can of beer I'd opened seconds before, and as I felt the condensation coated tin and slugged back it's cool contents in greedy gulps, I felt a confidence bordering on arrogance building inside.
"Fuckin right mate! Your nose fell off yet? " he said clearly amused at my reaction.
I exhaled hard, a cold sweat appearing in minute beads on my forehead confirming the quality of the gear.
"Whew, Jesus christ! Where the fuck did you get this from kid?" I replied, still slightly off balance as my tear ducts roared into overdrive spilling salty fluids down the side of my nose and into the edges of my mouth.
"Never you mind mate, and no tellin' Tommo either, there's only about half a G left - Unless you wanna give him the rest of yours....." he said grinning.
"No chance, I'm back in here in ten to totally destroy my insides" I replied.
Tommo, A.K.A. Andrew Thomas was a work colleague of mine, mature of mind(unlike the rest of us) but enormously funny and always guaranteed to encourage you to go a little further, but also the one of the first to decide that he'd had enough and that nothing would change his mind.
Being 30 I'd probably say that he drew from experience to define his limits, whereas we all still enjoyed losing control. Tommo had a rather chequered history, some of which he'd told me about, some of which I'd heard 'through the grapevine'. He had lost his driving license just before I met him, apparently falling out of the car drunk when pulled over by the police. He'd also narrowly escaped being caught drunk driving again when he lost control of his car, (although he never admitted he'd been drinking to us) when driving home from a Friday night out after work. We'd all had a rather dismal day in the office and decide to go to our local pub to wash away the toil of the week. I'd gone home early but Andrew had stayed behind with my colleagues and towards the end of the night, offered a lift home to Mark, the office prick.
Somehow he'd driven too fast in a country lane which he drove every day and clipped the kerb, flipping his Vauxhall (which was only a few weeks old) twice and breaking two of Mark's ribs. Andrew didn't get off that lightly either, as he also suffered painful injuries to his chest, and, more seriously, a severely bruised ego. On arrival at the hospital, the local constabulary asked to take breath samples but Andrew refused on the basis that he could barely breathe and potentially had broken bones, but the policeman involved instantly took this as a refusal to co-operate and filed for charges. In his extraordinarily fluky manner, Tommo was eventually found 'Not Guilty' because of a technicality. I also remember rumours that he'd had a small heart attack in his local video store after a particularly lengthy session of class 'a' consumption, although this also was denied vehemently........
I'd say that Andrew was my closest friend amongst the lot of us and I had a lot of respect for him. I was glad he was coming along, because as much as I loved the other guys, he was the one I felt most comfortable with.....
Regaining some composure I walked back to the worktop, and having licked the tip of my right index finger I swept the remaining powder up, rubbing it around my teeth. I could already feel the charlie numbing my throat where I'd sniffed too hard and it had escaped down the back of my nasal passage. I was beginning to lose all sensation there, the blissful swollen feeling taking over. All I wanted was the best bit of all - the totally numb palette and gums. Most of my friends hated that side effect when they did coke, a similar feeling to leaving the dentist with a stroke-like lack of control on one side of your face, but it was the cherry on top of the cake for me.
"When are the rest of 'em gettin' here" I asked.
"Oh, next ten minutes or so they said, but they're probably all sniffing at the talent in the 'Drome so I'll put money on it that they'll be late." He said.
"Oh, ok, cool, we've got ages yet anyway." I absently returned, still reeling.
Ellis turned around and made for the lounge and I duly followed, my mouth quickly becoming devoid of any feeling at all. As we approached, the crisp sounds of the stereo became louder and I sparked up a cigarette, bemused at the blubbery feeling of my lips as they held the filter. As we entered I started for the nearest seat, the legs I'd spotted earlier giving way to a body, then a face - a face I recognised but couldn't place.
"Alright, I'm 'arry, we've met before ain't we?" I said, extending my hand.
A pair of bleary, bloodshot eyes feigned recognition back. "Yeah, o fink so, I'm Pe'a " said the wide mouth below them, as it exhaled a large lungful of scented smoke.
**********there's more but you get the general idea*********
User Reviews
Submitted by Trout (user info) at 2004-03-19 09:01:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Mostly good.
Liked some bits disliked others.
Keep going though.
Submitted by I_Have_a_Kristen_Fetish (user info) at 2004-03-18 12:24:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Better than that other post of yours.
Submitted by potatomanjack (user info) at 2004-03-18 12:00:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Good stuff. I say keep going.
Submitted by deano (user info) at 2004-03-18 09:25:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks Binka - it's complicated but I'll see what ppl think then maybe post more.....
Submitted by Binka (user info) at 2004-03-18 08:38:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I want more, you've never written before? It was brilliant, at first I was impressed by the descriptiveness, I read and tried to be critical but I was lost...you should definitely write more, and publish it...I want to know what happened, what happens...
Submitted by Method (user info) at 2004-03-18 07:51:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
seems good, but...
WTF IM NOT READING ALL THAT?!?!?!?
Submitted by deano (user info) at 2004-03-18 07:43:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Oh, and please don't email me - full inbox and all that....cheeyaz!