Sparrow's Short Stories, And Alliteration Also Options

[Sparrowsmith]

Hey guys, your friendly neighborhood Sparrowsmith here. For a while now I have toyed with the idea of posting some literature for you amusements, but I have the insufferable fate of not being able to finish anything I write.
THE SHAME!

Then recently I came to the conclusion, that stories don't always need fulfilling endings, so long as they're funny.
Or try to be funny. So anyway, here for your criticism (because frankly I'm tired of criticizing my own work) a little under 1000 word story which doesn't really go anywhere or do anything, but is fun to read.

[Show/Hide] The morning of an unimaginative owner of a cat named 'Cat

Ben’s eyes flickered open drearily into the light. The black beads of his pupils shrieked and retreated into the milky depths of his eyes. A hand lazily slapped John’s face and rubbed his eyes. He groaned miserably. It was a Monday, and he hated Mondays. Actually it was a Tuesday, but it felt like a Monday, and that’s what mattered. Jack’s hands flung the covers to his feat, where he proceeded to kick them away like the tide of morning light. He stretched his arms into the air and thrust himself up off of his bed, which relaxed without the weight off a fairly hefty teenager sprawled across it.
Alex - who was by this point wondering why he was even getting up - proceeded to open up a clean white wardrobe, which had a dirty black interior. He immediately regretted opening it. Andrew then took a bundle of clothes off the bottom apathetically, and then chuckled about how the word apathy sounds. He always thought it sounded like a middle class kid with a posh name. Don’t listen to what he thinks though, he thinks his greasy black hair looks good, and he’s clearly wrong. After lazily getting dressed, which ironically first required him to get undressed, something which I didn’t want to describe, Joe proceeded to scratch his nose. This took him considerable time, because where most people have a nose James has an empty space. After fumbling around his face to find his nose, arguably the smallest nose in existence which he deserves a medal for scratching without losing his sanity, he went to the bathroom to wash up, which is a nice way of saying ‘emptied his bladder’.
Once finished he proceeded to the kitchen, which was yet another arduous task, because he had to fall repeatedly down two flights of very small cliffs. Luckily, Charlie was increasingly good at this so far in his life, and managed to pound down the steps without harm. At this moment Danny realised that he hadn’t picked up his phone, which people usually do at two in the afternoon because otherwise they’ll never know what kind of crazy shindigs their bestest of pals may have invited them to. Luckily he needn’t worry about that, because Marcus had no friends, in fact, no one ever remembered his name, not even his pet cat, ‘cat’, who frequently called Louis ‘Miaow’ which was miles off, so usually people would just guess his name and call him 'Norman' or something like that. It should also be noted at this point that Moe is highly unimaginative, as he named his cat, Cat, ‘cat’.
Frankly, just between you and me, I despise George. He’s one of the most disgusting people I know. Especially when he eats his cereal and it just falls all over the place like bombs in a warzone. Incidentally, he was eating cereal now, and the kitchen had become wheat and milk homage to D day – which was disgusting. Can you imagine it? It’s disgusting isn’t it? I told you. However, Reece was blissfully unaware that his nauseous chewing was sickening readers everywhere, especially those with good imaginations. Unfortunately, for us, he was also blissfully unaware that no one liked him.

So I told him, which wasn’t a good idea. Now he’s underneath a gravestone that reads:
“R.I.P unimaginative owner of a cat named Cat.”
And that’s all I have to say about Terry, now if you continue reading I’m sure we can find a story worth reading around here somewhere...

[Show/Hide] Thursday Mornings

It was one of those Thursday mornings, you know the ones. You wake up, and you just know that something somewhere is going to fuck up your day. This happens to everyone, and is a perfectly natural thing, and Whit was well aware of this as he clambered out of bed.
He looked around drearily and searched for something that was amiss. His eyes darted from the plain white walls, plastered with photos of various memories, over to the one wall with hideous wall paper which his older sibling wouldn’t let him remove. The two curtains, one by the end of the bed and the other to the side, remained closed and untouched. His eyes then darted to the expanse of brown carpet floor beneath him and the white wooden door. It was filthy and cluttered with homework, clothes, and empty boxes – much like how an average teenager’s room is cluttered with homework, clothes, and empty boxes. With all this in mind, it was still exactly as he had left it the night before.
He picked himself up off of the bed and pulled his wavy brown hair from his forehead and drew it back along his head. It was greasy enough to stay, which meant he needed to shower. He stepped forwards and then suddenly leapt backwards. He brought his left knee up to his chin and held it there, yelping in pain like an injured dog. He collapsed onto the bed and inspected his foot. The tiniest little splinter of wood had nestled itself into his big toe. He removed it and grunted to himself, “Thursday mornings.” He groaned and proceeded to walk to the door.
He grabbed a red towel with white striped from the filthy floor and checked it, it was clean enough. He flung it over his shoulder as if he was heading to the beach, but unlike someone at the beach he leant over and turned the door handle down, which pushed the door forward. He had now entered an entirely new, small, corridor, one with four doors. There was the one he had just come from and the adjacent one he was heading to. The remaining doors, to his left and right, led to the kitchen and a locked cupboard respectively, and he had no intention of going to either just yet. He was stepping into the bathroom when it happened. A small rumbling interrupted his journey and led him retreating back through his steps to the door to the kitchen.
The kitchen was attached to the lounge and had a clear view of the garden out of its side windows. Whit cautiously moved through the doorway, checking for any family that might catch him in his underwear. It was clear. He walked out onto the plain white floor and approached the light wooden table. That feeling he had earlier had returned. Thursday was about to screw him over. He darted to his right and opened up and ordinary looking cupboard, which revealed a fridge. He snatched the milk, flung off the lid – sending it skipping down the table; smelt its contents and frowned. Usually you frown when the milk is bad, but Whit smiled because the milk was good, which meant that Thursday was planning something far more evil.
He took out the milk regardless, then opened the neighbouring cupboard and pulled out a fairly ordinary looking bowl. He placed both of the items on the table and closed the two cupboards. He turned in the opposite direction to the cupboards and instead found some drawers on the other end of the kitchen. He opened it up and felt inside. His face reflected the three thoughts which reflected the three things that happened.
At first, his hand fell into nothingness, and his face struck a shocking grim chord of panic. Then he moved his hand to the right and found the box, and his face loosened into a calmed sigh. Finally a thought occurred that the box might be empty, and he panicked again. Then he lifted the box and found it to be partly full, so he returned to smile.
He brought the box up to him and then placed it on the table. Cornflakes, he thought to himself eagerly. He picked up the box and poured the remaining contents into the bowl, followed by pouring in the milk. He picked up the now-empty box and paced around the table to the large plastic bin. He dropped the box inside and gave a passing glance to the microwave. He’d slept in, it was nearly midday. If Thursday morning was going to punch him it only had a moment to do it, he was safe. He leant over the table to the small metal stand the spoons were kept and outstretched his arm. He opened his hand, and then closed it. Then he pondered for a moment, then opened his hand and closed it again. Eventually he brought back his hand in horror and reeled at the shear impact of the moment.
No spoon.
He flailed frantically like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck speeding out of control because the driver fell asleep at the wheel after running an 18-hour shift on nothing but coffee and power bars. He stumbled back and leant against the sink; he turned in hesitation and found there was no spoon there either. In desperation, Whit now attempted looking in the dishwasher. He opened it, but instead of being greeted by steam he was greeted by a stale smell. “Thursday mornings.” He grunted to himself angrily. He snatched a dirty spoon from the dishwasher and proceeded to clean it in the sink himself. He flipped the tap and settled for a thorough rinse. Afterwards he dried it off, sat down by his cereal and took a spoonful of soggy cornflakes to the face.
The cereal was soggy, and it was still morning, and Whit was still hungry, and still needed a shower. Thursday was indeed conspiring in excellent evil today. He scrambled for the box to see if he could salvage another bowl, then remembered it was empty and binned. At this point he almost cried. He’d had enough. He threw away the mess that was once a competent breakfast and resisted the urge to crawl back into bed. He instead proceeded to have the shower he’d originally planned.
It was only half way through lathering his hear that he realized, “Shit! I left the milk out.” Which he immediately followed with a tired grunt, “Thursday mornings.”

So if you enjoyed that, give me some criticisms and I'll post some more...

UPDATE - READ THESE:

[Show/Hide] The other David

The other David
The door knocked for a third time. Eight neat, little raps echoed from the wood to my ears. Standing on the cold tiles of my bathroom floor, half dressed and half shaven, I craned my head around the open frame of the bathroom and into my bedroom. My eyes hovered and bounced along the plain white wall until they reached the perfectly defined digital clock. It was only six, she wasn't meant to be coming until seven. A fourth knock and I gave up my denial and marched for the door. I stormed out of the bathroom, through my bedroom, out into the lounge of my two bedroom apartment and finally arrived at my gloomy, grey door. Buttoning up my chequered shirt and quickly checking myself in the mirror adjacent to me, I opened the door.

“David?” An astonished and familiar voice called out, “But that's not right. Mark said it was David Thirsk that lives here.” Her eerily enticing blue eyes scanned over me and lit up with what I could only guess was fear. “Oh god! I haven't gotten you're name wrong, have I?” she asked innocently enough.

“No. Me and David are flat mates. You'd be surprised how often shit like this happens when you have two David's under one roof.” I explained as precisely as I could. I'd considered moving out plenty of times to avoid all this carry on, but all David wanted was company. He made enough off his odd jobs to pay most of the rent, but he needed human interaction- and the confusing conversations my presence caused would often spur his writing prowess and within a weekend a two minute chat could evolve into a diverse novel.

“So, David Thirsk does live here? Blimey, how do you tell the difference?” She asked the obvious questions, and I forgave her out of sympathy. I was still trying to piece together who she was, it seemed so obvious. It wasn't that I couldn't remember, it was that I didn't want to. My eyes slowly dripped down from her straight blonde hair with styled flicks at the end, ending just after her ears, down past her half open mouth, and past her chequered dress – and that was what brought it back.

“What are you doing here, Rose?” I asked as calmly as I could muster, but the bitterness was all too obvious. Seven years earlier we had been as close to an item as you could possibly call two people, we even wore matching outfits to special occasions, and it seemed we had both kept our current attires even after we went our separate ways. I could see that she'd noticed this as well. I couldn't match her confident glow or lack of empathy, but I could certainly play the wounded puppy after seven years – regardless of how far from the truth it may be.

“Mark, my agent, he said that he's been looking into a Television Drama that's looking for a lead female role. He mentioned the writer and I remembered him from college, I thought I'd pop by and say hi before auditioning.”

“You mean butter him up? Why not just let him choose on the day?”

“Oh don't be so cynical! Is it wrong for me to catch up on old friends?”

“It is when they live in my apartment and only bother to drop by once their friend, and I say that as loosely as possible, gets a break. You're such a leech.”

“And you're a prick, David, now how about letting me in? I'm here to see Thirsk, but if you're still sore about us then maybe we need to have a talk.” This proposition was music to my ears. I backed from the door and swung it open, letting it catch against the wall where it stayed.

“Make yourself at home.” I joked in a less than welcoming tone. Nonetheless, she proceeded to stroll through the lounge and onto one of the two black leather couches, a two part set. She kicked off her heels and placed them next to the fuchsia rug almost methodically. I'd forgotten the little things she did like that. I traced her footsteps back and sat on the opposite couch, a glass coffee table gleaming between us. To my left, the mirror I looked in before, capturing us both dynamically, like a silver screen moment frozen to my wall. My dark, casual jeans and smart shirt; Combed hair, no socks and just a little bit too much stubble on one side of my face. Omit the small details and it was like looking straight into the past: The happy couple reunited.

“So how've you been, David?” she asked nervously, a composure so thin you could break it with glass.

“Do you really care or did the silence become too suffocating?” My eyes met hers. She always said it was impossible to lie to eyes as dark as mine.

“Can't you just answer a question? Jesus, this is why we stopped talking!”

“I just think we can do without all the formalities. You had no intention of contacting me, or I you, for any reason whatsoever ever. The only reason this is happening, is because I live with some writer who's ass you wanna kiss!” My arms swung through the air, pointing and emphasizing my points. She stood up in retaliation.

“I was just trying to make the best of a bad situation, but no, you're still the most arrogant bastard I've ever had the misfortune of meeting! How the hell do you even know Thirsk?”

“I know a lot of people! Why do you suddenly take an interest in my life now? You had three years to learn a single thing about me, and you can't even remember my fucking lyricist? We met at one of my gigs, he was there, how can you not remember that? Did none of it mean anything to you?” I'd snapped, but not how I intended. A cold silence spilt out over us as she sat back down. My arms fell into my lap and closed around me, she leaned forward with that caring frown I'd only seen twice before.

“Why didn't you tell me it hurt you this bad?” She asked as if she didn't know, and for a moment I thought that maybe she really didn't.

“Why don't you tell the moon it causes the tide?” I answered rhetorically, “I thought it was obvious, and even still, you wouldn't understand.” I could feel a tension lifted. Like the atmosphere that could once have been cut could now only be spread at best.

“Acting...” she began, but her voice trailed off, “Acting is a competitive business. I did what I had to do, that's how these things are. It's how they've always been.”
My eyes snapped back and met hers. I arched my brows and leant in.

“You think that's what this is about? God no. I was pissed off, sure, but we had one little fight and you never made an effort again. It's like that's where it ended with you.”

“Well why didn't you ever try anything?”

“Because I knew, I know what you like. I know your tastes, your personality, your friends, but you never learnt mine. Every time you did anything, I knew why, but when I did something you'd always have me wrong. It's like talking to a stranger and after three years you're meant to make an effort. You are.” She struggled to maintain eye contact, glancing away just long enough for me to breathe a sigh of empty victory.

“We were good, weren't we? Sometimes at least, right?” She asked, half to me and half to the mirror. I caught her hand across the table and joined her in looking at the mock reflection, the moment that only romantics dream of occurring. That picture perfect moment. Only it wasn't.

“Yeah. We looked the part, but I don't ever think we wanted the same things, Rose.”

“What did you want, Dave?” her voice broke slightly as she spoke, her thumb stroking my knuckles. My eyes tried to close and my lips tensed. Part of me wished we could go back to fighting, but we were past that now. Such a small detail in life, the author of a television drama, but here we are – locked in this moment by a lyricist and author who crossed both our lives twice, and was the same man each time: The other David.

“I wanted you, but you just wanted someone. I think we can both face that, honestly. When we met, I said we could have been any two people in the world, well even when we left that was still half true. I loved you, but you just wanted someone to love, and that's fine. That's good enough for it to look right, but it was never going to be enough itself. I'm sorry.” It was strange to hear myself say it, after all these years of resentment and there it was, laid out on a clear coffee table like a snake biting its own tail. Our hands released as she finished what I was thinking.

“Then why were you so mad at me? Unless, you weren't. Were you?” I could just muster to shake my head in agreement.

“I can't blame you if I want something you don't. Didn't. I can't blame you if I wanted something you didn't.” I had to hang my head and look away. For such an inconsiderate person, Rose had a way of listening without judging. I wish I had something to hate in her then.

“Well you can't blame yourself either. We're all just people, David, and we hurt each other, but there isn't any way around that. In all the time I've known you, you've had this personal war on society because it's so self destructive, but that's just what people are. We hurt ourselves more than anyone else can ever hurt us. We hurt ourselves by loving those who hurt us most, that's just a risk we take.” her words were oddly profound, I was used to the wild mannered actress – I never imagined her to play therapist.

“You've changed. You never said anything half that insightful when we were together.” I laughed through rising tears, unsure of why the moment has such an impact on me, but I welcomed it.

“I've spent the past seven years practising.”

“In case you ran into me again?”

“In case it got me a job, don't flatter yourself, David, you're special – but my life never revolved around you.” we laughed, it was almost like old times.

“You never thought of anything you wanted to say to me?” I asked, my curiosity and hopefulness as obvious as it ever was.

“I’m not great with words, I usually just work with what comes to me. David’s the writer. Speaking of which, I have to ask, just where is David?” the question weighed on my mind heavily for a moment.

“That's a good question. He said he was popping out, but that he would have a guest around later, a lady-friend for me. Said she was gonna swing by at seven, said I should clean myself up.”A strange thought ran through my mind, and I could see it racing through Rose's as well.

“You think he set this up?”

“No, that's impossible. He's a little bit of a genius when he wants, but there's no way he knew you would show up unannounced.” I couldn't deny how well it worked out though, how easily he could of tipped off Mark and played us for inspiration, “He's good, but he's not that good.” I tried to convince myself again, “Not that good.”

William's City:

[Show/Hide] Chapter 1 - The Curb

I stood still over the smooth concrete curb in front of me; my leather shoes just pointing out over them, begging to take the next step. The wind seemed to push me both forwards and back; for a moment I toyed with the idea that the curb wasn’t an inch tall but actually a colossal chasm, carefully designed, into which I might accidentally fall. The idea was unrealistic, but not entirely impossible; I dipped my toe over the side just to be sure... It was safe.
I admired the sleek, black tarmac road as I strolled across it. My previous morbid thoughts of carefully engineered cliffs faded and dissolved into the morning air and I truly felt like it was safe. Away to my right, I could hear the muffled purring of the traffic try to coerce the lights into changing; I had more pressing issues to attend to, on the other side of the road. The early sun, now gleaming behind me from above the skyline, illuminated the steps in front of me with welcoming warmth. I hopped up off of the step and began to climb up them.
And why had the chicken crossed the road? Big day at the office, that’s why. I skipped to the door and was ushered in by a pretty, young woman wearing a bright fuchsia and cobalt dress, the effect of which was hospitable. She held the door as I passed and I smiled politely as if to say ‘thanks for holding the door’. She smiled back, but it was more of an ‘I get paid minimum wage to hold a door and smile at goofy businessmen in leather shoes’. I was a little insulted and gave her a more piercing gaze. Lucky for both of us, she never noticed. Then I kept walking, the roaring hubbub of the city dying away behind me.
I marched up the steps two, no! Three, steps at a time. To each plucky stranger, I tipped my hat and greeted a, 'How-d’ya do?' while to each old friend I charmed a witty one liner. Finally I burst through the wide and rich doors of my workplace and began my ascent to the head honcho. Glances of interest flickered from my co-workers to me, while I arrived at the mostly-glass door, I rapped my knuckled three times across it then grabbed the handle, turned, and stepped inside.
The room was filled with thick smoke and crushed dreams. The putrid scent of success and brutality overwhelmed me to stay and go at once. I raised my foot onto the smooth stone step that separated Mr.Chilcott’s office and the rest of the floor - Chilcott was of the firm belief that if he was more important then he should also be higher. I closed the door behind me. A voice beckoned from behind the curtain of smoke.
“Morning, Bill. Please, take a seat.” Arthur Chilcott boomed through the fog.
I scoured the grey area in front of me and managed to feel the steel frame of a cheap, metal chair. I pulled it out and sat down with a worried creek.
“Now, Bill,” The voice continued to blare, “I can call you Bill, right?”
“No one ever has before, sir.” I replied solemnly
“Ok then, Bill.” He disconcertingly replied, “As you may know, a lot of claims have been made lately that have cost the company dearly.”
“Indeed I have heard.” I replied. Current affairs were something I kept myself ahead of.
“Then you should also know who designed our current insurance system.” He assumed, and rightly so. It was me who instated the current insurance system.
“That would be me, and I’ll have you know I’m working around the clock to improve it and” He interrupted me,
“It’s already done. We’ve hired a new ‘hot shot’ just out of university.”
“I don’t understand” I replied. I didn’t.
“We’ve hired a new actuary, one who doesn’t cost us money.”
“I don’t understand” I replied again. I still didn’t. I then caught a glance of myself in the mirror; I looked like a madman. I looked like a goofy businessman, about to be fired.
“You’re fired.”
The words came from my mouth and the breath had left my body and the vibrations formed the simple sentence:
“I understand.”
And I did understand. I could understand that I was being replaced. I could understand that the company had lost money and I was the prime suspect. I could even understand why I was being replaced; I could not understand how the grey of this colourless room had somehow sucked the life from my being and left me a dirty white mess.
I stood up without question or purpose and tried to catch another glimpse of myself, and tell me that everything would be ok. The smoke blocked my view. Gradually I fumbled my way back to the door and let it swing open. The light struck me and the smoke circled me and nothing felt right at all. The eyes of the office flared and taunted my misfortune and I was powerless to stop them. My eyes fell to the floor and down to the smooth step between me and the office below. I examined the patterns of the carpet and imagined myself falling down and down into them; never to return. My shoes were just stepping out over the edge, reluctant to take that next step. The idea was unrealistic, but not entirely impossible; I dipped my toe over the side just to be sure... It wasn’t safe at all.
I collapsed head first into an illusion that took mere moments to fade into meaningless memories, as the suffocating black of reality began to sink in. I didn’t have time to register each moment; the whole thing felt like it would last forever. There was no past or future, just a stretched out present that continuously erased itself from existence. Then, I was outside. I couldn’t remember when it happened, but the moment had ended. The sun had dived behind the clouds and let watery bullets fall from the sky. I cast another glance at the woman holding the door. It took all of my human decency not to grab her and throw her under a bus.
The grey of the room had not just sucked the life from my body, but continued to eat the emotion from the world; now it was just shades of grey. Nothing felt definite or defined. Everything changed and blurred into the next nothing; peeled back to reveal bitter holes and self-loathing flaws. The death of each moment to make the next became pungent, disturbing, hollow; poignant. It was like poetry writing itself; its own criticisms. I could only spin in this world hidden under the skin of the last and fray.
It seemed to expand. It moved apart like old friends, loved ones, and jobs. Each loathsome taxi, each backstabbing pedestrian, each conniving door-woman with a smile so fake it makes spray on tan look good; all of them drifted away from one another and into isolation. In the heart of this isolation was me, standing with my feet over the smooth curb and wanting so much to fall into the cracks of the tarmac. Never to be seen again.
I dipped my toe over the side...

[Show/Hide] Chapter 2 - William's City

From the second I walked out of that door, my pulse had stopped and began spinning backwards vigorously. There was a cold passion in everything I scrutinized and came to loath. I became young again. My ideals flittered back to the vindication, absolution and, on a frightening note, terror: Terror and all its applications.
It became every dream and engulfed every thought. It was the crude idea, the wanted image, of Arthur Chilcott screaming to my revenge.

What was worse than the bleeding ideals of my inner child was the conflict it pursued in biting its own tail. Surely there is no lawful or physical way to inflict the same damage. Inflicting a far greater or far more modest vengeance would be a walk in the park, but to entice an equal and opposite reaction would be impossible, surely?

My mind danced, skipped and slipped away from crude beatings and blood baths and onto a more cunning tight rope of thought: Could I get Chilcott fired?
There were several indescribably hard ways I could ruin the company, but that is not the vengeance I thirsted for. I had to make the man above Chilcott cut him loose. The clever enterprise of philosophers had already perfectly written how it would look.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

I became engrossed in my sinister plotting; unable to leave my flat. I could soon spend seconds to hours just staring absently at the walls. Secretly I’d plead for them to crumble open and gift me the answers that I begged for. When they failed to answer my calls, I wrote on them. I wrote letters, words, and sentences. I wrote them to inspire and to sicken the scum that would later live within the walls that is my borrowed home.
William’s last will and testament: “Do what you will, I won’t know the difference.”

Suddenly I knew it had become an obsession. More than a carnal desire, it developed into a necessity of life. My head throbbed with change; Metamorphosis. The cynical cylinders in my skull found targets and fired. Synapses sparked synapses and reopened areas of my mind closed since youth. My boiling blood fell to my head now, its backwards current ripping apart my older and more juvenile understanding of society.

Some days I would lock myself up and whisper prayers to gods I didn’t believe in, other days I would shout them until neighbours beat on my door. I became aware that my grief had bloomed into something far more twisted and beautiful than intended; like some backwards flower, it grew with each moment I deprived myself of sunlight, it thirsted for thirst. It lived off of nothing.

It’s a strange sensation when the mysteries and depressants of the universe begin to make sense to you. I felt like a child in a crib. When the insecurities of the world knew my place, they left to hide. Now that I don’t know where I am, and am in turn hidden, they look for me. I see them all the time now, hiding plainly behind the thin, fractured veils of order. I remember seeing them too. I’d see them all of the time; I just didn’t accept it before.

Finally it occurred to me. It occurred that not everything is governed by strict rules or choice: Sometimes events are undetermined, governed by some random chance to the universe, an unknown, moving force that acts without reason or consciousness; this force had accidentally picked me out of the billions and dropped me into darkness.
Now I have to make it choose ChilCott.
The force is chance, and the only problem is: How?

I ripped and tore through my previous ‘Hollywood’ plans and opened up a dusty desk that inhabited a corner of my room. I fumbled around inside its carcase until I felt two perfectly made dice. I held them above my head, and then dropped them onto the desk. Surely there was some method in the madness: A way to make the dice be whatever I wanted them to be, a way to control chance.
Shouting seven in my head, the dice rolled two neat little dots: So much for that theory.

I settled with myself that sooner or later my vengeance would be inevitable, and that calling it a night couldn’t hurt. I was right. The next morning I woke up with a new testament in my mind. While my morbid peelings of reality had been a powerful storm, it seemed to pass. A small glimmer of light persevered into the dark recesses of my abode and for the first time in days, if not weeks, I felt the slightest smudge of an emotion close to happiness.
However, life is a cruel mistress, and – regardless of any protest I could ever give – that was when she answered my prayers.

You pray to enough gods, and one of them might just listen, but this has little to do with god.

[Show/Hide] Chapter 3 - The Gift

I emerged. I emerged from my sanctuary and observatory to the outside world, my filthy mirror of an apartment laying in devastation behind me. I had not recovered, of that much I knew, but my malnourished wound of a body demanded treatment – and so I delivered it. I threw my hands out to the door frame and pulled myself through ceremoniously, landing in the long beige corridor. I shut my door with an absent mind and chuckled as I read a note that had been pinned there:
‘Warning: Resident Madman’
I let it stay; after all, I still had my honesty.

My neck craned towards the elevator door at the end of the hall. I could take the stairs, but the thought of sinking to oblivion seemed more likely than ever. Fixated on the door, I almost felt a choice supposed to me. A sort of mirage in which one door opens revealing a short woman with black hair, and then another door which stays closed. I scrutinized the meaning of such an apparition before wiping my sleep-deprived eyes, and staggering onwards towards the elevator doors.

The mirage did not leave. The more attention I paid to it, the more real it seemed to become. My eyes drifted obsessively to the open door, the primal desire of all people for the elevator door to open as soon as possible. The image became more and more defined, more real than reality itself, which seemed to bend to make room for this new fantastic picture.
A faint bell rings. The elevator door opens. A short woman with black hair examines the floor then steps out. After a few moments she walks back into the elevator and looks at me nervously,
“Accidently pressed floor three,” She says nervously, “Are you going down?”
I nodded and stepped inside, unsure whether what had just happened was a miracle or a final sign of insanity. Only one of many conclusions made sense – that I had made her press floor three, but that’s impossible, isn’t it?

My mind raced through the small three story drop and I rushed out as soon as the doors opened. Brushing past the nervous woman, I turned to her. Several mirages began to sprout and bloom in an unimaginable dimension. Then I understood. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she could do, and I could see every one of them. I turned back to the short hallway leading out onto the street; an explosion met my eyes. The universe I had loathed began to reveal its plans to me – and it had chosen me to make the final and fatal decisions.
I had become a God.

This post has been edited by Sparrowsmith: Dec 16 2010, 03:45 PM

[literarygoth]

Lol

At first, I was like "wtf, I'm lost"
However it did make for an interesting read, I'd like to see more of what you have.

[Sparrowsmith]

That's my curse. I can make a readable story but I can't finish it or take it seriously, eventually I'm going to go off on a tangent and then kill the characters off methodically... Hopefully I'll be able to fix this in time and learn to write longer stories, so I'm welcoming criticisms.
Might post another short tonight or tomorrow, depending on what people say.

[literarygoth]

More description would make it easier to follow. Give the reader an idea of the surroundings the character/s are in rather than just focusing on their thoughts. When it comes to short stories I myself don't bother with the whole plot outlining because I know it's not going to be very long. Instead I just start writing and let it go until I completely run out of ideas. Once that happens I go back over the whole thing, re-read and add and subtract where I feel is needed, and -generally- when I get to where I stopped, I have some fresh ideas and can finish.

Hmmm speaking of which I have a short story I haven't completed yet >_>
Hope my ideas can help - keep writing

[Sparrowsmith]

your absolutely right about the description thing, I realized this just after I posted.
I have another one but it jumps straight into it, so I'm gonna touch it up before posting. Thanks for the advice

[Sparrowsmith]

I have made... Another story!

[Show/Hide] Thursday Mornings

It was one of those Thursday mornings, you know the ones. You wake up, and you just know that something somewhere is going to fuck up your day. This happens to everyone, and is a perfectly natural thing, and Whit was well aware of this as he clambered out of bed.
He looked around drearily and searched for something that was amiss. His eyes darted from the plain white walls, plastered with photos of various memories, over to the one wall with hideous wall paper which his older sibling wouldn’t let him remove. The two curtains, one by the end of the bed and the other to the side, remained closed and untouched. His eyes then darted to the expanse of brown carpet floor beneath him and the white wooden door. It was filthy and cluttered with homework, clothes, and empty boxes – much like how an average teenager’s room is cluttered with homework, clothes, and empty boxes. With all this in mind, it was still exactly as he had left it the night before.
He picked himself up off of the bed and pulled his wavy brown hair from his forehead and drew it back along his head. It was greasy enough to stay, which meant he needed to shower. He stepped forwards and then suddenly leapt backwards. He brought his left knee up to his chin and held it there, yelping in pain like an injured dog. He collapsed onto the bed and inspected his foot. The tiniest little splinter of wood had nestled itself into his big toe. He removed it and grunted to himself, “Thursday mornings.” He groaned and proceeded to walk to the door.
He grabbed a red towel with white striped from the filthy floor and checked it, it was clean enough. He flung it over his shoulder as if he was heading to the beach, but unlike someone at the beach he leant over and turned the door handle down, which pushed the door forward. He had now entered an entirely new, small, corridor, one with four doors. There was the one he had just come from and the adjacent one he was heading to. The remaining doors, to his left and right, led to the kitchen and a locked cupboard respectively, and he had no intention of going to either just yet. He was stepping into the bathroom when it happened. A small rumbling interrupted his journey and led him retreating back through his steps to the door to the kitchen.
The kitchen was attached to the lounge and had a clear view of the garden out of its side windows. Whit cautiously moved through the doorway, checking for any family that might catch him in his underwear. It was clear. He walked out onto the plain white floor and approached the light wooden table. That feeling he had earlier had returned. Thursday was about to screw him over. He darted to his right and opened up and ordinary looking cupboard, which revealed a fridge. He snatched the milk, flung off the lid – sending it skipping down the table; smelt its contents and frowned. Usually you frown when the milk is bad, but Whit smiled because the milk was good, which meant that Thursday was planning something far more evil.
He took out the milk regardless, then opened the neighbouring cupboard and pulled out a fairly ordinary looking bowl. He placed both of the items on the table and closed the two cupboards. He turned in the opposite direction to the cupboards and instead found some drawers on the other end of the kitchen. He opened it up and felt inside. His face reflected the three thoughts which reflected the three things that happened.
At first, his hand fell into nothingness, and his face struck a shocking grim chord of panic. Then he moved his hand to the right and found the box, and his face loosened into a calmed sigh. Finally a thought occurred that the box might be empty, and he panicked again. Then he lifted the box and found it to be partly full, so he returned to smile.
He brought the box up to him and then placed it on the table. Cornflakes, he thought to himself eagerly. He picked up the box and poured the remaining contents into the bowl, followed by pouring in the milk. He picked up the now-empty box and paced around the table to the large plastic bin. He dropped the box inside and gave a passing glance to the microwave. He’d slept in, it was nearly midday. If Thursday morning was going to punch him it only had a moment to do it, he was safe. He leant over the table to the small metal stand the spoons were kept and outstretched his arm. He opened his hand, and then closed it. Then he pondered for a moment, then opened his hand and closed it again. Eventually he brought back his hand in horror and reeled at the shear impact of the moment.
No spoon.
He flailed frantically like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck speeding out of control because the driver fell asleep at the wheel after running an 18-hour shift on nothing but coffee and power bars. He stumbled back and leant against the sink; he turned in hesitation and found there was no spoon there either. In desperation, Whit now attempted looking in the dishwasher. He opened it, but instead of being greeted by steam he was greeted by a stale smell. “Thursday mornings.” He grunted to himself angrily. He snatched a dirty spoon from the dishwasher and proceeded to clean it in the sink himself. He flipped the tap and settled for a thorough rinse. Afterwards he dried it off, sat down by his cereal and took a spoonful of soggy cornflakes to the face.
The cereal was soggy, and it was still morning, and Whit was still hungry, and still needed a shower. Thursday was indeed conspiring in excellent evil today. He scrambled for the box to see if he could salvage another bowl, then remembered it was empty and binned. At this point he almost cried. He’d had enough. He threw away the mess that was once a competent breakfast and resisted the urge to crawl back into bed. He instead proceeded to have the shower he’d originally planned.
It was only half way through lathering his hear that he realized, “Shit! I left the milk out.” Which he immediately followed with a tired grunt, “Thursday mornings.”

it is yet again, short, pointless and overall I have no idea why I wrote it. However, I am equally proud of it as I am of any other horrific crime against nature that I have accidently conceived by placing words next to each other.

[an uncanny otter]

here are a few pointers you should try and focus on.

-watch out on your adverb usage. in the first couple of sentences of your first story alone, i can pick out 'drearily', 'lazily' and 'apathetically'. you use them quite liberally and you should definitely try and cut back. a lot of writers frown upon adverbs and they usually signify amateurish writing. that's not to say you should never use adverbs - it depends on what kind of style and voice you're going for - but overuse isn't good for your writing.

-remember when you're writing you should try and trim things that don't contribute to the story out. obviously this depends on what kind of story and whether it's based heavily off imagery and whatnot. usually it's a good idea to edit out anything that doesn't add to setting, character, or plot in a significant way. that way, your writing isn't bogged down too much with unnecessary detail.

-reread your stories out loud when you're done writing them. this really helps to point out glaring errors and will help you fix your pacing if it's off in some places.

you have some issues with sentence structure. the only thing you can really do for this is to read good literature and keep writing. for example,

And that’s all I have to say about Terry, now if you continue reading I’m sure we can find a story worth reading around here somewhere...

He grabbed a red towel with white striped from the filthy floor and checked it, it was clean enough

these sentences come off as a bit sloppy. just remember basic sentence structure, and when you're editing make sure to separate sentences as needed.

a few more things i noticed

Alex - who was by this point wondering why he was even getting up - proceeded to open up a clean white wardrobe, which had a dirty black interior. He immediately regretted opening it.

why does he regret opening it? this is very ambiguous.

After lazily getting dressed, which ironically first required him to get undressed

this isn't really ironic. i mean, technically it is, but you don't need to tell your reader it's ironic.

Once finished he proceeded to the kitchen, which was yet another arduous task, because he had to fall repeatedly down two flights of very small cliffs.

tthe part in bold sounds weird. there are better ways of telling the reader he climbed down stairs. it kinda sounds like you're trying different ways to explain the same thing, which isn't really necessary.

Frankly, just between you and me, I despise George. He’s one of the most disgusting people I know.

aah!! what are you doing? why the sudden switch from third-person perspective to first-person? it can be done but this was very jarring and shocks a reader right out of the story. it takes a lot of skill to be able to handle the transition smoothly.

anyway - keep writing! you'll only get better with practice. again, read some good literature, and just keep practicing. read, read, read - it's one of the best things to do for yourself. i could comment on more but this is probably more than enough to get you started. good luck!

[Sparrowsmith]

thank you very much, this a lot to get through so I'm gonna have to touch up a few things.
I should probably note that I'm trying to mimic to writing style of Douglas Adams and Lemony Snicket in the above. To make up for this I'll post a higher standard of writing for my next piece

I've thought a bit about how I use adverbs too much, but I struggle to think of any alternatives.

Right, I've taken this aboard and I'll get working on my next piece... I'm actually having a little writer's block on that part, I just can't think of a story And suddenly I just thought of one, but it might take a while to write...

[Trickster]

Personally, I disagree with all these shenanigans about using more desription; my psychotic intresting English teacher aways taught us that people tend to skim through long descriptions. For that reaso, I find it more interesting to slip little bits of description into the dialogue, sinc we were also taught that people paythe most attentin to dialogue and rarely, if ever, skip through it. Also, unlike that uncanny otter over there.... I like your use of adverbs

Although as yo said..... you need to start taking these serious xD
Although.... you'd probably make a great horror writer since you could freely kill of whoever you want, when you want, and throw happy endings out the window of your twisted imagination

[Sparrowsmith]

Ahh Trickster, glad to see you could make it
I kind of agree with the descriptive stuff... Both the 'people ignore it' and the 'do more of it'. To please both I'll say that I do skip over it sometimes but I've also been guilty of spending pages introducing a single scene. I have to say, dialogue is probably my favorite part of writing. I've written a lot of drama stuff in the past few years and I really could work into the dialogue. So I might post some simple duologues sometime

Oh, and I think my adverbs are lazy Though my greatest writing flaw is my inability to create similes and metaphors. I used to pull them from my finger tips like wool from a christmas sweater, leaving them all over to floor and clogging up the vacuum cleaner, but recently my mild writer's block has kept my symbolic powers at bay. Oh, yes, that sentence was very ironic. I wish I'd written it somewhere more classy now.

Yeah, I definitely agree with the serious part. Ending stories, or even getting into a developed plot, takes me pages and pages and I can never write more than 4 or 5 so I never get that far
As for horror, well, recently my dad sent me a draft of a horror script he's working on, so maybe I'll try and mimic the master on this one.

Ok, it's decided, my next short will be a horror. It will be fairly descriptive, symbolic and chock full of similes, metaphors, alliterations and all sorts of good stuff. I will also try to make it as SCARY and dialogue full as possible

[literarygoth]

They may seem pointless, but that's where a writer begins. Best way to test your hand with writing and develop your 'voice' and style, is by writing about things you know. In your case it would seem that writing about seemingly menial and tedious tasks (like getting up in the morning, getting ready for work/school/whatever) is what comes easiest to you. This isn't to say that you won't be able to write about other things in the future.

First of all, watch your grammar. I noticed, particularly in your second story that you abuse commas. Over use and misplacement of commas is very common, especially in developing writers. My best advice here, is to pick up various different types of books and short stories by various authors and pay close attention to how they form sentences. Second, I'll echo what uncanny otter said - read your work out loud to yourself and in front of a mirror. Yes, it sounds goofy, and it is. But it will give you a great idea of where pauses need to be placed. The semi colon - ; - is a powerful tool when used properly. It can provide an excellent break/pause, and really affect the impact of a statement.

Next, expand on your own personal database/arsenal of words. Be a nerd! xD
Explore the dictionary and advanced reading material - and I'm not just talking about books and stories here. Read articles, science magazines, literature websites etc etc. There's TONS of words out there (glory to the English language) that have multiple and dual meanings and can really spice up your descriptive pieces. A thesaurus is a major tool for a writer as well, especially with English having said multiple meanings for different words. It will lend an edge to your writing as well.

Furthermore; in your second story, well done with the description! It was much easier to 'follow' your character. However; you did stray into the territory of recycling words - ie reflect/reflection - and sometimes your details were a bit too vague, or for that matter overdone. Cripes. Yes I'm saying "be more specific, without being too specific". It's a hard and delicate balance to reach and I can pretty much guarantee that no writer/author no matter how long they've been writing has it completely mastered. We all get caught up in the moment, and there's some parts/scenes that we enjoy writing much more so we add way more detail, and sometimes more detail than is truly necessary.

Lastly, you've already taken a large step towards improving your writing. And that's by posting here and letting the community read your work and offer up constructive criticism. It really is the best way to learn.
Keep writing, and look forward to reading more

[Sparrowsmith]

here for your reading pleasure discomfort: Chapter 1 of a short story I plan to actually finish properly
Here's a first draft. I'm well aware that it is a first draft and I have full intention to touch it up, I just wanted some criticism while it's still flexible.
So here it is,

[Show/Hide] William's city

I stood still over the smooth concrete curb in front of me; my leather shoes just pointing out over them, begging to take the next step. For a moment I toyed with the idea that the curb wasn’t an inch tall but actually a colossal chasm, carefully designed, into which I might accidently fall. The idea was unrealistic, but not entirely impossible; I dipped my toe over the side just to be sure... It was safe.

I admired the sleek, black tarmac road as I strolled across it. My previous morbid thoughts of carefully engineered cliffs faded and dissolved into the morning air and I truly felt like it was safe. Away to my right I could hear the purring of the traffic trying to intimidate the lights into changing; I had more pressing issues to attend to, on the other side of the road. The sun, now gleaming behind me from above the skyline, illuminated the steps in front of me with welcoming warmth. I hopped up off of the step and began to climb up them.

And why had the chicken crossed the road? Big day at the office, that’s why. I skipped to the door and was ushered in by a pretty, young woman. She held the door as I passed and I smiled politely as if to say ‘thanks for holding the door’. She smiled back, but it was more of an ‘I get paid minimum wage to hold a door and smile at goofy businessmen in leather shoes’. I was a little insulted and gave her a more piercing gaze. Then I kept walking.

I marched up the steps two, no! Three, steps at a time. To each plucky stranger, I tipped my hat and greeted a, “How-d’ya do?” while to each old friend I charmed a witty one liner. Finally I burst through the wide and rich doors of my workplace and began my ascent to the head honcho. Arriving at the mostly-glass door, I rapped my knuckled three times across it then grabbed the handle, turned, and stepped inside.

The room was filled with thick smoke and crushed dreams. I raised my foot onto the smooth stone step that separated Mr.Chilcott’s office and the rest of the floor - Chilcott was of the firm belief that if he was more important then he should also be higher. A voice beckoned to me through the smoke.
“Morning, Bill. Please, take a seat.” Arthur Chilcott boomed through the fog.

I scoured the area in front of me and managed to feel the steel frame of a cheap, metal chair. I pulled it out and sat down with a creek.
“Now, Bill,” The voice continued, “I can call you Bill, right?”
“No one ever has before, sir.” I replied solemnly
“Ok then, Bill.” He disconcertingly replied, “As you may know, a lot of claims have been made lately that have cost the company dearly.”
“Indeed I have heard.” I replied. Current affairs were something I kept myself ahead of.

“Then you should also know who designed our current insurance system.” He assumed, and rightly so. It was me who instated the current insurance system.
“That would be me, and I’ll have you know I’m working around the clock to improve it and”
He interrupted me, “It’s already done. We’ve hired a new ‘hot shot’ just out of university.”
“I don’t understand” I replied. I didn’t.
“We’ve hired a new actuary, one who doesn’t cost us money.”
“I don’t understand” I replied again. I still didn’t. I then caught a glance of myself in the mirror; I looked like a madman. I looked like a goofy businessman, about to be fired.
“You’re fired.”
“I understand.”

I stood up without question or purpose and tried to catch another glimpse of myself, and tell me that everything would be ok. The smoke blocked my view. Gradually I fumbled my way back to the door and let it swing open. The light struck me and the smoke circled me and nothing felt right at all. The eyes of the office flared and taunted my misfortune and I was powerless to stop them. My eyes fell to the floor and down to the smooth step between me and the office below. I examined the patterns of the carpet and imagined myself falling down and down into them; never to return. My shoes were just stepping out over the edge, reluctant to take that next step. The idea was unrealistic, but not entirely impossible; I dipped my toe over the side just to be sure... It wasn’t safe at all.

I collapsed head first into an illusion that took mere moments to fade into meaningless memories, as the suffocating black of reality began to sink in. I didn’t have time to register each moment; the whole thing felt like it would last forever. There was no past or future, just a stretched out present that continuously erased itself from existence. Before I really knew it, I was outside. The sun had dived behind the clouds and let watery bullets fall from the sky. I cast another glance at the woman holding the door. It took all of my human decency not to grab her and throw her under a bus.

The whole world seemed to expand. It moved apart like old friends, loved ones, and jobs. Each loathsome taxi, each backstabbing pedestrian, each conniving door-woman with a smile so fake it makes spray on tan look good; all of them drifted away from one another and into isolation. In the heart of this isolation was me, standing with my feet over the smooth curb and wanting so much to fall into the cracks of the tarmac. Never to be seen again.
I dipped my toe over the side...

It may not seem the part but I do plan on developing this into a horror, or at the least, a gruesome little work.
Consider it my homage to the film 'falling down'. I'd appreciate any criticisms. Once I'm happy with it, I'll make sure to add it to the OP

This post has been edited by Sparrowsmith: Aug 12 2010, 03:07 PM

[Sparrowsmith]

Well that was about as responsive as a parrot in a Monty Python sketch.

Anyway, here is an updated version of the first chapter and the beginning of chapter 2.

[Show/Hide] Both of these are still being edited heavily, but criticisms would be nice

William’s City
Chapter 1 – The Curb

I stood still over the smooth concrete curb in front of me; my leather shoes just pointing out over them, begging to take the next step. The wind seemed to push me both forwards and back; for a moment I toyed with the idea that the curb wasn’t an inch tall but actually a colossal chasm, carefully designed, into which I might accidently fall. The idea was unrealistic, but not entirely impossible; I dipped my toe over the side just to be sure... It was safe.

I admired the sleek, black tarmac road as I strolled across it. My previous morbid thoughts of carefully engineered cliffs faded and dissolved into the morning air and I truly felt like it was safe. Away to my right I could hear the purring of the traffic trying to intimidate the lights into changing; I had more pressing issues to attend to, on the other side of the road. The early sun, now gleaming behind me from above the skyline, illuminated the steps in front of me with welcoming warmth. I hopped up off of the step and began to climb up them.

And why had the chicken crossed the road? Big day at the office, that’s why. I skipped to the door and was ushered in by a pretty, young woman wearing a bright fuchsia and cobalt dress, the effect of which was hospitable. She held the door as I passed and I smiled politely as if to say ‘thanks for holding the door’. She smiled back, but it was more of an ‘I get paid minimum wage to hold a door and smile at goofy businessmen in leather shoes’. I was a little insulted and gave her a more piercing gaze. Lucky for both of us, she never noticed. Then I kept walking, the roaring hubbub of the city dying away behind me.

I marched up the steps two, no! Three, steps at a time. To each plucky stranger, I tipped my hat and greeted a, “How-d’ya do?” while to each old friend I charmed a witty one liner. Finally I burst through the wide and rich doors of my workplace and began my ascent to the head honcho. Glances of interest flickered from my co-workers to me, while I arrived at the mostly-glass door, I rapped my knuckled three times across it then grabbed the handle, turned, and stepped inside.

The room was filled with thick smoke and crushed dreams. The putrid scent of success and brutality overwhelmed me to stay and go at once. I raised my foot onto the smooth stone step that separated Mr.Chilcott’s office and the rest of the floor - Chilcott was of the firm belief that if he was more important then he should also be higher. I closed the door behind me. A voice beckoned from behind the curtain of smoke.
“Morning, Bill. Please, take a seat.” Arthur Chilcott boomed through the fog.

I scoured the grey area in front of me and managed to feel the steel frame of a cheap, metal chair. I pulled it out and sat down with a worried creek.
“Now, Bill,” The voice continued to blare, “I can call you Bill, right?”
“No one ever has before, sir.” I replied solemnly
“Ok then, Bill.” He disconcertingly replied, “As you may know, a lot of claims have been made lately that have cost the company dearly.”
“Indeed I have heard.” I replied. Current affairs were something I kept myself ahead of.

“Then you should also know who designed our current insurance system.” He assumed, and rightly so. It was me who instated the current insurance system.
“That would be me, and I’ll have you know I’m working around the clock to improve it and”
He interrupted me, “It’s already done. We’ve hired a new ‘hot shot’ just out of university.”
“I don’t understand” I replied. I didn’t.
“We’ve hired a new actuary, one who doesn’t cost us money.”
“I don’t understand” I replied again. I still didn’t. I then caught a glance of myself in the mirror; I looked like a madman. I looked like a goofy businessman, about to be fired.
“You’re fired.”
The words came from my mouth and the breath had left my body and the vibrations formed the simple sentence:
“I understand.”
And I did understand. I could understand that I was being replaced. I could understand that the company had lost money and I was the prime suspect. I could even understand why I was being replaced; I could not understand how the grey of this colourless room had somehow sucked the life from my being and left me a dirty white mess.

I stood up without question or purpose and tried to catch another glimpse of myself, and tell me that everything would be ok. The smoke blocked my view. Gradually I fumbled my way back to the door and let it swing open. The light struck me and the smoke circled me and nothing felt right at all. The eyes of the office flared and taunted my misfortune and I was powerless to stop them. My eyes fell to the floor and down to the smooth step between me and the office below. I examined the patterns of the carpet and imagined myself falling down and down into them; never to return. My shoes were just stepping out over the edge, reluctant to take that next step. The idea was unrealistic, but not entirely impossible; I dipped my toe over the side just to be sure... It wasn’t safe at all.

I collapsed head first into an illusion that took mere moments to fade into meaningless memories, as the suffocating black of reality began to sink in. I didn’t have time to register each moment; the whole thing felt like it would last forever. There was no past or future, just a stretched out present that continuously erased itself from existence. Then, I was outside. I couldn’t remember when it happened, but the moment had ended. The sun had dived behind the clouds and let watery bullets fall from the sky. I cast another glance at the woman holding the door. It took all of my human decency not to grab her and throw her under a bus.

The grey of the room had not just sucked the life from my body, but continued to eat the emotion from the world; now it was just shades of grey. Nothing felt definite or defined. Everything changed and blurred into the next nothing; peeled back to reveal bitter holes and self-loathing flaws. The death of each moment to make the next became pungent, disturbing, hollow; poignant. It was like poetry writing itself; its own criticisms. I could only spin in this world hidden under the skin of the last and fray.

It seemed to expand. It moved apart like old friends, loved ones, and jobs. Each loathsome taxi, each backstabbing pedestrian, each conniving door-woman with a smile so fake it makes spray on tan look good; all of them drifted away from one another and into isolation. In the heart of this isolation was me, standing with my feet over the smooth curb and wanting so much to fall into the cracks of the tarmac. Never to be seen again.
I dipped my toe over the side...

Chapter 2 – William’s Child

From the second I walked out of that door, my pulse had stopped and began spinning backwards vigorously. There was a cold passion in everything I scrutinized and came to loath. I became young again. My ideals flittered back to the vindication, absolution and, on a frightening note, terror: Terror and all its applications.
It became every dream and engulfed every thought. It was the crude idea, the wanted image, of Arthur Chilcott screaming to my revenge.

What was worse than the bleeding ideals of my inner child was the conflict it pursued it biting its own tail. Surely there is no lawful or physical way to inflict the same damage. Inflicting a far greater or far more modest vengeance would be a walk in the park, but to entice an equal and opposite reaction would be impossible, surely?

My mind danced, skipped and slipped away from crude beatings and blood baths and onto a more cunning tight rope of thought: Could I get Chilcott fired?
There were several indescribably hard ways I could ruin the company, but that is not the vengeance I thirsted for. I had to make the man above Chilcott cut him loose. The clever enterprise of philosophers had already perfectly written how it would look.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Suddenly it became an obsession. More than a carnal desire, it developed into a necessity of life. As a side meal I would also spite the ‘hot shot’ replacement, but his casualty would be minimal if not avoidable. The cynical cylinders in my skull found targets and fired. Synapses sparked synapses and reopened areas of my mind closed since youth. My boiling blood fell to my head now, its backwards current ripping apart my older and more juvenile understanding of society.

It’s a strange sensation when the mysteries and depressants of the universe begin to make sense to you. I felt like a child in a crib. When the insecurities of the world knew my place, they left to hide. Now that I don’t know where I am, and in turn am hidden, they look for me. I see them all the time now, hiding plainly behind the thin, fractured veils of order.
There is a random chance to the universe, an unknown, moving force that acts without reason or consciousness. This force accidently picked me out of the billions and dropped me into darkness.
Now I have to target it at ChilCott. The only problem is: How?

Chapter 2 is in dire need of more description and less raving lunacisms, oh well, I'll fix it later.

[literarygoth]

Wow. All I can say is, wow!
Bloody fantastic. I meant to post earlier and I'm so sorry I forgot - been busy with school etc. I'm loving your description. Despite what you say about chapter 2 the raving lunacy was excellently done.

I only have one nitpick.
"Away to my right I could hear the purring of the traffic trying to intimidate the lights into changing"
Purring doesn't seem all that intimidating, although it is an excellent description for the motors of vehicles. It pulled me out from the world your imagery had created. To change it, or not to change it, is up to you. Otherwise I can't wait to see what else you have in store for us

[Sparrowsmith]

Wow. All I can say is, wow!
Bloody fantastic. I meant to post earlier and I'm so sorry I forgot - been busy with school etc. I'm loving your description. Despite what you say about chapter 2 the raving lunacy was excellently done.

I only have one nitpick.
"Away to my right I could hear the purring of the traffic trying to intimidate the lights into changing"
Purring doesn't seem all that intimidating, although it is an excellent description for the motors of vehicles. It pulled me out from the world your imagery had created. To change it, or not to change it, is up to you. Otherwise I can't wait to see what else you have in store for us

Thanks You've made my day. To be honest I've been really worried about this one because it wasn't getting much of a reply. I'm glad I pulled of the lunacy well, I still have to lengthen it and heavily edit it though, so any extra criticisms would be fantastic.

I think you're right about the purring thing. To be honest, I changed the direction of it halfway through, so that's why. Looking back I should probably replace it with a growl of some kind
Hollow growl
snarl?

Away to my right, I could hear the muffled snarls of the traffic try to intimidate the lights into changing

better?

Alternatively I could keep the purring and maybe change the intimidation for something else:

Away to my right I could hear the purring of the traffic trying to coerce the lights into changing

Also, I just wanna say thanks I doubt I'd of improved without your help. You've been really helpful.

[AdamWired]

So this is what you've been talking about ;P They're good, an enjoyable read. My favourite was the cat one, although throughout your story's i think fluidity is the key point for you to work on, make each of your sentences slip together more streamline in conjunction to the whole paragraph. But apart from that, very good. I'd like to learn more of these characters and their personalities

[literarygoth]

Wow. All I can say is, wow!
Bloody fantastic. I meant to post earlier and I'm so sorry I forgot - been busy with school etc. I'm loving your description. Despite what you say about chapter 2 the raving lunacy was excellently done.

I only have one nitpick.
"Away to my right I could hear the purring of the traffic trying to intimidate the lights into changing"
Purring doesn't seem all that intimidating, although it is an excellent description for the motors of vehicles. It pulled me out from the world your imagery had created. To change it, or not to change it, is up to you. Otherwise I can't wait to see what else you have in store for us

Thanks You've made my day. To be honest I've been really worried about this one because it wasn't getting much of a reply. I'm glad I pulled of the lunacy well, I still have to lengthen it and heavily edit it though, so any extra criticisms would be fantastic.

I think you're right about the purring thing. To be honest, I changed the direction of it halfway through, so that's why. Looking back I should probably replace it with a growl of some kind
Hollow growl
snarl?

Away to my right, I could hear the muffled snarls of the traffic try to intimidate the lights into changing

better?

Alternatively I could keep the purring and maybe change the intimidation for something else:

Away to my right I could hear the purring of the traffic trying to coerce the lights into changing

Also, I just wanna say thanks I doubt I'd of improved without your help. You've been really helpful.

I love both that you've come up with, the only thing now is to decide which mood you're trying to go for during the entire scene that you're describing, and go with the one that fits the best.

I have to agree with Adam. For the most part it's easy to follow what it is you're trying to say, but there are times where the fluidity of the sentences breaks up, and makes it hard to figure out exactly which direction you're being led in. My suggestion; as you're writing a paragraph, know exactly what it is about (especially if it's a hefty description of something/place/etc) and stick to that one subject. There's nothing wrong with expanding on the detail to show the reader where they are (say for example you're describing a new room that the character has just entered) but if the sentences don't 'flow' together then it's easy to get lost.

Imagine that you're blindfolded and someone is leading you on a tour of a house and you are completely reliant on them, their direction, and their descriptions of everything around you. If they skip from the south end of the room to the north and then bounce around the room filling in details - how confused are you going to be?
Otherwise your description is definately great and heading in the proper direction developmentally. I'll leave you now with the tip I gave to another - visualize yourself as your character and walk in their footsteps through the scenario you wish to write. What do they see? What do they smell? Is there anything in particular this person notices? Do they pay attention to minute details, or are they more whimsical?
Would like to see more of your work in the future

[Sparrowsmith]

Criticisms are taken on board, I'll post an updated version of William's City soon...
Actually, while we're talking about my stories I would like to mention that I've been thinking up a romantic drama comedy type thing which is entirely unlike me. It's very psychologically based and, if I do go through with writing it, then I'll definitely include snippets of it here.

[literarygoth]

Lol look forward to seeing it!
.....hope I haven't gone overboard on the critiques

[Sparrowsmith]

ahhh Short story topic. You have lied dormant for far too long.

WELL NO MORE!
I revive you with a short story I've written for a creative writing contest. It's far from my best work, but for some reason it is exactly that I wanted to write (and this took me a long time just to think up)...
So here we go

[Show/Hide] The other David

The other David

The door knocked for a third time. Eight neat, little raps echoed from the wood to my ears. Standing on the cold tiles of my bathroom floor, half dressed and half shaven, I craned my head around the open frame of the bathroom and into my bedroom. My eyes hovered and bounced along the plain white wall until they reached the perfectly defined digital clock. It was only six, she wasn't meant to be coming until seven. A fourth knock and I gave up my denial and marched for the door. I stormed out of the bathroom, through my bedroom, out into the lounge of my two bedroom apartment and finally arrived at my gloomy, grey door. Buttoning up my chequered shirt and quickly checking myself in the mirror adjacent to me, I opened the door.

“David?” An astonished and familiar voice called out, “But that's not right. Mark said it was David Thirsk that lives here.” Her eerily enticing blue eyes scanned over me and lit up with what I could only guess was fear. “Oh god! I haven't gotten you're name wrong, have I?” she asked innocently enough.

“No. Me and David are flat mates. You'd be surprised how often shit like this happens when you have two David's under one roof.” I explained as precisely as I could. I'd considered moving out plenty of times to avoid all this carry on, but all David wanted was company. He made enough off his odd jobs to pay most of the rent, but he needed human interaction- and the confusing conversations my presence caused would often spur his writing prowess and within a weekend a two minute chat could evolve into a diverse novel.

“So, David Thirsk does live here? Blimey, how do you tell the difference?” She asked the obvious questions, and I forgave her out of sympathy. I was still trying to piece together who she was, it seemed so obvious. It wasn't that I couldn't remember, it was that I didn't want to. My eyes slowly dripped down from her straight blonde hair with styled flicks at the end, ending just after her ears, down past her half open mouth, and past her chequered dress – and that was what brought it back.

“What are you doing here, Rose?” I asked as calmly as I could muster, but the bitterness was all too obvious. Seven years earlier we had been as close to an item as you could possibly call two people, we even wore matching outfits to special occasions, and it seemed we had both kept our current attires even after we went our separate ways. I could see that she'd noticed this as well. I couldn't match her confident glow or lack of empathy, but I could certainly play the wounded puppy after seven years – regardless of how far from the truth it may be.

“Mark, my agent, he said that he's been looking into a Television Drama that's looking for a lead female role. He mentioned the writer and I remembered him from college, I thought I'd pop by and say hi before auditioning.”

“You mean butter him up? Why not just let him choose on the day?”

“Oh don't be so cynical! Is it wrong for me to catch up on old friends?”

“It is when they live in my apartment and only bother to drop by once their friend, and I say that as loosely as possible, gets a break. You're such a leech.”

“And you're a prick, David, now how about letting me in? I'm here to see Thirsk, but if you're still sore about us then maybe we need to have a talk.” This proposition was music to my ears. I backed from the door and swung it open, letting it catch against the wall where it stayed.

“Make yourself at home.” I joked in a less than welcoming tone. Nonetheless, she proceeded to stroll through the lounge and onto one of the two black leather couches, a two part set. She kicked off her heels and placed them next to the fuchsia rug almost methodically. I'd forgotten the little things she did like that. I traced her footsteps back and sat on the opposite couch, a glass coffee table gleaming between us. To my left, the mirror I looked in before, capturing us both dynamically, like a silver screen moment frozen to my wall. My dark, casual jeans and smart shirt; Combed hair, no socks and just a little bit too much stubble on one side of my face. Omit the small details and it was like looking straight into the past: The happy couple reunited.

“So how've you been, David?” she asked nervously, a composition so thin you could break it with glass.

“Do you really care or did the silence become too suffocating?” My eyes met hers. She always said it was impossible to lie to eyes as dark as mine.

“Can't you just answer a question? Jesus, this is why we stopped talking!”

“I just think we can do without all the formalities. You had no intention of contacting me, or I you, for any reason whatsoever ever. The only reason this is happening, is because I live with some writer who's ass you wanna kiss!” My arms swung through the air, pointing and emphasizing my points. She stood up in retaliation.

“I was just trying to make the best of a bad situation, but no, you're still the most arrogant bastard I've ever had the misfortune of meeting! How the hell do you even know Thirsk?”

“I know a lot of people! Why do you suddenly take an interest in my life now? You had three years to learn a single thing about me, and you can't even remember my fucking lyricist? We met at one of my gigs, he was there, how can you not remember that? Did none of it mean anything to you?” I'd snapped, but not how I intended. A cold silence spilt out over us as she sat back down. My arms fell into my lap and closed around me, she leaned forward with that caring frown I'd only seen twice before.

“Why didn't you tell me it hurt you this bad?” She asked as if she didn't know, and for a moment I thought that maybe she really didn't.

“Why don't you tell the moon it causes the tide?” I answered rhetorically, “I thought it was obvious, and even still, you wouldn't understand.” I could feel a tension lifted. Like the atmosphere that could once have been cut could now only be spread at best.

“Acting...” she began, but her voice trailed off, “Acting is a competitive business. I did what I had to do, that's how these things are. It's how they've always been.”
My eyes snapped back and met hers. I arched my brows and leant in.

“You think that's what this is about? God no. I was pissed off, sure, but we had one little fight and you never made an effort again. It's like that's where it ended with you.”

“Well why didn't you ever try anything?”

“Because I knew, I know what you like. I know your tastes, your personality, your friends, but you never learnt mine. Every time you did anything, I knew why, but when I did something you'd always have me wrong. It's like talking to a stranger and after three years you're meant to make an effort. You are.” She struggled to maintain eye contact, glancing away just long enough for me to breath a sigh of empty victory.
“We were good, weren't we? Sometimes at least, right?” She asked, half to me and half to the mirror. I joined her in looking at the mock reflection, the moment that only romantics dream of occurring. That picture perfect moment. Only it wasn't.

“Yeah. We looked the part, but I don't ever think we wanted the same things, Rose.”

“What did you want, Dave?” her voice broke slightly as she spoke. My eyes tried to close and my lips tensed. Part of me wished we could go back to fighting, but we were past that now. Such a small detail in life, the author of a television drama, but here we are – locked in this moment by a lyricist and author who crossed both our lives twice, and was the same man each time: The other David.

“I wanted you, but you just wanted someone. I think we can both face that, honestly. When we met, I said we could have been any two people in the world, well even when we left that was still half true. I loved you, but you just wanted someone to love, and that's fine. That's good enough for it to look right, but it was never going to be enough itself. I'm sorry.” It was strange to hear myself say it, after all these years of resentment and there it was, laid out on a clear coffee table like a snake biting its own tail. She finished what I was thinking.

“Then why were you so made at me? Unless, you weren't. Were you?” I could just muster to shake my head in agreement.

“I can't blame you if I want something you don't. Didn't. I can't blame you if I wanted something you didn't.” I had to hang my head and look away. For such an inconsiderate person, Rose had a way of listening without judging. I wish I had something to hate in her then.

“Well you can't blame yourself either. We're all just people, David, and we hurt each other, but there isn't any way around that. In all the time I've known you, you've had this personal war on society because it's so self destructive, but that's just what people are. We hurt ourselves more than anyone else can ever hurt us. We hurt ourselves by loving those who hurt us most, that's just a risk we take.” her words were oddly profound.

“You've changed. You never said anything half that insightful when we were together.” I laughed through rising tears, unsure of why the moment has such an impact on me, but I welcomed it.

“I've spent the past seven years practising.”

“In case you ran into me again?”

“In case it got me a job, don't flatter yourself, David, you're special – but my life never revolved around you.” we laughed, it was almost like old times. “So, I have to ask, just where is David?” the question weighed on my mind heavily for a moment.

“That's a good question. He said he was popping out, but that he would have a guest around later, a friend for me. Said she was gonna swing by at seven, said I should clean myself up.”A strange thought ran through my mind, and I could see it racing through Rose's as well.

“You think he set this up?”

“No, that's impossible. He's a little bit of a genius when he wants, but there's no way he knew you would show up unannounced.” I couldn't deny how well it worked out though, “He's good, but he's not that good.” I tired to convince myself again, “Not that good.”

I had to keep it under 2,000 for the contest, but now I'm enthusiastic about expanding it purely for my own and everyone else's reading pleasure.
The story is, like most thing I write, a greater part of the whole. It's true name is 'A Rose by Any Name' and is the aforementioned romance with psychological twists (though this actually started as an entirely different story called Toto, with I may still make)

A Rose by any Name is the story of Rose and David, two hapless people lost in a world that demands them to betray their own desires, often confused by what they want and what they need and what they're told they want and need, they find themselves hating anyone who likes them for who they really are, which is always each other.
It is only after the cycle repeats for a fourth time that the two can finally accept themselves and then each other.

But for now you get the extract from their third re-meeting, a cunning plan put into action by the author 'the other David' who has brought them together purely so he could write the very extract you're reading and then the entire story (hard to pick up on, but the hints are there)

Fun fact: Both David's are augmentations of my own experiences and personalities. Most writers project themselves onto their characters, but without bringing the author in as well, I prefer at least one of my key characters to be an author, that way there is someone to write the story.

Anyway, with all that out of the way I will bring you up to speed on William's City:

[Show/Hide] Chapter 1 - The Curb

I stood still over the smooth concrete curb in front of me; my leather shoes just pointing out over them, begging to take the next step. The wind seemed to push me both forwards and back; for a moment I toyed with the idea that the curb wasn’t an inch tall but actually a colossal chasm, carefully designed, into which I might accidentally fall. The idea was unrealistic, but not entirely impossible; I dipped my toe over the side just to be sure... It was safe.
I admired the sleek, black tarmac road as I strolled across it. My previous morbid thoughts of carefully engineered cliffs faded and dissolved into the morning air and I truly felt like it was safe. Away to my right, I could hear the muffled purring of the traffic try to coerce the lights into changing; I had more pressing issues to attend to, on the other side of the road. The early sun, now gleaming behind me from above the skyline, illuminated the steps in front of me with welcoming warmth. I hopped up off of the step and began to climb up them.
And why had the chicken crossed the road? Big day at the office, that’s why. I skipped to the door and was ushered in by a pretty, young woman wearing a bright fuchsia and cobalt dress, the effect of which was hospitable. She held the door as I passed and I smiled politely as if to say ‘thanks for holding the door’. She smiled back, but it was more of an ‘I get paid minimum wage to hold a door and smile at goofy businessmen in leather shoes’. I was a little insulted and gave her a more piercing gaze. Lucky for both of us, she never noticed. Then I kept walking, the roaring hubbub of the city dying away behind me.
I marched up the steps two, no! Three, steps at a time. To each plucky stranger, I tipped my hat and greeted a, 'How-d’ya do?' while to each old friend I charmed a witty one liner. Finally I burst through the wide and rich doors of my workplace and began my ascent to the head honcho. Glances of interest flickered from my co-workers to me, while I arrived at the mostly-glass door, I rapped my knuckled three times across it then grabbed the handle, turned, and stepped inside.
The room was filled with thick smoke and crushed dreams. The putrid scent of success and brutality overwhelmed me to stay and go at once. I raised my foot onto the smooth stone step that separated Mr.Chilcott’s office and the rest of the floor - Chilcott was of the firm belief that if he was more important then he should also be higher. I closed the door behind me. A voice beckoned from behind the curtain of smoke.
“Morning, Bill. Please, take a seat.” Arthur Chilcott boomed through the fog.
I scoured the grey area in front of me and managed to feel the steel frame of a cheap, metal chair. I pulled it out and sat down with a worried creek.
“Now, Bill,” The voice continued to blare, “I can call you Bill, right?”
“No one ever has before, sir.” I replied solemnly
“Ok then, Bill.” He disconcertingly replied, “As you may know, a lot of claims have been made lately that have cost the company dearly.”
“Indeed I have heard.” I replied. Current affairs were something I kept myself ahead of.
“Then you should also know who designed our current insurance system.” He assumed, and rightly so. It was me who instated the current insurance system.
“That would be me, and I’ll have you know I’m working around the clock to improve it and” He interrupted me,
“It’s already done. We’ve hired a new ‘hot shot’ just out of university.”
“I don’t understand” I replied. I didn’t.
“We’ve hired a new actuary, one who doesn’t cost us money.”
“I don’t understand” I replied again. I still didn’t. I then caught a glance of myself in the mirror; I looked like a madman. I looked like a goofy businessman, about to be fired.
“You’re fired.”
The words came from my mouth and the breath had left my body and the vibrations formed the simple sentence:
“I understand.”
And I did understand. I could understand that I was being replaced. I could understand that the company had lost money and I was the prime suspect. I could even understand why I was being replaced; I could not understand how the grey of this colourless room had somehow sucked the life from my being and left me a dirty white mess.
I stood up without question or purpose and tried to catch another glimpse of myself, and tell me that everything would be ok. The smoke blocked my view. Gradually I fumbled my way back to the door and let it swing open. The light struck me and the smoke circled me and nothing felt right at all. The eyes of the office flared and taunted my misfortune and I was powerless to stop them. My eyes fell to the floor and down to the smooth step between me and the office below. I examined the patterns of the carpet and imagined myself falling down and down into them; never to return. My shoes were just stepping out over the edge, reluctant to take that next step. The idea was unrealistic, but not entirely impossible; I dipped my toe over the side just to be sure... It wasn’t safe at all.
I collapsed head first into an illusion that took mere moments to fade into meaningless memories, as the suffocating black of reality began to sink in. I didn’t have time to register each moment; the whole thing felt like it would last forever. There was no past or future, just a stretched out present that continuously erased itself from existence. Then, I was outside. I couldn’t remember when it happened, but the moment had ended. The sun had dived behind the clouds and let watery bullets fall from the sky. I cast another glance at the woman holding the door. It took all of my human decency not to grab her and throw her under a bus.
The grey of the room had not just sucked the life from my body, but continued to eat the emotion from the world; now it was just shades of grey. Nothing felt definite or defined. Everything changed and blurred into the next nothing; peeled back to reveal bitter holes and self-loathing flaws. The death of each moment to make the next became pungent, disturbing, hollow; poignant. It was like poetry writing itself; its own criticisms. I could only spin in this world hidden under the skin of the last and fray.
It seemed to expand. It moved apart like old friends, loved ones, and jobs. Each loathsome taxi, each backstabbing pedestrian, each conniving door-woman with a smile so fake it makes spray on tan look good; all of them drifted away from one another and into isolation. In the heart of this isolation was me, standing with my feet over the smooth curb and wanting so much to fall into the cracks of the tarmac. Never to be seen again.
I dipped my toe over the side...

[Show/Hide] Chapter 2 - William's City

From the second I walked out of that door, my pulse had stopped and began spinning backwards vigorously. There was a cold passion in everything I scrutinized and came to loath. I became young again. My ideals flittered back to the vindication, absolution and, on a frightening note, terror: Terror and all its applications.
It became every dream and engulfed every thought. It was the crude idea, the wanted image, of Arthur Chilcott screaming to my revenge.

What was worse than the bleeding ideals of my inner child was the conflict it pursued in biting its own tail. Surely there is no lawful or physical way to inflict the same damage. Inflicting a far greater or far more modest vengeance would be a walk in the park, but to entice an equal and opposite reaction would be impossible, surely?

My mind danced, skipped and slipped away from crude beatings and blood baths and onto a more cunning tight rope of thought: Could I get Chilcott fired?
There were several indescribably hard ways I could ruin the company, but that is not the vengeance I thirsted for. I had to make the man above Chilcott cut him loose. The clever enterprise of philosophers had already perfectly written how it would look.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

I became engrossed in my sinister plotting; unable to leave my flat. I could soon spend seconds to hours just staring absently at the walls. Secretly I’d plead for them to crumble open and gift me the answers that I begged for. When they failed to answer my calls, I wrote on them. I wrote letters, words, and sentences. I wrote them to inspire and to sicken the scum that would later live within the walls that is my borrowed home.
William’s last will and testament: “Do what you will, I won’t know the difference.”

Suddenly I knew it had become an obsession. More than a carnal desire, it developed into a necessity of life. My head throbbed with change; Metamorphosis. The cynical cylinders in my skull found targets and fired. Synapses sparked synapses and reopened areas of my mind closed since youth. My boiling blood fell to my head now, its backwards current ripping apart my older and more juvenile understanding of society.

Some days I would lock myself up and whisper prayers to gods I didn’t believe in, other days I would shout them until neighbours beat on my door. I became aware that my grief had bloomed into something far more twisted and beautiful than intended; like some backwards flower, it grew with each moment I deprived myself of sunlight, it thirsted for thirst. It lived off of nothing.

It’s a strange sensation when the mysteries and depressants of the universe begin to make sense to you. I felt like a child in a crib. When the insecurities of the world knew my place, they left to hide. Now that I don’t know where I am, and am in turn hidden, they look for me. I see them all the time now, hiding plainly behind the thin, fractured veils of order. I remember seeing them too. I’d see them all of the time; I just didn’t accept it before.

Finally it occurred to me. It occurred that not everything is governed by strict rules or choice: Sometimes events are undetermined, governed by some random chance to the universe, an unknown, moving force that acts without reason or consciousness; this force had accidentally picked me out of the billions and dropped me into darkness.
Now I have to make it choose ChilCott.
The force is chance, and the only problem is: How?

I ripped and tore through my previous ‘Hollywood’ plans and opened up a dusty desk that inhabited a corner of my room. I fumbled around inside its carcase until I felt two perfectly made dice. I held them above my head, and then dropped them onto the desk. Surely there was some method in the madness: A way to make the dice be whatever I wanted them to be, a way to control chance.
Shouting seven in my head, the dice rolled two neat little dots: So much for that theory.

I settled with myself that sooner or later my vengeance would be inevitable, and that calling it a night couldn’t hurt. I was right. The next morning I woke up with a new testament in my mind. While my morbid peelings of reality had been a powerful storm, it seemed to pass. A small glimmer of light persevered into the dark recesses of my abode and for the first time in days, if not weeks, I felt the slightest smudge of an emotion close to happiness.
However, life is a cruel mistress, and – regardless of any protest I could ever give – that was when she answered my prayers.

You pray to enough gods, and one of them might just listen, but this has little to do with god.

[Show/Hide] Chapter 3 - The Gift

I emerged. I emerged from my sanctuary and observatory to the outside world, my filthy mirror of an apartment laying in devastation behind me. I had not recovered, of that much I knew, but my malnourished wound of a body demanded treatment – and so I delivered it. I threw my hands out to the door frame and pulled myself through ceremoniously, landing in the long beige corridor. I shut my door with an absent mind and chuckled as I read a note that had been pinned there:
‘Warning: Resident Madman’
I let it stay; after all, I still had my honesty.

My neck craned towards the elevator door at the end of the hall. I could take the stairs, but the thought of sinking to oblivion seemed more likely than ever. Fixated on the door, I almost felt a choice supposed to me. A sort of mirage in which one door opens revealing a short woman with black hair, and then another door which stays closed. I scrutinized the meaning of such an apparition before wiping my sleep-deprived eyes, and staggering onwards towards the elevator doors.

The mirage did not leave. The more attention I paid to it, the more real it seemed to become. My eyes drifted obsessively to the open door, the primal desire of all people for the elevator door to open as soon as possible. The image became more and more defined, more real than reality itself, which seemed to bend to make room for this new fantastic picture.
A faint bell rings. The elevator door opens. A short woman with black hair examines the floor then steps out. After a few moments she walks back into the elevator and looks at me nervously,
“Accidently pressed floor three,” She says nervously, “Are you going down?”
I nodded and stepped inside, unsure whether what had just happened was a miracle or a final sign of insanity. Only one of many conclusions made sense – that I had made her press floor three, but that’s impossible, isn’t it?

My mind raced through the small three story drop and I rushed out as soon as the doors opened. Brushing past the nervous woman, I turned to her. Several mirages began to sprout and bloom in an unimaginable dimension. Then I understood. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she could do, and I could see every one of them. I turned back to the short hallway leading out onto the street; an explosion met my eyes. The universe I had loathed began to reveal its plans to me – and it had chosen me to make the final and fatal decisions.
I had become a God.

Chapter 2 and 3 still need work, 3 is unfinished, but there you go. That's as much as I have there.

I hope to post my English Coursework Narrative 'Deadly' soon, along with another piece of coursework: A monologue called 'The Bleeding Holloway'

So stay tuned I guess.

Sparrow away