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Opening to short story, would you want to read more?
Hello all,
Started this and would love some comments from peeps with more experience than me (only 19). Sorry for any mistakes.
Yellow curtains filtered sunlight threw the front windows and filled the living room with a comfortable warm glow. The back curtains were open showing a neat garden sheltered under the shade of the house. In a large armchair by the back window, a middle aged man was reading; he held the book cupped in his hands, his head tilted, frowning slightly as he read. Reading to him was like meditation, in his favourite chair with the right light, he could loose himself all afternoon. He had been in his book for hours already when someone knocked at the front door. He jumped, then understood, then sighed; he balanced his book face down on the chair arm, then raised himself and crept barefoot over the soft carpet towards the front window; as he passed the curtains he left plenty of room so he didn't disturb them, and at the farthest edge, the perfect angle to see who was at the door, he gently parted the material from the wall, enough to see threw but not to be seen.
There was a girl outside, she had been already today, he recognised her and knew he wasn't going to answer again; she knocked more forcefully then stood back one hand on her hip. She had dark hair, earlier it had been tied up but now it hung loose down her back; she was one of those rare girls who are tall and slim yet still blessed with full curves; as he watched her he felt a strange excitement knowing she was unaware, the feeling was soon accompanied by a tingling in his loins, he saw himself then and was embarrassed; he slowly let the gap close then, ignoring her louder knocks he crept back to his seat.
He couldn't read, not while she was there, so he sat silently waiting for her to leave. As the time dragged he began to worry, the pauses between her knocks were growing longer but she wasn't leaving; he knew why she was back, having had time to think she probably wanted to rant back at him, to say her piece; she was the only one who had been affected by what he had said, the other two had just smiled back at him happy with the knowledge that they were safe and he was doomed, but she had been fired up, close to tears, and would have said her own piece if he hadn't have slammed the door on them.
The pause from her last knock dragged until he was sure she was gone, the hollow worry left his stomach, he settled into the chair, stretched his arms then picked up his book. He read the first sentence then there was a loud knock on the window behind him, his whole body twitched, he dropped his book, and turned to see the girl grinning at him threw the glass. For a moment he didn't know what to do, like a rabbit caught in headlights, he held her eyes and did nothing, she raised her eye brows as if to say “Yes iv caught you, now what are you going to do?” he made a circle in the air with his hand and mouthed the words “Go around” she nodded.
Thank you for reading.
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The function of prose is to convey meaning to as many readers as possible. Style, in the sense of being unmistakably oneself, is a by-product. The more one consciously strives for it, the further away one will go from it. John Braine.
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