Plazma (rewrite) - Writers Forum

Azmakna · 07-19-2007, 05:32 AM

This has now been revised. read the first paragraph but i may well remove this in the final version (in two flaming years at this rate!) the story is supposed to spread out like a ripple. small scenes leading to the bigger picture, hence the first paragraph.

Scene 1. Chapter 1

There are many stories, none have a beginning and none have an end - they are but a current of overlapping events that are viewed in dislocation, like an ocean of moments, forever churning and on occasion washing something up on our shores. We (the disenfranchised) gaze into that ocean in an attempt to make sense of our part in it, and maybe, just maybe, in a moment of pure luck, when the ripples divide and the privilege of clarity is ours, we realise our potential. It is here that we draw our fingers through the waters in the hope that it will cleanse our pasts, and we will see our futures. Therefore, it is here we begin, in the centre of things:

* * *

The door burst open. Two men entered. Suspended between them a blindfolded captive – stripped of everything but his boxer shorts – struggled for freedom, his legs kicking as if trying to propel him backwards off an imaginary wall. He tugged frantically against the hands that gripped him beneath his armpits, the other two hands, tight around his frail wrists. However, it was fruitless endeavour; he was nothing compared to their strength - just a rag doll of a man hauled towards an empty chair where Vern awaited. The henchmen forced their prisoner into the chair and, taking twine from Vern, began to lash it around their captive’s torso and arms. It bit into his flesh bringing grimaces to his face and groans from his blooded lips. Still he fought for freedom, body twisting and raging against the restraints, chest heaving, skin flushed from adrenaline. The henchmen forced down on his shoulders, faces impassive.

“Mr Johnson,” Vern said and smiling, rested his weight on Johnson’s tethered hands. “Nice to meet you at last.” His voice resonated off the whitewashed walls.

Vern was wearing a black suit, which had been pressed to perfection, the indigo shirt beneath sporting a thin, white tie. The suit was spotless, as if it had been taken fresh from the rack. His features, however, were in complete contrast: furrowed and dry, creasing and deepening with every syllable.

“I see my colleagues have already introduced themselves.” He grasped Johnson by the jaw, inspecting his mauled and beaten face and then glanced up at the two men flanking him. “Bad, bad boys,” he said, his voice calm and even, “Look at the state of our guest. Hardly the welcome one would expect, eh Mr Johnson?” Vern paused for a moment to remove the blindfold. “Please forgive Trudge and Forrester, Mr Johnson, they are a little … how should I say … too enthusiastic.” Having said that, he swung a fist into Johnson’s face.

Johnson - who had until now managed a mere whimper - suddenly found strength enough to bawl like a child. “Please … please don’t … Stop, I beg you.” The words bubbled in his throat, blood streaming down his chin from his nose and a gash below his left eye.

Vern dragged another chair up and spun it on its front leg to face Johnson, who flinched. Apart from a table behind Vern and a filing cabinet in a far corner, the room was empty. A bulb set directly above spilled light on the two and threw shadows beneath them.

“I think you’ve guessed what’s about to happen, Mr Johnson.” Vern whispered into his ear. Once again he examined his wounds. “That looks really sore.”

“I know nothing …” Johnson said, tears welling in his swollen eyes. “I have a wife … a son … please, I’m begging you ... If I knew anything I would tell you.”

“Would you?” Vern stood and turned away from Johnson, rubbing his chin. Then he turned back looking at his two men. “Or perhaps you are a very clever man—” He leant on Johnson’s hands again, “and a very brave one.” His two colleagues sniggered. “You could be the devil himself.”

“No … I’m just an ordinary man ...”

“I think your going to be very difficult to break,” Vern continued. “It’s going to take a lot of effort on my part and a lot of pain on yours.”

Johnson’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he began another futile struggle.

“Now, now,” Vern said, pouting his lips a little, “don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.” He signalled the other two men to leave and rounded the chair on which Johnson was tied, playing with Johnson’s hair. As the door clicked shut, Vern took a handful and pulled back Johnson’s head.

“Please … please don’t hurt me … take all my money.” Johnson squinted as light stabbed his eyes. “I’ll take you to the bank … you can have it.”

“I don’t want your money,” Vern said and laughed. “I want information. What can you tell me about Brian Wetherhall?”

“Nothing,” Johnson said, “I told your men … I don’t know Brian Wetherhall … I’m telling you the truth … please, you have to believe me.”

“Okay, okay,” Vern said softly, “I do believe your telling me the truth. But to be honest, I just feel like having some fun today. It‘s been a tiresome wait.”

Johnson drew a deep breath and shouted at the top of is lungs.

“Its so peaceful out here. Feel free to shout Mr Johnson, no one can hear you, and besides, you’ve just pissed … me … off!” He took the blindfold and made it a gag, tying it tightly between Johnson’s teeth. Muted sounds were coming from behind the gag. Sounds a son should never hear his father make: mules, wails, terror.

“One thing you have to understand, Mr Johnson …” He spat his name distastefully (this was a maggot and he was the hook), “there are no more negotiations from this point, just the whim of a savage man.” Clearly enjoying his own words, he sat on the table and crossed his ankles and looked directly into the light. Johnson followed his gaze but the light was too bright for him. “The world is full of possibilities.” He gazed at the door now as if he were expecting someone to enter.

Johnson tried to skew his eyes towards the door, twisting a frail neck to see who may enter, but nobody came.

“You say you have a son?” Vern asked. Johnson nodded obediently. “It might surprise you to know that I also had a son … but he’s gone now …” For a moment he was somewhere else, running through memories of younger, happier days when the town had no time for him; when its dirty fingers could not catch his ankles as he ran through the streets.

“I could burn you … perhaps. I could take a knife to that soft, lily-white skin – a nick here, a nick there. You’d take a while to die. But then again, I might just let you go …” He let that thought hang in the air for a while. “You see, it’s a game I like to play, the object of which is to make you suffer. I love suffering, it’s so amusing. But whatever you do, don’t piss or shit. I hate it when they do that … all that mess for my men to clean up, and besides it will make me drag the whole thing out even longer.” He looked at his watch and tapped it. “We’ve got plenty of time for it … Or maybe I could just let you go.“

Johnson nodded frantically.

“Do you really think that I would let you go when I can have so much fun?” Johnson was shivering, air hissing sporadically from behind the gag. “I’ve decided your going to die anyway. I know you wouldn‘t say anything, your much too cowardly to risk being caught again. No doubt you‘d be able to carry on with your life much as usual. But cowardice and torture are my favourite combination. Only one more thing to decide: gag or no gag. Hearing a grown man mewl and beg has its rewards - they can utter the most enlightening things - but then again it can be equally as enriching to witness a mute trying to beseech with only the eloquence of expression, an honesty seldom seen. You do know Brian Wetherhall don‘t you?…”

Johnson nodded nervously, his eyes closed.

“No you don’t, Mr Johnson, don’t be silly, you’re just saying that in the hope that I will let you go.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll leave the gag on I think. I don’t like lies. Oh well, time to begin.”

He walked over to the cabinet and slid it open. “This is going to be really painful, so you better hope you pass out within the hour, Mr Johnson. Oh, and don’t take it personally, I’ve done this many times.” He took a box from the cabinet and clipped it open. “The eyes are very pain intensive. Not as delicate as you would believe.” He held up a needle, and wetting the end of a length of black cotton with his lips, threaded it through the eye. “First of all, though, I have to make sure you keep them open."

DavidGil · 07-19-2007, 06:58 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Azmakna

This has now been revised. read the first paragraph but i may well remove this in the final version (in two flaming years at this rate!) the story is supposed to spread out like a ripple. small scenes leading to the bigger picture, hence the first paragraph.

Scene 1. Chapter 1

There are many stories, none have a beginning and none have an end - they are but a current of overlapping events that are viewed in dislocation, like an ocean of moments, forever churning and on occasion washing something up on our shores. We (the disenfranchised) gaze into that ocean in an attempt to make sense of our part in it, and maybe, just maybe, in a moment of pure luck, when the ripples divide and the privilege of clarity is ours, we realise our potential. It is here that we draw our fingers through the waters in the hope that it will cleanse our pasts, and we will see our futures. Therefore, it is here we begin, in the centre of things:

I'm not sure about the above paragraph. I understand why you put it in, but I'm just wondering if it's needed in the context of the story as it progresses to explain it's supposed to spread out like a ripple.

* * *

The door burst open. Two men entered. Suspended between them a blindfolded captive – stripped of everything but his boxer shorts – struggled for freedom, his legs kicking as if trying to propel him backwards off an imaginary wall. He tugged frantically against the hands that gripped him beneath his armpits, the other two hands, tight around his frail wrists. However, it was fruitless endeavour; he was nothing compared to their strength - just a rag doll of a man hauled towards an empty chair where Vern awaited. The henchmen forced their prisoner into the chair and, taking twine from Vern, began to lash it around their captive’s torso and arms. It bit into his flesh bringing grimaces to his face and groans from his blooded lips. Still he fought for freedom, body twisting and raging against the restraints, chest heaving, skin flushed from adrenaline. The henchmen forced down on his shoulders, faces impassive.

I'd slip a inbetween. Wondering if forcing his shoulders down would be better or not. That way you could take on out as well.

“Mr Johnson,” Vern said and smiling, rested his weight on Johnson’s tethered hands. “Nice to meet you at last.” His voice resonated off the whitewashed walls.

Remove and possibly, changing rested to resting?

Vern was wearing a black suit, which had been pressed to perfection, the indigo shirt beneath sporting a thin, white tie. The suit was spotless, as if it had been taken fresh from the rack. His features, however, were in complete contrast: furrowed and dry, creasing and deepening with every syllable.

“I see my colleagues have already introduced themselves.” He grasped Johnson by the jaw, inspecting his mauled and beaten face and then glanced up at the two men flanking him. “Bad, bad boys,” he said, his voice calm and even, “Look at the state of our guest. Hardly the welcome one would expect, eh Mr Johnson?” Vern paused for a moment to remove the blindfold. “Please forgive Vern and Forrester, Mr Johnson, they are a little … how should I say … too enthusiastic.” Having said that, he swung a fist into Johnson’s face.

Johnson - who had until now managed a mere whimper - suddenly found strength enough to bawl like a child. “Please … please don’t … Stop, I beg you.” The words bubbled in his throat, blood streaming down his chin from his nose and a gash below his left eye.

Vern dragged another chair up and spun it on its front leg to face Johnson, who flinched. Apart from a table behind Vern and a filing cabinet in a far corner, the room was empty. A bulb set directly above spilled light on the two and threw shadows beneath them.

“I think you’ve guessed what’s about to happen, Mr Johnson.” Vern whispered into his ear. Once again he examined his wounds. “That looks really sore.”

“I know nothing …” Johnson said, tears welling in his swollen eyes. “I have a wife … a son … please, I’m begging you ... If I knew anything I would tell you.”

“Would you?” Vern stood and turned away from Johnson, rubbing his chin. Then he turned back looking at his two men. “Or perhaps you are a very clever man—” He leant on Johnson’s hands again, “and a very brave one.” His two colleagues sniggered. “You could be the devil himself.”

“No … I’m just an ordinary man ...”

“I think your going to be very difficult to break,” Vern continued. “It’s going to take a lot of effort on my part and a lot of pain on yours.”

Johnson’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he began another futile struggle.

“Now, now,” Vern said, pouting his lips a little, “don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.” He signalled the other two men to leave and rounded the chair on which Johnson was tied, playing with Johnson’s hair. As the door clicked shut, Vern took a handful and pulled back Johnson’s head.

“Please … please don’t hurt me … take all my money.” Johnson squinted as light stabbed his eyes. “I’ll take you to the bank … you can have it.”
“I don’t want your money,” Vern said and laughed. “I want information. What can you tell me about Brian Wetherhall?”

“Nothing,” Johnson said, “I told your men … I don’t know Brian Wetherhall … I’m telling you the truth … please, you have to believe me.”

“Okay, okay,” Vern said softly, “I do believe your telling me the truth. But to be honest, I just feel like having some fun today. It‘s been a tiresome wait.”

Johnson drew a deep breath and shouted at the top of is lungs.

Typo.

“Its so peaceful out here. Feel free to shout Mr Johnson, no one can hear you, and besides, you’ve just pissed … me … off!” He took the blindfold and made it a gag, tying it tightly between Johnson’s teeth. Muted sounds were coming from behind the gag. Sounds a son should never hear his father make: mules, wails, terror.

“One thing you have to understand, Mr Johnson …” He spat his name distastefully (this was a maggot and he was the hook), “there are no more negotiations from this point, just the whim of a savage man.” Clearly enjoying his own words, he sat on the table and crossed his ankles and looked directly into the light. Johnson followed his gaze but the light was too bright for him. “The world is full of possibilities.” He gazed at the door now as if he were expecting someone to enter.

Johnson tried to skew his eyes towards the door, twisting a frail neck to see who may enter, but nobody came.

“You say you have a son?” Vern asked. Johnson nodded obediently. “It might surprise you to know that I also had a son … but he’s gone now …” For a moment he was somewhere else, running through memories of younger, happier days when the town had no time for him; when its dirty fingers could not catch his ankles as he ran through the streets.

“I could burn you … perhaps. I could take a knife to that soft, lily-white skin – a nick here, a nick there. You’d take a while to die. But then again, I might just let you go …” He let that thought hang in the air for a while. “You see, it’s a game I like to play, the object of which is to make you suffer. I love suffering, it’s so amusing. But whatever you do, don’t piss or shit. I hate it when they do that … all that mess for my men to clean up, and besides it will make me drag the whole thing out even longer.” He looked at his watch and tapped it. “We’ve got plenty of time for it … Or maybe I could just let you go.“

Thinking you could remove and, ith a comma after watch changing tapped to tapping.

Johnson nodded frantically.

“Do you really think that I would let you go when I can have so much fun?” Johnson was shivering, air hissing sporadically from behind the gag. “I’ve decided your going to die anyway. I know you wouldn‘t say anything, your much too cowardly to risk being caught again. No doubt you‘d be able to carry on with your life much as usual. But cowardice and torture are my favourite combination. Only one more thing to decide: gag or no gag. Hearing a grown man mewl and beg has its rewards - they can utter the most enlightening things - but then again it can be equally as enriching to witness a mute trying to beseech with only the eloquence of expression, an honesty seldom seen. You do know Brian Wetherhall don‘t you?…”

Johnson nodded nervously, his eyes closed.

“No you don’t, Mr Johnson, don’t be silly, you’re just saying that in the hope that I will let you go.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll leave the gag on I think. I don’t like lies. Oh well, time to begin.”

I'd remove that.

He walked over to the cabinet and slid it open. “This is going to be really painful, so you better hope you pass out within the hour, Mr Johnson. Oh, and don’t take it personally, I’ve done this many times.” He took a box from the cabinet and clipped it open. “The eyes are very pain intensive. Not as delicate as you would believe.” He held up a needle, and wetting the end of a length of black cotton with his lips, threaded it through the eye. “First of all, though, I have to make sure you keep them open."

I'd remove and there. Wondering if you can remove one of the 'of'.

Az, I might study this for a while. To see what you include and don't while writing. It'll probably help me see what I can do without and what I can do with leaving in.

Keep it up!

blodren · 07-19-2007, 07:22 AM

the first paragraph idea reminds me of "the wheel of time". If you don't know it, it's a series, just open to the first chapter of i believe any of the 12 books and you'll see what i mean. As for the actual paragraph, it seems too deep. Reword it or remove it is my personal opinion.

The overall chapter seems to be going well for you. I looked in to torture methods once and you seem to be playing it out well, giving "vern" an actual feel to him and a realistic view. Would love to read more of this one.

Blodren

Azmakna · 07-19-2007, 11:27 AM

i'll keep it coming don't worry, but i have to say that this was written with rusty hands months ago and i don't like the voice in this at all. it's not that it's terrible, it's just that i feel restrained by it. i'll just tweak it until it's as tight as i can get it and then post it off. perhaps i'll get a 'shows promise but not for us' back... to be honest though, i'm not expecting anything as positive as that. this is a novel i have to finish, even if it ends up in the waste paper bin.

blodren · 07-19-2007, 01:37 PM

i can understand that feeling. i have one i want to get out on paper in the first place and it's been like that for two years now.

Blodren

Azmakna · 07-20-2007, 08:13 AM

in the mean time though, there is no reason why you can't write short stories or poems. i tend to reward myself when i finish a chapter or two by writing a short story.

Azmakna · 07-20-2007, 06:39 PM

Plazma Chapter 1/ Scene 2

Jacobs looked out of his window on the 14th floor of the apartment building, at a world he detested. Blind and insignificant, the ants down there scurried about their daily business, unaware of the bigger picture. Fools, he thought. Little people with tiny lives … questions, questions that’s all you know.

A strip light flickering above illuminated a flat in the advanced stages of dereliction. Empty beer cans and packets were strewn throughout the room, filthy testimony to a solitary existence. Pornography was heaped everywhere, all well thumbed and as grubby as their content. A rancid odour pervaded the room, creating the perfect environment for the many flies that flitted from one discarded lunch to the next.

Jacobs pushed his face against the windowpane, unsteady on his feet. “I know you all …,” he slurred, his nostrils frosting the glass. He stepped back and drew a ‘J’ in the condensation …, “every single one of you.”

He thought about taking judgement back down there on the streets, but he feared the consequences. They had many eyes and see from many places. They were the very reason that Jacobs had chosen isolation. In one way though, it had clarified his views. “You so called caring, loving people, don’t know love. You know sentimentality, yes.” He pulled a face and moved it from side to side in a derisive, childlike manner, before the thunder rolled back beneath his eyes. “None of you know love at all. You don’t know what its like to have it all and then nothing. If you had a zip from toe to chin I’d open you up and step right in. That’s love … that’s love …”

He left the window and tipped a chair by the table to sit on. The three magazines that were upon it fell to the floor and were summarily kicked aside. He cradled his head with his hands and breathed out deeply... In that moment, when his body was slack and his mind was free from thoughts of breathing, he imagined himself dead. Who would come to say farewell? How many forgotten faces would stare down upon his coffin? Each would have a handful of dirt, no doubt. Then he thought with melancholy, she wouldn’t be there though. He refilled a small glass, besmirched with fingerprints and spilt whiskey, and tipped it down his throat. Then with spirits glistening on his chin, he slid his arm over to his left. His hand stopped at a stack of pornography.

“Hello, my friends,” he said, his voice oozing from one word to the next, “would you like to come to bed with me?” he caught a whiff of his own body odour, “No shower tonight I’m afraid though my loves. You’ll have to put up with the stench of self pity.” This observation cheered him. “Maybe I’ll bring some other friends too.”

He walked over to a display cabinet, which was unused, save a small, worn photograph in a brass picture frame of a young woman - and opened the sliding door at its base. It was here he kept his toys: vibrators, beads, rings and a plethora of other similar things. He drew his fingers through them like a child at a pick and mix, eventually opting for a vibrating cock ring.

“Ah … just the thing,” he said, checking it to see if there was any life left in the batteries. The buzz brought a smile to his lips. “Come on darling, time for bed.”

He returned to the table and took the magazine, kissing the nude on the cover as he flicked the light off and entered his bedroom, backing the door too until it clicked closed. The bed sheets where in disarray, twisted and stained. He placed his bed friends reverently down on a bedside cabinet and began the task of unravelling last night’s nightmares. Once done, he slipped between the sheets and pulled them tight to his unshaven chin. There was enough light coming in through the windows from the neon signs across the road for Jacobs to read, and so he lay there, washed in blue and red.

“Right, my sweets,” he said, reaching for his toys and then slipping them beneath the bedclothes. A ruddy hue lit the pages of the pornographic magazine, which had automatically fallen open onto the most lurid picture therein. He closed his eyes to the image and lifted it from the page with his mind. She sat beside him on the bed, those breasts inches from his cheek, those legs enticing. She slid her hand beneath the sheets to join his own busy hand and turned so that Jacobs could rest his head on her breasts. Slowly and blissfully, he drifted into seamless fantasy; that moment when the author forgets he is creating and the words begin to live. He directed many lurid scenes; each one seemed an eternity squeezed into to a single moment; each one more depraved than the last. That was the way he would orchestrate his journey, building gradually to its pinnacle and his ultimate sin.

A creek outside the door.

Startled, Jacobs sat up, his fantasy discarded like a used durex. “Hello …” he said, easing his legs from beneath the bed sheets; slipping into his slippers. He took a dressing gown from a hanger in the wardrobe and closed the door as quietly as he had opened it, teeth locked, eyes tremulous. “Who’s there?” He swallowed, vexed at the weakness of his own voice. He reached beneath the bed searching for the baseball bat he kept there, his eyes piercing the darkness, looking, searching. Where the hell is it? he thought, sweat beginning to trickle down his temple. “I’d get moving if I were you … I’m armed.” At last, his hand stumbled upon the bat. “I’m coming out, I hope your not there.” He flicked the switch on his bedside lamp and cursed under his breath when nothing happened. He took a lung full of air and held it for a while, expelling it evenly in an attempt to bring his heartbeat under control. “Coming, ready or not,” he said and started for the door.

His hand was poised, fingers flexing, ready to turn the handle and step over the threshold into endless possibly. A mind that had only seconds before been employed to conjure bizarre sexual fantasy, now tortured him with the vivid possibilities of what horror lay in waiting beyond the door. He shoved. Unhindered by carpet, the door swung open and crashed into the display cabinet against the wall, sending its ornament crashing to the floor. The sudden din forced him to take a step backwards and brought his heartbeat back up to pace.

“You better get the fuck out of there.”

His eyes probed the murkiness of the living room. Gradually, unmistakeable shapes emerged out from the gloom, comforting, familiar and thankfully mundane: television, table, settee and chairs. Although the neon lights were directly opposite his bedroom, some illumination found its way in through the living room window, but the angle was so sharp that it did not penetrate the room, instead it merely coloured his grey curtains red. He had left the window open a fraction, just enough to cleanse the stench of neglect for the morning. However, judging by the way the curtains ebbed and billowed with the twilight winds, that gap had widened. Was it wide enough for a person? He speculated.

“I’ll tell you one more time,” he said, gripping hard onto the handle of the baseball bat as if he was about to make a home run. “You’d better get out or I’ll take your fucking face off.”

His foot crunched on the glass of the photograph as he took the first tentative step forward. He paused for a moment, his heart making a mockery of his bravado. A trickle of sweat ran down through his brow and into his left eye, which he wiped away with the cuff of his dressing gown and then quickly refocused.

“Gone, eh? Scared of old Jacobs?”

Silence.

He was beginning to wonder whether this whole episode had been courtesy of the all night off license. It would not have been the first time. He had spent a glorious fifteen minutes once discussing life and all its implications with a man who had chosen his balcony to jump from, only to find that he had been conversing with his own shadow. He lifted the picture frame gently from the floor and after shaking the remains of the glass from it, set it back on the cabinet. Although he could not see the young woman in the photograph, he smiled. He conjured her from the gloom – this saviour, this rare beauty that had done so much for him, this Miss Nightingale that had taken his heart and made it whole.

Obviously, whoever had broken in - if indeed that was the case - had left swiftly and out through the same way he had entered. And so, confident now that the danger had passed, he approached the window, holding the flapping curtain as he slid the window closed and secured it with the latch.
“That’s one determined burglar,” he mused and laughed at the sheer audacity of the climb from first floor. “Goodbye Spiderman,” he continued realizing the implausibility of his suspicion.

There was an unanswered question though: the lack of power. He walked over to the living room light switch and flicked it. Nothing ... Probably the fuse had blown, he thought. No, obviously the fuse had blown. He made for the electric box, which was beside the front door. Thankfully, he had left the key in the box so it was a simple matter from here on, except, how could he see. He had a box of matches in the drawer of the cabinet by his bed, and so he made his way - skirting the glass fragments carefully - back to his bedroom. “See you in a minute, my loves,” he said to the toys. On returning, he knelt and struck a match, holding it close to the fuses and squinting through the flame. The switch was on off. His heart began to drum again.

Suddenly someone was upon him. They were so remorseless that he buckled, his slovenly legs no match for the intruder’s insistence. An arm slid around his throat and held him tightly. Then he felt a sharp pain in his neck as if something had been inserted there. He could feel a cool liquid filling the area of penetration that chilled and numbed him to the bone. Shakes followed as the liquid coursed through his veins and that same numbness that he had felt at his neck now invaded his whole body. He was no longer afraid though. His mind had passed by that impostor, fear, and all he could offer was a slack lopsided smile before the world turned black.

Azmakna · 07-22-2007, 09:15 AM

bump (sorry)

DavidGil · 07-24-2007, 05:59 AM

Az, sorry about the delay in commenting. Hope this helps.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Azmakna

Plazma Chapter 1/ Scene 2

Jacobs looked out of his window on the 14th floor of the apartment building, at a world he detested. Blind and insignificant, the ants down there scurried about their daily business, unaware of the bigger picture. Fools, he thought. Little people with tiny lives … questions, questions that’s all you know.

Very slight nitpick. Just wanted to suggest you italicise it.

A strip light flickering above illuminated a flat in the advanced stages of dereliction. Empty beer cans and packets were strewn throughout the room, filthy testimony to a solitary existence. Pornography was heaped everywhere, all well thumbed and as grubby as their content. A rancid odour pervaded the room, creating the perfect environment for the many flies that flitted from one discarded lunch to the next.

Would pop a comma in after above and change the following word to illuminating.

Jacobs pushed his face against the windowpane, unsteady on his feet. “I know you all …,” he slurred, his nostrils frosting the glass. He stepped back and drew a ‘J’ in the condensation …, “every single one of you.”

Unsure of the comma there, never seen that before. Basically I think you can remove it but I'm in no way sure having never encounter it before.

He thought about taking judgement back down there on the streets, but he feared the consequences. They had many eyes and see from many places. They were the very reason that Jacobs had chosen isolation. In one way though, it had clarified his views. “You so called caring, loving people, don’t know love. You know sentimentality, yes.” He pulled a face and moved it from side to side in a derisive, childlike manner, before the thunder rolled back beneath his eyes. “None of you know love at all. You don’t know what its like to have it all and then nothing. If you had a zip from toe to chin I’d open you up and step right in. That’s love … that’s love …”

Suggest a comma after chin.

He left the window and tipped a chair by the table to sit on. The three magazines that were upon it fell to the floor and were summarily kicked aside. He cradled his head with his hands and breathed out deeply... In that moment, when his body was slack and his mind was free from thoughts of breathing, he imagined himself dead. Who would come to say farewell? How many forgotten faces would stare down upon his coffin? Each would have a handful of dirt, no doubt. Then he thought with melancholy, she wouldn’t be there though. He refilled a small glass, besmirched with fingerprints and spilt whiskey, and tipped it down his throat. Then with spirits glistening on his chin, he slid his arm over to his left. His hand stopped at a stack of pornography.

Wondering if then is nessecary.

“Hello, my friends,” he said, his voice oozing from one word to the next, “would you like to come to bed with me?” he caught a whiff of his own body odour, “No shower tonight I’m afraid though my loves. You’ll have to put up with the stench of self pity.” This observation cheered him. “Maybe I’ll bring some other friends too.”

He walked over to a display cabinet, which was unused, save a small, worn photograph in a brass picture frame of a young woman - and opened the sliding door at its base. It was here he kept his toys: vibrators, beads, rings and a plethora of other similar things. He drew his fingers through them like a child at a pick and mix, eventually opting for a vibrating cock ring.

“Ah … just the thing,” he said, checking it to see if there was any life left in the batteries. The buzz brought a smile to his lips. “Come on darling, time for bed.”

He returned to the table and took the magazine, kissing the nude on the cover as he flicked the light off and entered his bedroom, backing the door too until it clicked closed. The bed sheets where in disarray, twisted and stained. He placed his bed friends reverently down on a bedside cabinet and began the task of unravelling last night’s nightmares. Once done, he slipped between the sheets and pulled them tight to his unshaven chin. There was enough light coming in through the windows from the neon signs across the road for Jacobs to read, and so he lay there, washed in blue and red.

Shut might be better?

“Right, my sweets,” he said, reaching for his toys and then slipping them beneath the bedclothes. A ruddy hue lit the pages of the pornographic magazine, which had automatically fallen open onto the most lurid picture therein. He closed his eyes to the image and lifted it from the page with his mind. She sat beside him on the bed, those breasts inches from his cheek, those legs enticing. She slid her hand beneath the sheets to join his own busy hand and turned so that Jacobs could rest his head on her breasts. Slowly and blissfully, he drifted into seamless fantasy; that moment when the author forgets he is creating and the words begin to live. He directed many lurid scenes; each one seemed an eternity squeezed into to a single moment; each one more depraved than the last. That was the way he would orchestrate his journey, building gradually to its pinnacle and his ultimate sin.

Not needed.

A creek outside the door.

Startled, Jacobs sat up, his fantasy discarded like a used durex. “Hello …” he said, easing his legs from beneath the bed sheets; slipping into his slippers. He took a dressing gown from a hanger in the wardrobe and closed the door as quietly as he had opened it, teeth locked, eyes tremulous. “Who’s there?” He swallowed, vexed at the weakness of his own voice. He reached beneath the bed searching for the baseball bat he kept there, his eyes piercing the darkness, looking, searching. Where the hell is it? he thought, sweat beginning to trickle down his temple. “I’d get moving if I were you … I’m armed.” At last, his hand stumbled upon the bat. “I’m coming out, I hope your not there.” He flicked the switch on his bedside lamp and cursed under his breath when nothing happened. He took a lung full of air and held it for a while, expelling it evenly in an attempt to bring his heartbeat under control. “Coming, ready or not,” he said and started for the door.

His hand was poised, fingers flexing, ready to turn the handle and step over the threshold into endless possibly. A mind that had only seconds before been employed to conjure bizarre sexual fantasy, now tortured him with the vivid possibilities of what horror lay in waiting beyond the door. He shoved. Unhindered by carpet, the door swung open and crashed into the display cabinet against the wall, sending its ornament crashing to the floor. The sudden din forced him to take a step backwards and brought his heartbeat back up to pace.

Doesn't read right. Possibility maybe?

“You better get the fuck out of there.”

His eyes probed the murkiness of the living room. Gradually, unmistakeable shapes emerged out from the gloom, comforting, familiar and thankfully mundane: television, table, settee and chairs. Although the neon lights were directly opposite his bedroom, some illumination found its way in through the living room window, but the angle was so sharp that it did not penetrate the room, instead it merely coloured his grey curtains red. He had left the window open a fraction, just enough to cleanse the stench of neglect for the morning. However, judging by the way the curtains ebbed and billowed with the twilight winds, that gap had widened. Was it wide enough for a person? He speculated.

“I’ll tell you one more time,” he said, gripping hard onto the handle of the baseball bat as if he was about to make a home run. “You’d better get out or I’ll take your fucking face off.”

His foot crunched on the glass of the photograph as he took the first tentative step forward. He paused for a moment, his heart making a mockery of his bravado. A trickle of sweat ran down through his brow and into his left eye, which he wiped away with the cuff of his dressing gown and then quickly refocused.

“Gone, eh? Scared of old Jacobs?”

Silence.

He was beginning to wonder whether this whole episode had been courtesy of the all night off license. It would not have been the first time. He had spent a glorious fifteen minutes once discussing life and all its implications with a man who had chosen his balcony to jump from, only to find that he had been conversing with his own shadow. He lifted the picture frame gently from the floor and after shaking the remains of the glass from it, set it back on the cabinet. Although he could not see the young woman in the photograph, he smiled. He conjured her from the gloom – this saviour, this rare beauty that had done so much for him, this Miss Nightingale that had taken his heart and made it whole.

Obviously, whoever had broken in - if indeed that was the case - had left swiftly and out through the same way he had entered. And so, confident now that the danger had passed, he approached the window, holding the flapping curtain as he slid the window closed and secured it with the latch.
“That’s one determined burglar,” he mused and laughed at the sheer audacity of the climb from first floor. “Goodbye Spiderman,” he continued realizing the implausibility of his suspicion.

Wondering if you can lose those words.

There was an unanswered question though: the lack of power. He walked over to the living room light switch and flicked it. Nothing ... Probably the fuse had blown, he thought. No, obviously the fuse had blown. He made for the electric box, which was beside the front door. Thankfully, he had left the key in the box so it was a simple matter from here on, except, how could he see. He had a box of matches in the drawer of the cabinet by his bed, and so he made his way - skirting the glass fragments carefully - back to his bedroom. “See you in a minute, my loves,” he said to the toys. On returning, he knelt and struck a match, holding it close to the fuses and squinting through the flame. The switch was on off. His heart began to drum again.

Something about that I'm thinking you could change. Wording mainly.

Suddenly someone was upon him. They were so remorseless that he buckled, his slovenly legs no match for the intruder’s insistence. An arm slid around his throat and held him tightly. Then he felt a sharp pain in his neck as if something had been inserted there. He could feel a cool liquid filling the area of penetration that chilled and numbed him to the bone. Shakes followed as the liquid coursed through his veins and that same numbness that he had felt at his neck now invaded his whole body. He was no longer afraid though. His mind had passed by that impostor, fear, and all he could offer was a slack lopsided smile before the world turned black.

Azmakna · 07-24-2007, 06:00 PM

thanks David, i really appreciate you checking my stuff out.