I dont know what to do with this, expand it? contract it?
Take it out the back and shoot it?
Any crits on style, tone, voice etc would greatly appreciated. I know there isnt really a story there, just a mash of ideas.
The clear blackness of his soul overwhelmed him. Soft ripples etched their way through the darkness, like shadows moving in the moonlight. The dark insidious motives of the bleak motions before him beckoned him into the deep black beyond.
Arthur Goodrich took a step back, his eyes wide with the fear he had only felt once before, long ago. He felt that the floor beneath him might open up, and he would fall silently, without muster or verve, into himself.
That time passed in a barely noticeable instant, and Arthur Goodrich went back to listening to his fiancée as they sat on a wool blanket in the cool afternoon in the park.
Apartments overlooked the majority of the green open spaces. The wooded area, which was accessible only via the small reservoir of water located at the south of the park area, offered a respite from the bland open spaces of the rest of the green splash.
The wood area, known as a local haunt for the sex kids, screams were heard late at night. Strewn condoms and lost underwear hanging from branches, trophies for the wind.
The hilly nature of the park did not lend itself to ballgames, or other such practices, instead its patrons were the kind most associated with recreational drug far exceeding their income. Red wash took the most out of people, their eyes permanently bloodshot, they could be found usually in the basin of the park, hanging by the reservoir.
“Red?” They would ask to any wanderer passing their patch. Usually offering a hand or a sullen face in demand of their recreation, the ‘wash-heads’ would ply pity at first, then demand, often receiving a shoe or a fist, rather than a pipette, for their troubles. Sometimes however the wash-head would triumph, and another shoeless corpse would be found in the basin, head covered in leaves, arms blue, eyes gouged from sockets.
Isabelle spoke in soft tones, never raising her voice past the delicate level she had presented since their very first meeting. Arthur sat back for a moment looking to the gentle divergence of motion in the birch trees, and the momentary lapse of static nature which overcame the mighty oak no more than twenty to their left, its leaves pushing away from their branches for a moment, then like a tired man resigned to his fate, slowly returning to their original position.
Directly in front of them, around one hundred metres away, children fought. A violent display of power ensued, the smaller boy receiving blow after blow as the facade of his stature smashed in an instant, ‘This is natural’ Arthur thought ‘a learning of the way things must be’. The larger boy eventually laid his arms to rest to his side, one fist still clenched and smattered with the blood of the smaller, weaker boy. A rabble has ensured them, and baiting began to echo toward Arthur and Isabelle as they sat and watched.
Arthur turned to Isabelle, watching her talk as time around him slowed to a mere crawl, he watched her mouth creating words, the muscles in her face formed her delicate utterances. Her lips moved with the ease of a soft summer breeze, effortlessly parlaying the words meant for him and him only. Arthur knew he loved he loved her, he just didn’t know how, nor why. Her soft tones reached him in ways no others could, her voice danced delicately in his ears to reach that small part within him which felt warm, a small glow in a sea of cold nakedness. A palette of warm colour splashed across his mind with each vowel inflexed and every utterance she muttered.
Arthur noted the time on the wrist watch, just as the world regained its natural speed.
He had been looking at his wrist watch regularly for the past hour, trying not the let Isabelle notice. His eyes flicked once more to the timepiece, studying the movement of the hands, watching as the tiny cogs and metal pieces etched away at him, second by second.
“I am sorry” Arthur interrupted.
Isabelle seemed stunned at this interruption ‘he usually listens to thoroughly’ she thought to herself, after which her next thought turned to what could possess him to interject in such a manner, as no instance had ever occurred before.
“I am very sorry” He continued.
Isabelle sat in surprise.
“Whatever is the matter?” She uttered, her usual soft tones blunted to a harsher finish.
Arthur stood up, looking into the distance, offering her no hint as the nature of his interruption, nor his intention.
“I am afraid I must go”, his face a mask of emotional stiltedness, his eyes as dark as ever, unreadable, animal, loathsome.
“Where are you going?” Isabelle asked.
“To hell” was his reply.
Last edited by texmex1011; 06-08-2010 at 06:58 AM..