![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Original: Absolution (excerpt)
Feb. 2nd, 2008 01:17 amI think I'll be using Muse's Absolution Album's tracks as chapter titles. I don't think I'll follow the track order, though.
( The tracks )
I don't have a clue as to where I'm taking the story, being, as it is, born of one line and a dream. Stylistically, I'm not sure either, because what I have written down is what I'd like to start with, but there's some backstory I might need to stick in beyond the limits of references. Tracks 1, 8 and 9 would work well for flashbacks in that case.
I also have no idea what title this part ought to have.
( The dream )
Extract:
"There's an angel dying upstairs."
I squinted into the darkness that rolled down the staircase, my clothes dripping. I shivered in the hallway, my back to the elevator door.
"Are you a doctor"
This time I saw her, a little girl near ten or so - I'm terrible with ages, especially kids' - crouched on the stairs, her head resting against the wall. It looked like she'd been there, like that, a long time.
I took a step back, feeling my shirt stick to the cold metal. The last thing I wanted was to get saddled with a kid, and if there really was someone upstairs - well, let's just say being social is overrated at times like these.
God, times like these. That almost sounded normal. As if these were precedented times.*
I'd only just broken in, thinking the apartment abandoned but still structurally sound. It was hell out there, just pouring rain that was a few degrees shy of ice water. I rubbed my forehead with the hand holding my jacket. I was tired, I was wet, and I was hungry.
"Are you a doctor?" repeated the girl.
I shrugged and wrung out my jacket. "No," I said, "I'm an investment consultant." I bounced on my heels a bit to keep warm, my shoes squelching in the wet patch of carpet I was standing in. The carpet may once have been light beige; now it just looked like dirt.
"Can you help?"
I didn't know what the trouble was but was certain, whatever it was, I - or anyone else - wouldn't be able to help. That was the general rule of things these days.
* I'd written the second sentence, then came up with the first, and don't know which to keep, or if both. Except it was "these were normal times".
** "He delivers great punch to the realization that the humans around him have the comparable lifespan of fruit flies, and that in the end, he will always be a lonely little boy." (Here)
*** A story I have yet to write, about the anthropomorphic personification of the dark, who may just be a fallen angel. One poem's lines sum it best: "stripped of harp, halo and wings, and sent hurtling into darkness". (Dunno the poem's title or author, much to my frustration.)
( The tracks )
I don't have a clue as to where I'm taking the story, being, as it is, born of one line and a dream. Stylistically, I'm not sure either, because what I have written down is what I'd like to start with, but there's some backstory I might need to stick in beyond the limits of references. Tracks 1, 8 and 9 would work well for flashbacks in that case.
I also have no idea what title this part ought to have.
( The dream )
Extract:
"There's an angel dying upstairs."
I squinted into the darkness that rolled down the staircase, my clothes dripping. I shivered in the hallway, my back to the elevator door.
"Are you a doctor"
This time I saw her, a little girl near ten or so - I'm terrible with ages, especially kids' - crouched on the stairs, her head resting against the wall. It looked like she'd been there, like that, a long time.
I took a step back, feeling my shirt stick to the cold metal. The last thing I wanted was to get saddled with a kid, and if there really was someone upstairs - well, let's just say being social is overrated at times like these.
God, times like these. That almost sounded normal. As if these were precedented times.*
I'd only just broken in, thinking the apartment abandoned but still structurally sound. It was hell out there, just pouring rain that was a few degrees shy of ice water. I rubbed my forehead with the hand holding my jacket. I was tired, I was wet, and I was hungry.
"Are you a doctor?" repeated the girl.
I shrugged and wrung out my jacket. "No," I said, "I'm an investment consultant." I bounced on my heels a bit to keep warm, my shoes squelching in the wet patch of carpet I was standing in. The carpet may once have been light beige; now it just looked like dirt.
"Can you help?"
I didn't know what the trouble was but was certain, whatever it was, I - or anyone else - wouldn't be able to help. That was the general rule of things these days.
* I'd written the second sentence, then came up with the first, and don't know which to keep, or if both. Except it was "these were normal times".
** "He delivers great punch to the realization that the humans around him have the comparable lifespan of fruit flies, and that in the end, he will always be a lonely little boy." (Here)
*** A story I have yet to write, about the anthropomorphic personification of the dark, who may just be a fallen angel. One poem's lines sum it best: "stripped of harp, halo and wings, and sent hurtling into darkness". (Dunno the poem's title or author, much to my frustration.)
