odd

Over a year ago, I started writing a story, but I didn’t get very far, and ceded it to writer’s block. Yesterday, zefrank linked to a short story by a screenwriter, John August. Here is John August’s introduction to his story:

After 35 years working at the Central Library, Vincent Lewis has perfected the art of unremarkability. But when a terrified woman falls through his bathroom ceiling, he’s forced back into a life of gunfights, double agents and paranormal research. The secret he’s been keeping for nearly four decades might reunite him with his lost love, or kill millions.

Here is the whole page and a half of my story that I wrote. Keep in mind, this is not particularly proofread, and is (for me) a rather old piece of writing. I think I have since learned quite a bit.

He is a man like any other, and no one would speak to the contrary.

The clouds above do not brood above his home in a remarkable way.  The drops of rain do not trickle down through his well-stained ceiling with any special grace.  The small patches of mold lurking in the corners are no more divine or demonic than the simple brown curtains that sporadically waft with the short gusts of this particular storm of thunder.  The sheets of his bed do not find much honor in their task of guarding him from the wet chill of the outside air, and perhaps that is why this man finds himself awake at an hour not meant for waking, though the blame might be shared with his windows that never learned what to keep in and what to keep out.  This man, however, does not care how well his windows have learned, nor what his sheets think about their lot in life.  He is not a man that likes to think about such things, especially not at this hour. 

Instead, as he rests beneath the cool indignation of his sheets, he ponders his own misery, as only a man in bed can.  The last slivers of the dream he is sure he was enjoying fade from his present memory, so he turns himself onto his stomach and plants his face into his pillow, choosing instead to consider the chill that was now spreading across his body.  His woefully uneducated window continues to bless him with frigid blasts from the outside, and with each draft, he imagines that he was simply never warm in the first place, and it is a thought that seems to comforts him.

He is not the sort of man to stay comforted, however, for he is a conflicted man.  A small, persistent thought begins within his mind that merely reminds him that he is not being truthful with himself, that he was perfectly warm but an hour ago.  His mind drifts to thoughts of spring and summer, and he wastes no time romanticizing these distant times, a feat that demonstrates his incredible power of forgetfulness. This is the sort of man that finds no joy in long walks on the beach, so intensely does he hate the discomfort of sweat upon his brow brought up by a clear day’s sun, a hatred matched only by the invasion of hot sand between his toes.   Unable to silence his suddenly fond  memories of warmer days, an insatiable feeling of restlessness and dissatisfaction overtakes his thoughts.  Rolling over onto his back, he glares at the wooden rafters above him.  Being used to such unwarranted abuse, they ignore him.

           Unable to think of a more productive option, he continues his baleful stare upwards for far longer than he originally intended.  As his eyes start to grow heavy once more, he sinks into his bed, and might have drifted back to sleep had it not been for what happened next.  Now, it has already been stated that this is a man like any other, a statement which has never been false for the whole of this man’s existence.  This, however, says nothing about what happens to this man, for it is quite possible to be dreadfully average in the midst of incredible circumstances.  This is one such man.  Indeed, the only remotely remarkable feature of this man is his unending determination to be unsurprised and unchanged by the events to which he is constantly subjected, a quality which some might make the mistake of commending him for.

           Concerned only with recapturing his sleep, he ignores the uproar beyond his window, a noteworthy choice given how strong the winds had been growing.  The whole of his home groans with a noble effort to resist the storm’s breath, and as the rafters began seriously considering divorcing from the roof to elope with the floorboards, the winds let up quite suddenly, leaving a silence broken only by this man’s short, light breaths.

           As he shuffles back to the dream he lost not long ago, a great and frightening crash erupts from within his home.  Frantically propping himself on his elbows, he stares ahead into the eyes of what some would consider opportunity, others might label destiny, but few others would regard as an inconvenience.  Looking upward, rain drips through an appropriately large hole in his roof.  While others might have leaped up in shock and concern, he merely stares at his uninvited guest with a blank face and ponders what the worst facet of this new situation might be.  Having landed in his living-room (or rather, the half of his home arbitrarily designated as such), he notes that his intruder has wisely landed upon his lovely forest green futon, purchased on clearance but two months prior.

Making faces of excessive consternation, he pushes his covers away and gingerly brings his feet down to the cold wood that comprises his floorboards. Careful to avoid debris from his roof and the puddles of water that have begun to collect on his floor, he kneels next to his visitor, who lays sprawled across his futon.

I couldn’t really decide what I wanted the visitor (a woman) to do or to incite within him.

Originality is more impossible than I thought.