Seventy-Five
This morning I woke up early and decided to write a short story based on a dream I'd had a few weeks ago. It was a great creative outlet and I had a great time getting it down on paper. I'm still cleaning it up, and not sure what I'm going to do with it, but I figured I'd throw the beginning up here, just for yuks. At this point, the story is called, "Seventy-Five":
There was dried blood on the floor of the hallway. It wasn’t alot of blood, just a few small, round droplets that were spaced about every one or two feet down the hall. Normally, Ed wouldn’t have noticed, as he tended to hustle nervously through every moment of his waking life. But tonight, he was especially nervous, and it seemed to make every detail of the city stand out in technicolor. Details like the small, dried-brown circles on the dirty linoleum floor in these unfamiliar surroundings didn’t do much to calm Ed’s nerves, and neither did the stifling heat of this August evening.
“Haven’t these people ever heard of air conditioning?” Ed whined to himself, as he ran his handkerchief under his collar and over the back of his neck. Ed was a squat, sweaty man, a chronic case of heartburn and bad breath wrapped in a cheap suit. He had a small mouth and beady eyes that were jammed into a round, doughy face, and he walked hunched over, like he was hiding a secret more important than a sizable paunch under his wrinkled jacket.
Ed continued to follow the blood trail down the hallway. As fate would have it, it seemed to end at the very door of the apartment Ed had come to visit. 6D.
Ed’s knees felt weak. Just as he thought twice about knocking, he heard the rattle of the doorknob and the door swung wide open. A gust of hot, burnt air burst forth from inside the apartment, and a dry, gaunt old man stood in the doorway.
“Thought someone was out there.” the old man said. His voice was calm and solid, and the echo in the hallway gave it a metallic ring, like the old man’s fillings were made of bell brass. “You Ed?”
There was dried blood on the floor of the hallway. It wasn’t alot of blood, just a few small, round droplets that were spaced about every one or two feet down the hall. Normally, Ed wouldn’t have noticed, as he tended to hustle nervously through every moment of his waking life. But tonight, he was especially nervous, and it seemed to make every detail of the city stand out in technicolor. Details like the small, dried-brown circles on the dirty linoleum floor in these unfamiliar surroundings didn’t do much to calm Ed’s nerves, and neither did the stifling heat of this August evening.
“Haven’t these people ever heard of air conditioning?” Ed whined to himself, as he ran his handkerchief under his collar and over the back of his neck. Ed was a squat, sweaty man, a chronic case of heartburn and bad breath wrapped in a cheap suit. He had a small mouth and beady eyes that were jammed into a round, doughy face, and he walked hunched over, like he was hiding a secret more important than a sizable paunch under his wrinkled jacket.
Ed continued to follow the blood trail down the hallway. As fate would have it, it seemed to end at the very door of the apartment Ed had come to visit. 6D.
Ed’s knees felt weak. Just as he thought twice about knocking, he heard the rattle of the doorknob and the door swung wide open. A gust of hot, burnt air burst forth from inside the apartment, and a dry, gaunt old man stood in the doorway.
“Thought someone was out there.” the old man said. His voice was calm and solid, and the echo in the hallway gave it a metallic ring, like the old man’s fillings were made of bell brass. “You Ed?”
2 Comments:
I can hear it....yYears from now, when James Bonney is a household name (NOT the triathlete) a grandmother will talk about reading this story to her grandson. He will say "but grandma, it's about the seventies" and she will reply....
"Well, I'm in my seventies!"
And for once....it will apply!
I used to write short stories all the time when I was younger, I was constantly being kicked off the typewriter, and later, the computer growing up. Sometimes the itch to write a story still gets me. Maybe I'll post something of mine one day.
Post a Comment
<< Home