Post by Christopher on Aug 23, 2014 15:55:00 GMT
Genre: Virus/Dystopia
Age: 18+
Word Count: 2,300
Tags/Warnings: Implied kidnapping and peril. Not sure, but there may be swearing.
Summary: I don't really want to add a summary as we are supposed to enter the scene disoriented as our main character does.
I'm trying to find out if this is a suitable opening chapter to my novel. I'm open to all criticism, no matter how detailed and thorough, so if the pacing is bad, or if an adjective/verb doesn't work - let me know!
There should be italics to stress certain words, but they have been cleared during cutting & pasting. There is also both an inner & outer voice used during the chapter as she is alone and under stress. Hope it doesn't cause too much confusion
PROLOGUE
Her eyes opened to an unfamiliar view. The dream was over, but she still felt half-asleep as her senses took time to adjust. There was the smell of pork and smoke on the air, just like there had been in the final moments of the dream. It was a goofy little vision. A man in stationmaster's uniform in the middle of an ice rink, turning a pig on a spit. A confusing impression to wake up to and in that confusion, her first thoughts placed her back in the home with Maggie and Millicent. They must've been treating the girls to an outside grill. A bit of gaiety for a sunny day. Rosie decided she needed to get out of bed quickly and make herself scarce. A little extra effort had to be put into not being noticed on these kinds of days.
She raised her head with a little effort, but very quickly realised the home was not where she was now. The dread she had felt was momentary. The home was almost ten years ago; Auntie Becca’s house of horror was twelve. She was now an adult. A semi-functional adult, but an adult nonetheless. And she was an apprentice engineer at the Berkshire Moor Observatory---
But something was indeed wrong; she wasn’t there either. These weren't the dorm rooms. She was alone, in a dark and abandoned subterranean den.
Alone.
Dark.
Abandoned.
This was a fine way to wake up! Nothing made sense. The only thing she was sure of was her name... erm...
No. In fact it appeared she wasn't sure of that either.
What had she been doing? What had happened? Was there a train? Had she been on a journey?
Yes! She had been travelling, that's right. Think more, Rosie. Where were you going? Come on--- oh yes - Rosie. That's my name. Well that's a start. Come on then, Rosie. Think!
But it was useless. That was all she could see for now. At present, she was alone in a room with drips by the side of her bed. She was being experimented on. She was sure of it. This was no hospital. It looked too disorganised. Maybe she was in Skegness.
Her face stayed emotionless, but inside she laughed wryly – or thought she did. It was inevitable this day would come. Life follows patterns. Her bad luck had returned and now she was to be the subject of a medical experiment to see how long it took for a fractured mind to finally shatter.
#
Over two hours had passed. She couldn't be too sure of that, but her internal chronometer was usually a good gauge, even without natural light, or windows. And she couldn't go outside to check; the exit door was locked – she hadn't checked that it was locked. It just – well, it was obviously locked. If you're going to experiment on someone, you lock them in. It's how things are done in the underworld.
She scanned the room again closely for the umpteenth time. There were cupboards, a bin, a small stripy notebook, an open door to what looked like a storeroom, another bed that had been slept in, a vent, a sink that – she would find out later - delivered no water, a small striplight and that large. sturdy-looking. metal door that was obviously. and quite categorically. most emphatically. and without any shadow of doubt. locked.
I bet you’re locked. She knew it would be locked. There was no chance it wouldn’t be locked. Come on. Really.
She moved her feet to the side of the bed and felt mild disorientation as she did so.
She stared at the door, giving the vertigo time to pass. “You’re not going to be open.” she whispered. There was no chance it would be open. She’d bet her reputation on it.
She slid off the bed and instinctively raised herself onto her tip-toes, before moving towards the door - her focus always on the door, like she was going to enter battle with it. “You’re definitely not going to open.” She knew it wasn’t going to open. She knew there was more chance of her seeing the starship Enterprise orbiting the Earth through her telescope than-
She reached the door. Precedence was near.
She rested her hand on the handle. “Please open. I’ll give you anything if you’ll just open.” She almost felt like it was too much of an event to even try to open it. The disappointment of it would be too great. “But you won’t, will you?” A breath. “Come on... please open.”
Her eyes fixed solely on the handle. Maybe a little telekinesis would assist her.
She pressed down... ever so lightly! There was a millimetre of movement. Enough movement to give her hope, but not too much to deliver premature elation.
Come on, Rosie. You've got to try it.
But it'll be locked.
If you don't try it, you'll never know.
But if I do try...
Just---
She pressed down on the handle. It didn’t move. It was locked.
Poo! She scrunched up her nose and closed her eyes tightly in muted huff. “I knew it!”
She returned to the bed – once more on her tip-toes – and climbed back up. She went through the ritual of wiping her feet with the back of her right hand, then wiping the back of her right hand on the bed sheet along the side of the mattress. The sleeping surface must remain clean, Rosemary, because cleanliness-
Hold on. She had a thought! The storeroom. There were wet-wipes in there. She'd spied them through the open door.
They’re not yours, Rosemary.
She didn’t care. She liked to be clean. Cleanliness is-
A sound. Only slight. Distant. Muffled.
Her breathing stopped and she listened closely, cocking her head to the side to try to focus her audio receptors. She looked around the room to gain a kind of stereo location of where the noise was entering. She scanned both doors first then up to the vent. That’s it, she thought. There was sound still coming in, like a shrieking, or a singing, or a - a whooping. That’s it - it’s a whooping. Someone’s happy about something. They’re cheering about something.
It gave her encouragement to hear it. If she knew at that moment, however, the voice belonged to a psychotic pyromaniac, her vicarious joy would have been sullied, somewhat.
I’ve got to let them know I’m down here, she thought. Shout!
So, the process of shouting began. There was inception in her lungs and her mouth opened in anticipation of the noise that was to pass out from it. Up the air travelled through the bronchi, thundering towards her trachea and up to her vocal chords----
Where it stopped.
I can’t. It’d be too embarrassing. Someone will know I'm here. Someone will look at me.
But you need someone to know you're here. You need someone to look at you.
But it’s too embarrassing.
Yes, but you’re alone.
I know I’m alone.
And stuck in a basement.
I know that.
Locked in a basement. Alone.
I know. But maybe I’m supposed to be here.
Come again --– what?
If I scream, people will come and tell me how stupid I am for making such a commotion when there’s a perfectly rational explanation for me being here.
Like what?
I don’t know. Something.
Bravo... oh, well done. 'Something'.
Observation maybe?
Observation? Observation of what? How long you can survive without frontal lobes? You’ve got to make a noise, you silly girl. Maybe you’ve been kidnapped.
Kidnapped?!
You heard me. There's no ‘maybe’ about it.
Oh my God, I’ve been kidnapped. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…
Her inner voice suddenly became panicky too. The id following the ego. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…
“Oh my God!” Rosie screeched with choked voice and she tried to scream once more. Her body tensed as her ribcage contracted in an effort to purge her lungs and make a noise. A deafening, ear-drum puncturing, piercing noise... but once again it reached the buttress of her shyness and ventured no further than her epiglottis.
Come on, Rosemary - you’ve got to scream. You’ve been kidnapped!
But I can’t scream. I’m too embarrassed. People will laugh at me…
The internal conflict continued back and forth, but one thing was for sure: she was not going to scream.
She fell back against the cool mattress in a dead heap. I’m such a failure, she berated herself and in a hushed voice, she spoke her disappointment. “I’m too weak.”
She curled up on her side and pulled her knees up to her chest as she began to weep. Her eyes pressed hard against her kneecaps, so hard she felt her tendons creak and had to release them before something snapped.
When she finally brought her head away to wipe at the warm tears, she could see kaleidoscopic strobes before her and she thought of John, Paul, Ringo and the other one as badly drawn cartoons.
Yellow Submarine popped in her head, but was gone before the song had chance to accompany it.
Deep, she thought. How deep am I in here?
Was she below sea-level? Was she hundreds of fathoms below the surface in a zombie infested laboratory where-
Stop it! She shook her head hard to exorcise the image.
She was still. She steadied her breathing and sat back up, looking towards the vent and cocking her head so her right side was aimed more towards the grate.
She could only hear the intimated strum of her heart as it pushed blood through the vessels inside her skull.
She continued to listen for a few minutes alternating between ears without giving it much of a thought.
She dabbed at her nose, which had started to run. Tears always did that. She had no idea why. They were surely two different systems in the body. Did the tear duct tubes connect to the nasopharynx? It was anyone’s guess.
This nightie is getting slick with fluids, she thought and it was only now she noticed how nice her night attire felt against her skin. It was a lovely, soft, welcoming fabric (with a high snot-absorbency rate). She wondered what it said on the label. It was like no material she had worn before. Probably something she’d never heard of before. Something only the super-rich could afford- Cashmere Silk maybe. Snot absorbency rate of twelve.
Ewww. She didn’t like the thought of wearing a nightie covered in nasal excreta.
The inner voice spoke again. It implored her sympathetically. Scream, Rosemary. You’ve got to scream.
She aimed her face up to the vent and took in a deep breath, a jumble of words cheering her on from inside.
She took heave, her middle firming as she did so.
But again there was nothing. Nothing but a tensing of her abdomen and a clicking sound from her throat. If she had ever screamed in her life - and she was sure she must’ve done at some point – now was not going to be the next time. Did I scream when I cut my nose, she thought to herself?
But that was a distant memory now.
Sadness caressed her with a numbing palm and stroked at her face. Her eyes lowered till her distant gaze was on the bed. She thought of her mother, as her thumb and forefinger pinched delicately at the faint scar under her nose.
There was silence everywhere. Outside; in the room; and in her mind. She pushed it all away. Grief has a way of dulling the senses.
Her tummy growled at her. She was hungry. Maybe something from the stockroom would take her mind off things. She decided she would fetch a packet of wet wipes and had she seen Quavers as she'd tip-toed back to the bed? She'd have a packet of those. Two packets. To hell with those who’d taken her. She needed to eat!
This was the depth of her rebelliousness.
She yelped and put her hands to her ears as a noise shot out from the vent.
What was that?
That was a gunshot.
No it wasn’t. People don’t have guns. That was a car.
Yeah, you’re right. It was a car. One word: kidnapped! Of course it was a gun. The kidnappers are shooting at the police. The kidnappers’ll be down here any second to destroy the evidence.
Oh my God- I don’t want to know what you mean by evidence. I don’t-
I mean you, Rosemary. They’re going to come down here and kill you. Set you on-
Another sudden report from the vent told of another shot. Her hands pressed hard at the side of her head.
Another gunshot further away.
And another.
Rosie held her breath and listened for more, never taking her hands away from her ears until she was sure she would no longer receive a shock. The clacking sounds were becoming more distant.
It’s a car backfiring. That’s what it is.
Yes, a car backfiring is what it is... unless the gunfight is being drawn away... before they come back to kill you.
She had to agree. It could very well have been a gun. She could very well be the victim of a kidnapping. She may very well not be alive this time tomorrow.
She felt a familiar warmth roll down her cheek.
Don’t cry, Rosemary. You’ve wanted this for years. It’ll be an end to the pain. You won’t have to torture yourself anymore. It’ll just be one shot and that’ll be it. You won’t be able to do anything about it; you’re too much of a coward. Admit it, Rosemary. You’ll be happier dead.
The voice inside her head had a genuine point. Rosie couldn’t argue with that. The only thing she could do for the time being, was lie back down, curl up into a quiet, tiny little ball and let the bad times roll.
Age: 18+
Word Count: 2,300
Tags/Warnings: Implied kidnapping and peril. Not sure, but there may be swearing.
Summary: I don't really want to add a summary as we are supposed to enter the scene disoriented as our main character does.
I'm trying to find out if this is a suitable opening chapter to my novel. I'm open to all criticism, no matter how detailed and thorough, so if the pacing is bad, or if an adjective/verb doesn't work - let me know!
There should be italics to stress certain words, but they have been cleared during cutting & pasting. There is also both an inner & outer voice used during the chapter as she is alone and under stress. Hope it doesn't cause too much confusion
PROLOGUE
Her eyes opened to an unfamiliar view. The dream was over, but she still felt half-asleep as her senses took time to adjust. There was the smell of pork and smoke on the air, just like there had been in the final moments of the dream. It was a goofy little vision. A man in stationmaster's uniform in the middle of an ice rink, turning a pig on a spit. A confusing impression to wake up to and in that confusion, her first thoughts placed her back in the home with Maggie and Millicent. They must've been treating the girls to an outside grill. A bit of gaiety for a sunny day. Rosie decided she needed to get out of bed quickly and make herself scarce. A little extra effort had to be put into not being noticed on these kinds of days.
She raised her head with a little effort, but very quickly realised the home was not where she was now. The dread she had felt was momentary. The home was almost ten years ago; Auntie Becca’s house of horror was twelve. She was now an adult. A semi-functional adult, but an adult nonetheless. And she was an apprentice engineer at the Berkshire Moor Observatory---
But something was indeed wrong; she wasn’t there either. These weren't the dorm rooms. She was alone, in a dark and abandoned subterranean den.
Alone.
Dark.
Abandoned.
This was a fine way to wake up! Nothing made sense. The only thing she was sure of was her name... erm...
No. In fact it appeared she wasn't sure of that either.
What had she been doing? What had happened? Was there a train? Had she been on a journey?
Yes! She had been travelling, that's right. Think more, Rosie. Where were you going? Come on--- oh yes - Rosie. That's my name. Well that's a start. Come on then, Rosie. Think!
But it was useless. That was all she could see for now. At present, she was alone in a room with drips by the side of her bed. She was being experimented on. She was sure of it. This was no hospital. It looked too disorganised. Maybe she was in Skegness.
Her face stayed emotionless, but inside she laughed wryly – or thought she did. It was inevitable this day would come. Life follows patterns. Her bad luck had returned and now she was to be the subject of a medical experiment to see how long it took for a fractured mind to finally shatter.
#
Over two hours had passed. She couldn't be too sure of that, but her internal chronometer was usually a good gauge, even without natural light, or windows. And she couldn't go outside to check; the exit door was locked – she hadn't checked that it was locked. It just – well, it was obviously locked. If you're going to experiment on someone, you lock them in. It's how things are done in the underworld.
She scanned the room again closely for the umpteenth time. There were cupboards, a bin, a small stripy notebook, an open door to what looked like a storeroom, another bed that had been slept in, a vent, a sink that – she would find out later - delivered no water, a small striplight and that large. sturdy-looking. metal door that was obviously. and quite categorically. most emphatically. and without any shadow of doubt. locked.
I bet you’re locked. She knew it would be locked. There was no chance it wouldn’t be locked. Come on. Really.
She moved her feet to the side of the bed and felt mild disorientation as she did so.
She stared at the door, giving the vertigo time to pass. “You’re not going to be open.” she whispered. There was no chance it would be open. She’d bet her reputation on it.
She slid off the bed and instinctively raised herself onto her tip-toes, before moving towards the door - her focus always on the door, like she was going to enter battle with it. “You’re definitely not going to open.” She knew it wasn’t going to open. She knew there was more chance of her seeing the starship Enterprise orbiting the Earth through her telescope than-
She reached the door. Precedence was near.
She rested her hand on the handle. “Please open. I’ll give you anything if you’ll just open.” She almost felt like it was too much of an event to even try to open it. The disappointment of it would be too great. “But you won’t, will you?” A breath. “Come on... please open.”
Her eyes fixed solely on the handle. Maybe a little telekinesis would assist her.
She pressed down... ever so lightly! There was a millimetre of movement. Enough movement to give her hope, but not too much to deliver premature elation.
Come on, Rosie. You've got to try it.
But it'll be locked.
If you don't try it, you'll never know.
But if I do try...
Just---
She pressed down on the handle. It didn’t move. It was locked.
Poo! She scrunched up her nose and closed her eyes tightly in muted huff. “I knew it!”
She returned to the bed – once more on her tip-toes – and climbed back up. She went through the ritual of wiping her feet with the back of her right hand, then wiping the back of her right hand on the bed sheet along the side of the mattress. The sleeping surface must remain clean, Rosemary, because cleanliness-
Hold on. She had a thought! The storeroom. There were wet-wipes in there. She'd spied them through the open door.
They’re not yours, Rosemary.
She didn’t care. She liked to be clean. Cleanliness is-
A sound. Only slight. Distant. Muffled.
Her breathing stopped and she listened closely, cocking her head to the side to try to focus her audio receptors. She looked around the room to gain a kind of stereo location of where the noise was entering. She scanned both doors first then up to the vent. That’s it, she thought. There was sound still coming in, like a shrieking, or a singing, or a - a whooping. That’s it - it’s a whooping. Someone’s happy about something. They’re cheering about something.
It gave her encouragement to hear it. If she knew at that moment, however, the voice belonged to a psychotic pyromaniac, her vicarious joy would have been sullied, somewhat.
I’ve got to let them know I’m down here, she thought. Shout!
So, the process of shouting began. There was inception in her lungs and her mouth opened in anticipation of the noise that was to pass out from it. Up the air travelled through the bronchi, thundering towards her trachea and up to her vocal chords----
Where it stopped.
I can’t. It’d be too embarrassing. Someone will know I'm here. Someone will look at me.
But you need someone to know you're here. You need someone to look at you.
But it’s too embarrassing.
Yes, but you’re alone.
I know I’m alone.
And stuck in a basement.
I know that.
Locked in a basement. Alone.
I know. But maybe I’m supposed to be here.
Come again --– what?
If I scream, people will come and tell me how stupid I am for making such a commotion when there’s a perfectly rational explanation for me being here.
Like what?
I don’t know. Something.
Bravo... oh, well done. 'Something'.
Observation maybe?
Observation? Observation of what? How long you can survive without frontal lobes? You’ve got to make a noise, you silly girl. Maybe you’ve been kidnapped.
Kidnapped?!
You heard me. There's no ‘maybe’ about it.
Oh my God, I’ve been kidnapped. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…
Her inner voice suddenly became panicky too. The id following the ego. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…
“Oh my God!” Rosie screeched with choked voice and she tried to scream once more. Her body tensed as her ribcage contracted in an effort to purge her lungs and make a noise. A deafening, ear-drum puncturing, piercing noise... but once again it reached the buttress of her shyness and ventured no further than her epiglottis.
Come on, Rosemary - you’ve got to scream. You’ve been kidnapped!
But I can’t scream. I’m too embarrassed. People will laugh at me…
The internal conflict continued back and forth, but one thing was for sure: she was not going to scream.
She fell back against the cool mattress in a dead heap. I’m such a failure, she berated herself and in a hushed voice, she spoke her disappointment. “I’m too weak.”
She curled up on her side and pulled her knees up to her chest as she began to weep. Her eyes pressed hard against her kneecaps, so hard she felt her tendons creak and had to release them before something snapped.
When she finally brought her head away to wipe at the warm tears, she could see kaleidoscopic strobes before her and she thought of John, Paul, Ringo and the other one as badly drawn cartoons.
Yellow Submarine popped in her head, but was gone before the song had chance to accompany it.
Deep, she thought. How deep am I in here?
Was she below sea-level? Was she hundreds of fathoms below the surface in a zombie infested laboratory where-
Stop it! She shook her head hard to exorcise the image.
She was still. She steadied her breathing and sat back up, looking towards the vent and cocking her head so her right side was aimed more towards the grate.
She could only hear the intimated strum of her heart as it pushed blood through the vessels inside her skull.
She continued to listen for a few minutes alternating between ears without giving it much of a thought.
She dabbed at her nose, which had started to run. Tears always did that. She had no idea why. They were surely two different systems in the body. Did the tear duct tubes connect to the nasopharynx? It was anyone’s guess.
This nightie is getting slick with fluids, she thought and it was only now she noticed how nice her night attire felt against her skin. It was a lovely, soft, welcoming fabric (with a high snot-absorbency rate). She wondered what it said on the label. It was like no material she had worn before. Probably something she’d never heard of before. Something only the super-rich could afford- Cashmere Silk maybe. Snot absorbency rate of twelve.
Ewww. She didn’t like the thought of wearing a nightie covered in nasal excreta.
The inner voice spoke again. It implored her sympathetically. Scream, Rosemary. You’ve got to scream.
She aimed her face up to the vent and took in a deep breath, a jumble of words cheering her on from inside.
She took heave, her middle firming as she did so.
But again there was nothing. Nothing but a tensing of her abdomen and a clicking sound from her throat. If she had ever screamed in her life - and she was sure she must’ve done at some point – now was not going to be the next time. Did I scream when I cut my nose, she thought to herself?
But that was a distant memory now.
Sadness caressed her with a numbing palm and stroked at her face. Her eyes lowered till her distant gaze was on the bed. She thought of her mother, as her thumb and forefinger pinched delicately at the faint scar under her nose.
There was silence everywhere. Outside; in the room; and in her mind. She pushed it all away. Grief has a way of dulling the senses.
Her tummy growled at her. She was hungry. Maybe something from the stockroom would take her mind off things. She decided she would fetch a packet of wet wipes and had she seen Quavers as she'd tip-toed back to the bed? She'd have a packet of those. Two packets. To hell with those who’d taken her. She needed to eat!
This was the depth of her rebelliousness.
She yelped and put her hands to her ears as a noise shot out from the vent.
What was that?
That was a gunshot.
No it wasn’t. People don’t have guns. That was a car.
Yeah, you’re right. It was a car. One word: kidnapped! Of course it was a gun. The kidnappers are shooting at the police. The kidnappers’ll be down here any second to destroy the evidence.
Oh my God- I don’t want to know what you mean by evidence. I don’t-
I mean you, Rosemary. They’re going to come down here and kill you. Set you on-
Another sudden report from the vent told of another shot. Her hands pressed hard at the side of her head.
Another gunshot further away.
And another.
Rosie held her breath and listened for more, never taking her hands away from her ears until she was sure she would no longer receive a shock. The clacking sounds were becoming more distant.
It’s a car backfiring. That’s what it is.
Yes, a car backfiring is what it is... unless the gunfight is being drawn away... before they come back to kill you.
She had to agree. It could very well have been a gun. She could very well be the victim of a kidnapping. She may very well not be alive this time tomorrow.
She felt a familiar warmth roll down her cheek.
Don’t cry, Rosemary. You’ve wanted this for years. It’ll be an end to the pain. You won’t have to torture yourself anymore. It’ll just be one shot and that’ll be it. You won’t be able to do anything about it; you’re too much of a coward. Admit it, Rosemary. You’ll be happier dead.
The voice inside her head had a genuine point. Rosie couldn’t argue with that. The only thing she could do for the time being, was lie back down, curl up into a quiet, tiny little ball and let the bad times roll.
)
so people don't get confused... my author name is the same as my actual name!