The following is simply the product of an afternoon's boredom and the frustration of no home internet service. It's not going anywhere in particular, its merely a first draft of the opening gambit in what may have evolved into a fantasy-crime novel; maybe it still will? Who knows. In any case, some feedback would be nice.
Act 1
Scene 1
As the moon climbs its graceful arc, the city slumbers beneath a soft blanket of virgin snow. Shining specks of diluted light allude to the vast sea of stars above, muted by the smog of industrial factories, immune to the call of rest. Against this muted backdrop, a figure pulls himself painfully atop the city skyline; the cold bite of scaffolding numbing the bare skin of his hands as he climbs.
Despite the cold, the man is filled with a giddy warmth from head to toe; the brief exhilaration of ascending from the murky streets below. The sensation is fleeting as the purpose of his ascent returns like a purposeful jolt to the system. His brief moment of exultation is ultimately meaningless; just another disappointment amongst a lifetime of frustration. Staring now, bleary-eyed against the whip and lash of the wind, the beginnings of a poignant monologue form in his head; purposeful words that would provoke an emotional response from his imaginary audience. He quickly dismisses this foolishness as just another desperate grasp at attaining some sense of self-worth.
Drawing his inappropriately thin jacket about his chest in a vain attempt to subvert the chill of the winter snow, he stalks carefully to his final perch amongst the rooftops. The city below takes no notice of him; just as it always has. Standing atop his metaphorical soap box, he cannot help but allow the cacophony of thoughts bubbling under the surface to consume his mind, desperate to share his feelings with someone, anyone. But nobody will hear his final words.
This putrid city is nothing more than a hive of corruption and oppression. The white snow of the harsh winter covering everything like a hasty graft atop an infectious boil. It’s a dog eat dog world, and the only escape from it is death.
Death. A painful word at this time. A flood of regret and fear threaten to rob him of his final act of rebellion against a system that has never taken any notice. Images of those he leaves behind creep around behind his eyes; their presence a source of pain and sense of hopelessness. But he will not lose his resolve, this must be done, there is no other way.
With a final gulp of crisp, fresh air in his lungs, the deed is done. No turning back now, not even if he wanted to. Cold air buffets his jacket wildly as the ground beckons. Tears form in his eyes; not from the wind, but from the pain of a life worth nothing. The street below is a welcome end to this journey of mediocrity and disappointment. A lifetime seems to pass in what mere seconds are left, until at last, the finality of his actions are clear; his body smashes against the hard, slippery cobbles of the street and the light leaves his eyes instantly.
A scream fills the otherwise calm night time; it has begun.
Act 1
Scene 1
As the moon climbs its graceful arc, the city slumbers beneath a soft blanket of virgin snow. Shining specks of diluted light allude to the vast sea of stars above, muted by the smog of industrial factories, immune to the call of rest. Against this muted backdrop, a figure pulls himself painfully atop the city skyline; the cold bite of scaffolding numbing the bare skin of his hands as he climbs.
Despite the cold, the man is filled with a giddy warmth from head to toe; the brief exhilaration of ascending from the murky streets below. The sensation is fleeting as the purpose of his ascent returns like a purposeful jolt to the system. His brief moment of exultation is ultimately meaningless; just another disappointment amongst a lifetime of frustration. Staring now, bleary-eyed against the whip and lash of the wind, the beginnings of a poignant monologue form in his head; purposeful words that would provoke an emotional response from his imaginary audience. He quickly dismisses this foolishness as just another desperate grasp at attaining some sense of self-worth.
Drawing his inappropriately thin jacket about his chest in a vain attempt to subvert the chill of the winter snow, he stalks carefully to his final perch amongst the rooftops. The city below takes no notice of him; just as it always has. Standing atop his metaphorical soap box, he cannot help but allow the cacophony of thoughts bubbling under the surface to consume his mind, desperate to share his feelings with someone, anyone. But nobody will hear his final words.
This putrid city is nothing more than a hive of corruption and oppression. The white snow of the harsh winter covering everything like a hasty graft atop an infectious boil. It’s a dog eat dog world, and the only escape from it is death.
Death. A painful word at this time. A flood of regret and fear threaten to rob him of his final act of rebellion against a system that has never taken any notice. Images of those he leaves behind creep around behind his eyes; their presence a source of pain and sense of hopelessness. But he will not lose his resolve, this must be done, there is no other way.
With a final gulp of crisp, fresh air in his lungs, the deed is done. No turning back now, not even if he wanted to. Cold air buffets his jacket wildly as the ground beckons. Tears form in his eyes; not from the wind, but from the pain of a life worth nothing. The street below is a welcome end to this journey of mediocrity and disappointment. A lifetime seems to pass in what mere seconds are left, until at last, the finality of his actions are clear; his body smashes against the hard, slippery cobbles of the street and the light leaves his eyes instantly.
A scream fills the otherwise calm night time; it has begun.
