Beginnings of a Short Story
So we've been assigned to write a 12-to-25 page short story for Fiction Writing, and I think I may have an interesting beginning.
Click, click, snap. Bloody hell.
I look from the broken toilet handle in my palm to the toothpaste-flecked bathroom mirror, ignoring my deep scarlet compexion long enough to concentrate on what I’m going to tell the host. While my mind is racing to form some elaborate lie, I glance backwards at the colossal porcelain fuck-up - an appropriate throne for the newly-crowned king of humiliation. I can’t peel my eyes from the two heaping, putrid logs of embarassment still left floating there in the bowl long enough to formulate a good enough excuse.
It’s his fault for buying such a cheap toilet.
No, that won’t go over well.
I guess I just don’t know my own stength.
No, that’s no good either.
Three sharp raps on the door and I’m ripped away from my reverie of fabrication to face the fourth overwhelmingly-misfortunate incident of the day. With luck like mine, you don’t need to make enemies. Life makes them for you.
I turn to the chipped white paint on the door and say that I’m fine and I’ll be out in a minute. My gaze snaps sharply back to my reflection. Now I’m just stalling for time. I can almost see my reflected counterpart shaking his big, ugly, stupid head in pity. “Stupid. You’re so stupid.”
“Uh...what?” the voice from the door says.
“Nothing,” I say, “Nothing; I’m just practicing for a play tomorrow.”
“…You’re not in Theatre,” the voice replies.
I rub my wet forehead with two fingers, right on the bridge of the nose, in attempt to thwart the headache I can already feel threatening my vise-clamped brain. It's no use; it's time to fess up.
“Alright, I broke your toilet," I say. "Me, stupid me, stupid fucking idiot me, I broke it, and you're probably going to have to come in and eyeball my shit while you fix it, because I don't know how. Fuck. Fuck me.” The veins in my neck and forehead feel like bungee cords trying to tow small planets, and perspiration is shrink-wrapping my head in its own scale model of the greenhouse effect.
The voice from the door says, “Dude...Hey, It’s alright, Nathan, don’t sweat it. You're overreacting. I’ll call dad, he can fix it.”
"Just calm down," the voice tells me, and I laugh hysterically. My face is hot. Sweltering. Burning. In situations like this, spontaneous combustion becomes less of an enigma.
I grip the cold metal of the sink faucet with white-hot knuckles, half expecting it to melt. Sweltering beads of psychosis are bedding up inside my tear ducts so densely that I’m forced to place my other sweaty palm against the door to steady myself.
Damn it...not again.
The voice from the door asks if I’m sure I’m okay, and I choke back a reply. Saliva is building at the back of my tightening throat and I can’t swallow, so instead I croak like a catfish. My eyelids fold into closed heat shields to keep the imminent explosion contained, and my nostrils flare to expel the seething vapors of liqifying brain matter. As I fall to a heap against the door, the voice is shouting something desperate - ‘Nathan’ this and ‘Nathaniel’ that - I can't tell. My ears have performed the same preliminary lockdown procedure as my eyes, and the only thing I can hear is my own heart, the chaos engine in my chest. Resigning myself to numbness, I gradually slip into the soothing, welcome grip of oblivion.
Those of you who know me well will understand where I got the inspiration for this story :)
The main character, by the way, is a caricature of myself. He's an agoraphobic who also seems to be mysteriously cursed with terrible luck...I thought it would be an interesting combination to play with :D
Tell me what you think!
Click, click, snap. Bloody hell.
I look from the broken toilet handle in my palm to the toothpaste-flecked bathroom mirror, ignoring my deep scarlet compexion long enough to concentrate on what I’m going to tell the host. While my mind is racing to form some elaborate lie, I glance backwards at the colossal porcelain fuck-up - an appropriate throne for the newly-crowned king of humiliation. I can’t peel my eyes from the two heaping, putrid logs of embarassment still left floating there in the bowl long enough to formulate a good enough excuse.
It’s his fault for buying such a cheap toilet.
No, that won’t go over well.
I guess I just don’t know my own stength.
No, that’s no good either.
Three sharp raps on the door and I’m ripped away from my reverie of fabrication to face the fourth overwhelmingly-misfortunate incident of the day. With luck like mine, you don’t need to make enemies. Life makes them for you.
I turn to the chipped white paint on the door and say that I’m fine and I’ll be out in a minute. My gaze snaps sharply back to my reflection. Now I’m just stalling for time. I can almost see my reflected counterpart shaking his big, ugly, stupid head in pity. “Stupid. You’re so stupid.”
“Uh...what?” the voice from the door says.
“Nothing,” I say, “Nothing; I’m just practicing for a play tomorrow.”
“…You’re not in Theatre,” the voice replies.
I rub my wet forehead with two fingers, right on the bridge of the nose, in attempt to thwart the headache I can already feel threatening my vise-clamped brain. It's no use; it's time to fess up.
“Alright, I broke your toilet," I say. "Me, stupid me, stupid fucking idiot me, I broke it, and you're probably going to have to come in and eyeball my shit while you fix it, because I don't know how. Fuck. Fuck me.” The veins in my neck and forehead feel like bungee cords trying to tow small planets, and perspiration is shrink-wrapping my head in its own scale model of the greenhouse effect.
The voice from the door says, “Dude...Hey, It’s alright, Nathan, don’t sweat it. You're overreacting. I’ll call dad, he can fix it.”
"Just calm down," the voice tells me, and I laugh hysterically. My face is hot. Sweltering. Burning. In situations like this, spontaneous combustion becomes less of an enigma.
I grip the cold metal of the sink faucet with white-hot knuckles, half expecting it to melt. Sweltering beads of psychosis are bedding up inside my tear ducts so densely that I’m forced to place my other sweaty palm against the door to steady myself.
Damn it...not again.
The voice from the door asks if I’m sure I’m okay, and I choke back a reply. Saliva is building at the back of my tightening throat and I can’t swallow, so instead I croak like a catfish. My eyelids fold into closed heat shields to keep the imminent explosion contained, and my nostrils flare to expel the seething vapors of liqifying brain matter. As I fall to a heap against the door, the voice is shouting something desperate - ‘Nathan’ this and ‘Nathaniel’ that - I can't tell. My ears have performed the same preliminary lockdown procedure as my eyes, and the only thing I can hear is my own heart, the chaos engine in my chest. Resigning myself to numbness, I gradually slip into the soothing, welcome grip of oblivion.
Those of you who know me well will understand where I got the inspiration for this story :)
The main character, by the way, is a caricature of myself. He's an agoraphobic who also seems to be mysteriously cursed with terrible luck...I thought it would be an interesting combination to play with :D
Tell me what you think!