Wednesday, 11 July 2012
I'm writing a short story about a subway that eats people. It's complicated. Here's a little snippet of it:
Exactly 17.485 kilometres away, there was a small, lonely apartment. There was a dirty window at one end, which was covered by a thin, tattered curtain. At the other end, there was a small desk, which was surrounded by cascade of many different types of tools, some of which were literally encrusted with dust from years of a lack of use. On the desk there was a grey rotary phone, and a sea of papers. Leaning on that sea of papers was a weathered plumber by the name of Warren. Warren was resting after a long morning of repairs. This small apartment was his sanctuary; it was not clean, or otherwise comfortable by any means, but it was his. Nobody else could enter, so everything here was his, even the seemingly infinite layers of dust.
Warren sighed, then sat up. He stared at the window. He stood up, walked to it, then moved the curtain to the side, pouring light into the room. Somehow it seemed to make everything a bit less dead. He then walked over to his couch and sat down, making a large cloud of dust erupt from the surface of the cushion. He leaned forward, and switched on his TV set, which displayed the face of a reporter at a crime scene on the side of a road somewhere. The reporter discussed the atrocities of the situation, while lights blinked on and off in the background. Meanwhile, a flashy banner displayed news that wasn't good enough to actually get a segment on their show. Warren switched off the TV, then walked over to a door, and opened it. Inside, there was an extremely small bathroom. He stepped inside, then closed the door.
This isn't the final version. If you complain, I'll kill you.