herzog
02-06-2010, 02:19 AM
Hi, mainly curious as to some extraneous opinions of my writing. Any criticism whether it be constructive or not is welcome and much appreciated. Thankyou.
With a cigarette languidly burning down between his fingers, Ernest sat sullenly by the window, withdrawn from his previous life. Raindrops fell from the roof’s guttering to create an expanding pool on the sill. The room he now inhibited was ageing, paint flaked from the walls and ceiling to create a fine layer of dandruff over the scalp of the floor. His favourite chair, worn by harsh sunlight and the remnants of heavy smoking, was sedentary by the window.
Looking down, he witnessed the hustle of the city street from his vantage point. A beach of suits lapped against the ocean of rubber and steel. Every passing car, every passing person: all with a sense of purpose. A foreign concept for Ernest, who now fixated his attention to the blank, antiquated wall before him.
The babbling stutter of an old radio emanated from the bedroom, spreading forth a sensationalistic story of little interest to anyone with any evolutionary distance from the primate. He lit another cigarette.
Mangled pictures hung from the vertical confines of his world, relics of the past. Being disturbed by his presence with others in the photographs had led to an outburst carried out with a sharp blade. With careful precision he had removed himself from the artefacts, leaving only complete ambiguity to his previous existence.
Ernest’s uneasy gaze clambered onto the rope that hung from a decaying coat hook adjacent to his door. His mind conceived all the possibilities of the slightly fraying twine. Suffering from an ever-growing feeling of ennui and encumbered by isolation, he raised himself with considerable effort from his lethargic position. Stumbling over a copy of Hemingway’s ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ that lay on ground, he took the rope and started to tremble.
He worked away delicately at his scuffed linoleum-topped table. His hands, littered with self-inflicted cigarette burns manipulated the rope in a familiar fashion. The end result was a way out of his decrepit apartment. A way out of his isolation. A way out of everything he had ever known.
The rope hung taut from the ceiling. A wooden chair fell toppled on its side. Ernest’s body levitated a foot from the floor.
The radio stopped.
Nobody noticed until his rent was due.
With a cigarette languidly burning down between his fingers, Ernest sat sullenly by the window, withdrawn from his previous life. Raindrops fell from the roof’s guttering to create an expanding pool on the sill. The room he now inhibited was ageing, paint flaked from the walls and ceiling to create a fine layer of dandruff over the scalp of the floor. His favourite chair, worn by harsh sunlight and the remnants of heavy smoking, was sedentary by the window.
Looking down, he witnessed the hustle of the city street from his vantage point. A beach of suits lapped against the ocean of rubber and steel. Every passing car, every passing person: all with a sense of purpose. A foreign concept for Ernest, who now fixated his attention to the blank, antiquated wall before him.
The babbling stutter of an old radio emanated from the bedroom, spreading forth a sensationalistic story of little interest to anyone with any evolutionary distance from the primate. He lit another cigarette.
Mangled pictures hung from the vertical confines of his world, relics of the past. Being disturbed by his presence with others in the photographs had led to an outburst carried out with a sharp blade. With careful precision he had removed himself from the artefacts, leaving only complete ambiguity to his previous existence.
Ernest’s uneasy gaze clambered onto the rope that hung from a decaying coat hook adjacent to his door. His mind conceived all the possibilities of the slightly fraying twine. Suffering from an ever-growing feeling of ennui and encumbered by isolation, he raised himself with considerable effort from his lethargic position. Stumbling over a copy of Hemingway’s ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ that lay on ground, he took the rope and started to tremble.
He worked away delicately at his scuffed linoleum-topped table. His hands, littered with self-inflicted cigarette burns manipulated the rope in a familiar fashion. The end result was a way out of his decrepit apartment. A way out of his isolation. A way out of everything he had ever known.
The rope hung taut from the ceiling. A wooden chair fell toppled on its side. Ernest’s body levitated a foot from the floor.
The radio stopped.
Nobody noticed until his rent was due.