Junglord
07-28-2011, 08:29 PM
My first Short Story I have ever written. Would love some guidance and advice off more confident writers. Comments and Criticism would be much appreciated. This is what I've got so far:
A sombre aura filled the carriage as the last of the city sirens became inaudible; Vincent was, again, being relocated. The grey skin of some other unfortunate souls gleamed under the buzzing florescent tubes, one of whom could have been biologically determined as dead if analysed from afar, or at least that's what Vincent thought as he slipped another pill through his letterbox lips. The crackle of thunder resonated throughout the metallic structure causing one man in the corner to jolt upright, erratically flail his arms around in a paranoid stupor and then continue to drivel on about mundane misfortunes of life up north. Of course the man merely assumed the relocation was to the North of England, heavily indicated by the amount of time which had gone past since the train set off. Vincent first wondered whether the man was one of the “knowing” or not, then he considered the notion of time. Since the ban of a representative time system, the whole nation has lost track of time altogether. In fact, the only thing I haven't lost track of, he thought, is years. How many years since the Government was dissolved and the FendStream institution took over; 13 years it has been, according to the formidable 'Protech Research Facility'. The PRF is what the FendStream institution call their 'cooperators'. Vincent had long been affiliated with the PRF's technician department: always fixing small circuitry, never knowing what it was for. No one knew what happened in there. At Vincent's first day working there, he heard screams and saw that no one else seemed to hear them; only later did he realise that those same screams he heard on his first day were there on his last. His ears began to filter it out as background noise. And that's exactly what we have now, background noise. No identity, we're all just background noise, concluded Vincent. After feeling thoroughly accomplished with his internal debate he popped another pill and lay back against the grubby static chair.
Vincent glanced toward the outdoors only to remember nothing was visible. He thought the bleakness of the view was very much like his slowly deteriorating mind; consciously feeling the gradual loss of rational evaluation was like an overwhelming darkness, a lack of literal enlightenment, which ultimately consumed Vincent into his semi-vegetative state. The windows were fogged up and a trickle of condensed water vapour ran down the cloudy black pane; night was the only time sanctioned for travel. As always, Vincent thought, the allocated area of work is never disclosed to citizens until arrival, this is due to FendStream's “Altruism, Equality, Strength”. If no one has a choice to their residence then everyone is equal, this furthers the human race in its ability to adapt to new environments and by doing so creates strength for the people. The same **** that's been shoved down our throats for years, Vincent thought. If only the pirate channels were still broadcast, the rebel forces may be still operational. The last pirate was in 2042 that's 7 years ago.
Vincent found it hard to literally reminisce on past times, instead he usually visited the elders or bought pre-FendStream history books on the black market. One of the problems Vincent found was the constant battle between real history and the FendStream's version of history; many times he confused the two. The only thing Vincent knew for certain, or at least certainty in his own mind, was that the FendStream institution took England by force, first London, then Birmingham, then Manchester. Hadrian's Wall was re-erected in an effort to control population flow and to keep us in, the English Channel was treated as English territory to be protected and all flights were cancelled within a week. All this the elders had told Vincent in their attempt to coerce him into logical thinking, driving him away from the pill-head population that the English have become. Vincent turns out to be a specific creature, one who can be asserted to be within limbo, and thus doesn't belong to the “knowing” nor the “not knowing”.
A sombre aura filled the carriage as the last of the city sirens became inaudible; Vincent was, again, being relocated. The grey skin of some other unfortunate souls gleamed under the buzzing florescent tubes, one of whom could have been biologically determined as dead if analysed from afar, or at least that's what Vincent thought as he slipped another pill through his letterbox lips. The crackle of thunder resonated throughout the metallic structure causing one man in the corner to jolt upright, erratically flail his arms around in a paranoid stupor and then continue to drivel on about mundane misfortunes of life up north. Of course the man merely assumed the relocation was to the North of England, heavily indicated by the amount of time which had gone past since the train set off. Vincent first wondered whether the man was one of the “knowing” or not, then he considered the notion of time. Since the ban of a representative time system, the whole nation has lost track of time altogether. In fact, the only thing I haven't lost track of, he thought, is years. How many years since the Government was dissolved and the FendStream institution took over; 13 years it has been, according to the formidable 'Protech Research Facility'. The PRF is what the FendStream institution call their 'cooperators'. Vincent had long been affiliated with the PRF's technician department: always fixing small circuitry, never knowing what it was for. No one knew what happened in there. At Vincent's first day working there, he heard screams and saw that no one else seemed to hear them; only later did he realise that those same screams he heard on his first day were there on his last. His ears began to filter it out as background noise. And that's exactly what we have now, background noise. No identity, we're all just background noise, concluded Vincent. After feeling thoroughly accomplished with his internal debate he popped another pill and lay back against the grubby static chair.
Vincent glanced toward the outdoors only to remember nothing was visible. He thought the bleakness of the view was very much like his slowly deteriorating mind; consciously feeling the gradual loss of rational evaluation was like an overwhelming darkness, a lack of literal enlightenment, which ultimately consumed Vincent into his semi-vegetative state. The windows were fogged up and a trickle of condensed water vapour ran down the cloudy black pane; night was the only time sanctioned for travel. As always, Vincent thought, the allocated area of work is never disclosed to citizens until arrival, this is due to FendStream's “Altruism, Equality, Strength”. If no one has a choice to their residence then everyone is equal, this furthers the human race in its ability to adapt to new environments and by doing so creates strength for the people. The same **** that's been shoved down our throats for years, Vincent thought. If only the pirate channels were still broadcast, the rebel forces may be still operational. The last pirate was in 2042 that's 7 years ago.
Vincent found it hard to literally reminisce on past times, instead he usually visited the elders or bought pre-FendStream history books on the black market. One of the problems Vincent found was the constant battle between real history and the FendStream's version of history; many times he confused the two. The only thing Vincent knew for certain, or at least certainty in his own mind, was that the FendStream institution took England by force, first London, then Birmingham, then Manchester. Hadrian's Wall was re-erected in an effort to control population flow and to keep us in, the English Channel was treated as English territory to be protected and all flights were cancelled within a week. All this the elders had told Vincent in their attempt to coerce him into logical thinking, driving him away from the pill-head population that the English have become. Vincent turns out to be a specific creature, one who can be asserted to be within limbo, and thus doesn't belong to the “knowing” nor the “not knowing”.