The first Page or so of what I've been working on (a novel)
by, 08-04-2010 at 12:40 PM (383 Views)
Firstly, I'd like to say that I am posting this partially for feedback and partially so I can get a little bit of satisfaction for having written the "first page" which is usually one of the hardest things to do aside from finishing the first chapter, or the whole thing.
Secondly, a little background: This story is re-imagining a character I used for something else for the last year and a half or so, taking what I had created and giving him a bit more of a story than a week-by-week soap opera.
Hopefully you Enjoy, here it goes...
[CENTER]Kristoff Liam Bates
The First Page and a half of Chapter 1[/CENTER]
Torture, agony, I am despairing in pain as I writhe in this chair. Retching as I feel the bile creeping up my esophagus from my stomach. There is nothing worse than this pain; I can feel the suffocation creeping in on me. Claustrophobic, this place is too small, too confined; I have nothing in this chair. Burning, searing flames are licking with tongues of deception and evil at my dress-shoed feet. The polyester in my pants feels like it is about to catch flame and this tie is too tight. The heat from the fluorescent lights and the blinking of the cursor on the screen before me entrances and contaminates my mind. I am constricted, the tie is simply too tight, this shirt, too heavy with sweat as the lack of air conditioning fuels the fire tearing away at me in this place. I am suffocating. Around me other souls burn in this infernal heat, but they are immune to the perils upon oneís soul like I feel. I am unable to cope, I feel trapped, and if I could move out of this chair, I would rip apart the sheep that lay dormant, staring into screens within their cells.
I am not in Hell, though I may call and compare this place to it. I am at work, behind a desk, staring into the blinking cursor of the computer screen as the heat from overhead lighting courses through my body and sweat soaks my nylon, rayon, and polyester clothing. The tie around my neck feels like a noose, but not constricting enough to kill, just enough to torture and torment me all day long. Eight hours in Hell, for five days a week, I am surrounded by the myriad of sheep that are in their own cubicles. They sit idly by doing their slave-labor as all I can think of is how to skate by at these menial tasks, as my face presses firmly against the glass ceiling where once I thought there was a ladder to the top. This job sucks the life out of all who approach it. They are blissfully unaware of the siphon on their souls, becoming mere shells of mortal men and women without any knowledge that pain is happening. But I am alive, unlike them, I am not a drone. I feel the pain as this job sucks the very essence from my bones and leaves me nothing more than a pile of dust. I am wasting away, my life deteriorating at the age of 30, seeing a midlife crisis and pandemic of panic attacks and years of therapy for my looming fear of unaccomplishment in life and career. They are unable to realize the dangers this job poses to a mortal living soul, for they were never alive, they are no more than sheep led to the slaughter, mere rusty cogs in this murderous machine known as corporation. I am the shiny brass gear, replaceable, but all-the-more interesting than the rusted and worn parts that are only kept barely working by means of pensions and bonuses that act like W-D-40 on the machinations of corporate greed and desires for more money.
The greed-soaked drool of the CEO and other members of the board is the reason why I have a job. I manage finances, I run and modify the programs that balance the budget and disperse funds where I am ordered to put them. If the company makes a massive loss, I am the unfortunate soul who is shown where cuts will be made before they are made, even if the cuts may be to my own wage or job. Luckily for me, Iíve never had that happen, but the potential looms on the future of unease in the corporate world. Even with a large technology-based business in Californiaís beautiful Silicon Valley, I am still with as much job security as Joe Everyman down at Home Depot stocking the wood in the back. At any moment the stocks of the business could plummet with momentís notice and they would lay off half the workers and ship the jobs overseas to non-English speaking Chinese and Indian substitutes for real workers doing the same job for a mere portion of the pay.
I stare into the flickering screen, moving pixels back and forth in synchronization at approximately sixty or more rounds per second, faster than the human eye can perceive movement. I see the cursor, blinking like a terroristís bomb about to explode, dismantling my computer and everyone in the immediate radius into shreds of flesh and plastic. I feel the doom of the cursor as I am to enter one final sequence of digits before moving on to the next menial task of number-crunching mechanizations as though I am some form of machine, rather than living and breathing flesh. My tie is too tight, the noose around my neck keeping my anger from unleashing as it cuts the flow of blood to my brain to a trickle, allowing only for such basic and uninteresting repetitive tasks such as my occupation to continue.