Shadows in the Old Well is a story i started (and failed by only 4000 words, thanks to WPS not keeping the same word count as Microsoft Word) for NaNoWriMo last year. After November, i essentially stopped working on the project because i was intent on taking some time off and wanted to play Skyrim, start working out, play Dungeons and Dragins, and attempt to work on my fantasy fiction (The Abyss). Today i decided, after drinking half a bottle of SLEDGEHAMMER Forged Red wine, that i should get back on the horror fiction because A. Drinking wine makes me bitter, which is the right mindset because the protagonist is a very bitter character, and B. since i have nearly 50,000 words i might as well try to finish the damned thing before NaNoWriMo comes around again. So, here is a sample.
Before you start, please note that this is from Hal’s (the protagonist) point of view. He is a Vietnam war vet who has essentially become a drifter/piece-of-shit who inherited his Uncle’s estate. At this point, after burning the last of his bridges in the town near his inherited property, he passes out after a night of heavy drinking.
Time in darkness passes at an unknown rate. Without a clock, a ceiling of stars passing over head, or the rise and fall of a sun to mark that passing of each day; time is relatively a concept held for convenience. Time is there to tell you when your television show is over or when it’s “that time” of the month when your woman is acting like a real crazy bitch and clogs the toilet with her bloody rags, even though you’ve already told her a thousand goddamn times to throw the fucking things in the garbage, and then take garbage outside so the dog doesn’t get into it already. Time is there to tell you when the bars close even though you haven’t caught a proper buzz and neither has the woman next to you, at least not enough to let you slip a finger in her with so much as a smile and a grunt and a promise to call her in the morning. Time is there to tell you when you’re allowed to drink a beer even though you need one now, or when you can fuck a girl even though she’s sopping wet and about as ready as you were since he first knew what fucking was. Time is there to let you know when you can vote for the next conman or high horse rider that fucks and drinks whenever he wants even if the bars are closed, or when you have to go to war for that same conman who drinks and fucks when you’re dodging bullets and playing “find the landmine” with feet that sting with boot rot. Time is there to let you know when your tour is over or when you get to leave church and go get a beer to take the edge off from dealing with people condemn you for playing “find the landmine with your feet” during the time you had to go to war because the conman had his conmen pulled your lucky number. Time is there to let you know when you have to wake up and put on a fresh pair of slacks and shave your face, or to let you know when you have to punch in for work so you can make enough money to live on the planet you were born on. Time is there when you have pay your goddamn taxes, which pay the conman and his conmen who are drinking and fucking just the same as they did before and after you had to play “find the land mine with your fucking feet” and now you just need a beer and a whore to take the edge off before you bite down on the barrel of your old dead pedophile uncle’s rifle. Time is there to tell you that your woman missed her time of the month where she clogs the toilet with bloody rags and its time for you to skip town because there ain’t now way you’re gonna be able to feed and love a baby you don’t have the time or the patience to love. Time is there to tell you how old you are and how long you have left to live. Time is there to tell you when to stand up, sit down, piss, and shit. Time is there to count down the seconds you have in between heart beats to let you know if your ticker is shit and you better stop drinking and smoking so much, and try jogging like they made you do when the conman’s conmen pulled your lucky number. Time is time, ticking away slowly, second by second, as you stare at a cracked ceiling each night hoping you drank enough booze to knock you so far under you’ll forget about the woman and baby you skipped out on and that you’ve taken enough pills to forget all the nightmares you have when you wake up. Time is nothing but a goddamned inconvenient convince that means everything to everyone but nothing when there’s only there isn’t a soul around to pay attention to it. Time is a bad idea, practiced by bad, broken people.
As always, though i have yet to receive any, criticism and comments are welcome. Please, let me know if my prose is tight and expressive enough. Please point out any grammatical errors you see. And please, let me know if this is a heap or a stack.