So... that being said I am posting the following excerpt from a story I am working on. It is very brief and, honestly, I don't know what direction it will take. It's very basic. Any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated, keeping in mind, it is a very rough draft to the beginning of something that I might actually finish.
Enjoy and please comment,
"Cigarette smoke
poured from his lungs into the thick, foggy winter air as Campbell stared off
into the night’s sky. He shuddered under his faux leather coat as he brought
his smoke to his lips for another draw. Nothing compared to the flavorful, rich
taste of a freshly rolled cigarette in Campbell’s opinion. It was quiet in the
parking lot outside of his apartment aside from the flowing ambiance of the
freeway noise on the other side of the back wall. The only things visible beyond
the barricade were the street lamps and fluorescent exit signs.
Campbell was
sighing in realization that there was nothing for him to look forward to now
that the holidays are over. He always came down with a case of the winter blues
after the holidays. He got caught up in the hype and the promise of spending
time with his family only to experience the grand let down when life goes on
and prior responsibilities resume. He shakes his thoughts and flicks the
glowing red butt of his cigarette into the filthy slush in the gutter. As he
turned to walk back upstairs to his apartment in 432 he couldn’t help but linger
there for a little longer. Something made him stop and stand in the seven
degree weather for just a moment longer. His eyes were fixed on the entrance to
the parking lot, nothing was there. He started again toward the stairs up to his
place, zipped up his coat, and started his ascent.
Campbell fumbled
for his keys in his coat pocket, wrapped his fingers around his apartment key
and fidgeted with the lock.
“Piece of shit
lock” he muttered irritated under his breath.
Since moving in he
filed numerous complaints about his apartment including a roof leak in the
kitchen that was impossible to fix apparently; however amongst the filed complaints,
Campbell failed to mention the stubborn lock. The lock finally gave way with a
clack. Campbell deposited his keys on the hook by the door where they always
hung when he wasn’t out of the house. He took his coat off and hung it on the
back of the kitchen chair and went to the pantry to start a pot of coffee.
Normally he wouldn’t dare drink coffee this late at night but he needed to
focus on his work. He was setting himself up to be trapped in between a restful
night’s sleep and intense restlessness that is repetitive dream land. Those
dreams a person has when they start a new job and spend all day doing a
repetitive task and can’t get them out of their mind for one hour of peaceful
rest was what he had in store.
Campbell was under
intense scrutiny and criticism for his work. For the past several weeks he had
been barraged with threats and deadlines for the completion, or progress for that
matter, of his latest novel. He was currently working on a piece that Apricot
Colony publishing was fronting the bill for. Every phone call he got from the
publishing office only proved to escalate the anger and anxiety of his editor,
even though he reassured him that progress was being made, a complete fallacy
in reality. Campbell constantly made excuses as to why this “progress” hadn’t
been mailed in nor had he brought it by the office for review.
“This is your last
chance, Campbell. We need to see at least three more chapters by the end of the
week or we’ll have to cut you loose.” Alan Frank, his editor, asthmatically coughed
this phrase through the other line of the phone in their last conversation, to
which Campbell replied with a soft touch of the “end” key on his cell. Alan
Frank was a resentful and impatient man. His financial success in the
publishing business was merely masking the fact that he is never truly happy.
The warm aroma of French
roast filled Campbell’s senses as he realized his coffee had dripped the last
drop of hot water into the decanter. He poured himself a cup, black, the way he
had his coffee for as long as he could remember. It always reminded him of a
rich glass of Irish stout. Maybe that’s why he always enjoyed his coffee with
no additives. He fancied himself as quite the beer connoisseur. There was
something admirable about craftsmen brewers who did it for the flavor of a
finely crafted beer. His favorite memory was that of a beer tasting festival he
attended in Chicago with his long time girlfriend, Betty. She had been the
burning love of his life. Sipping carefully on his scalding hot cup of bitter
delight he made his way to his office.
He fired up his
computer and stared at the clock as he waited for it to boot up. It was now
just after 10:00 and not a bit of motivation fueled his thought process. He
then turned his gaze on the computer screen where he had his latest novel
pulled up. Displaying itself meekly back at him was the only sentenced he had
drafted,
“Where does
mankind go from here?”…."
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