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« on: January 08, 2007, 12:55:08 pm »
Well, I'm somewhat of a writer. I'm gonna post the beginning of the first chapter of a novel I'm working on. This is the best draft of it so far, and I'd like some public opinion on 1) How it smoothly reads and 2) general other criticisms.
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The pitter-patter of rain against the grimy windows of his flat was not enough to wake the figure that lay huddled beneath several layers of blanket. As he rolled over, the small army-issue alarm clock on his bedside table woke Modus with its shrill, D sharp whine. Reacting instinctively to the sound, Modus extended a furry arm and flicked the switch on the alarm???s metal top. With a great yawn, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his cramped four-poster and stood with slow deliberation. Bones cracked as he stretched his lanky body and his eyes whisked around his mildly warm, gloomy room in search of clothing. Modus was a big fan of morning amnesia; it gave him time to remember that he was out of the armed forces. Unfortunately, as a side effect he could never remember where his clothes were for a short period of time. He kept his alarm clock, not as a memento of the bad old days, but because it was sturdy and reliable. The former Major selected a pair of earthen brown trousers and a shirt that had once been white, but was now adopting the colour of his pants in a washed out kind of way. He shrugged them on, cursing every so often when an arm or leg became caught in one of the folds in the fabrics. Buttoning up the tail gap, Modus exited his room with a quiet shuffle; a far cry from the man he had once been.
Squeezing between the boxes that lined his hallway, Modus carefully made his way into his miserably cramped kitchen. It was the saddest excuse for a food preparation area that Modus had ever had the displeasure to cook in; tiny benches, tiny cupboards, tiny sink ??? everything was too small. Modus opened his pantry and peered inside at the contents. There wasn???t much left, and what was there was getting dangerously close to the expiry date. In fact, many of the assorted foodstuffs were just beginning to grow mould. Selecting a loaf of bread that was still all the same brownish colour, Modus examined the tag on it.
???24th???close enough,??? Modus muttered to himself as he closed the doors to the pantry. He blessed the fact that his muzzle was shorter than most others of his species, it meant that he could open most of the cupboards in his kitchen without knocking himself. Of course, in some circles a small muzzle was seen as a sign of a small penis; but Modus didn???t care. He knew plenty who could defend the strength of his virility and his physical dimensions. As he stood and munched on his breakfast, some beans smeared between two slices of bread, he looked out of his kitchen window as the 6:15 Spein Express monorail clanked its way past. It was the earliest train that went past Modus??? flat, and it signified that he was on schedule. Sweeping last week???s unfinished breakfast off the countertop and into the bin, Modus left the kitchen. The maggots in the lettuce spread out to explore their new feeding grounds.
Modus??? next port of call was the bathroom. He always bathed at night rather than in the morning as his showers often tended to go on longer than he expected. But every morning he went in to check his beard, rinse out his mouth and take his medicines. He looked at himself in the mirror, orange eyes glowing slightly in the reflection. Black fur covered him from head to foot, except where his grey-white hair sprang out from his scalp and his similarly coloured beard emerged from his jaw-line. He picked up a bottle of mouthwash and gargled with it, after which he spat it out and moved on to teasing at his beard with his fingers. After popping a few nondescript pills he left the bathroom for the front room where he picked up his keys, put on his gloves and boots and strode out his door, slamming it behind him. A few bills still in the letterbox cascaded onto the floor.
Outside, everything was drawn in pastel shades of grey. The sky was blackened by swirling storm clouds, trying their hardest to obscure all of the golden rays of sunlight that might have made the beginning of the day just a little more cheerful. A haze poured forth from the chimneys of industrial buildings, a blanket of decaying airborne particles that choked the life out of the air and made vision a luxury; the falling rain was acidic enough to sting exposed flesh. Modus coughed again, his black figure bending over slightly. Turning to deadlock his door, he spied a small rectangle of cardboard wedged between the exterior wall and the framing of the door. With a small smirk, he lifted it from its resting place and placed it into his breast pocket. As he inhaled to sigh, another spate of coughs wracked him and he locked his door after he had cleared his esophagus of its irritation. As Modus descended to ground level, the clattering of his boots on the stainless steel steps almost mirrored the sound of Szcema???s monorail; the six forty-five Rook???s Point rushing past on his left. It passed into the obscurity of the other sounds of industry as his boots touched the gravel of the parking lot. Such was the industrial nature of the Drenin District.
As he made his way towards Szcema station he looked around at all the similarly clothed individuals making their way to their places of employment. Of all the nations in the world, Omsk had been the only one to continue the practice of indentureship after the period commonly called ???The Enlightenment???. The continuation of the practice had been the cause of several small wars and a smaller number of large wars, one of which Modus had fought in for four years. After that war had drawn to a conclusion, Omsk withdrawing its wish to have a seat on the Allied Nation-States Council; Modus had been indentured into the business of designing and making weapons, his tests showing a natural aptitude for design and manufacturing. He would have preferred designing and building furniture or computers, but his army service record also showed an aptitude for weapons technology. When in the service of Neizdet Arms Modus had become reacquainted with Julai, a husky anthromorph who worked as a receptionist. She and Modus were born and raised in the same small village in Heima Valley and she had recognized him. The two had dated for a while, and had grown close but had not seen one another since the commencement of the war. The two of them were married not long after meeting again and had two children, Carmine and Epher. During the years that followed, Modus and Julai began to attend secret meetings where sedition was planned in order to change the nation. The two of them had volunteered to lead the marches on the government complex. The resulting riot had many casualties on the part of the activists, Julai among them. Carmine and Epher were taken into state care, aged 6 and 5 respectively. Modus had sold Julai???s house and moved into Szcema, where booze and sex eventually claimed him as their puppet. After a year of loneliness, a 32 year old Modus was offered a position as the head of a new top secret project at Neizdet. His job would be to create the world???s first teleportation system. He accepted the post, taking with it a 24 hour guard and a substantial payrise that would allow him to pay off his indenture to the state and Neizdet. It would mean custody over his children, and another chance at getting out of Omsk. Not even a year later, the project was nearing completion.
The wind was fairly strong this morning, tousling Modus??? hair about on his head; he growled and pulled out a band of elastic, tying it back into a ponytail. People scurried past him as he approached the train station, the Hienzalt train preparing to depart. Presently, it did so with a deafening screech and the beginnings of the usual clattering. Buying a ticket at the ticketbox for the North Drenin Flyer, Modus stomped onto the platform, coughing and wheezing. He???d seen better days than this.
