Here's something I started to work on. Feel free to comment in any way you please.


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There was this single ray of sunlight, a thin thing responsible for stirring my slumber and the laggard movement of my
eyelids upwards. The forsaken shutter had a peep-hole in it, and I just couldn’t make myself fix it through all these days it had been there. Somniferous the hole was at night, bringing a mild, luminous beam of moonlight. I would track the beam when going to sleep, occasionally interrupting it as I would fit myself in the comfy bed; but a person can’t have something without giving something else in return. So I decided to plug the hole and deny myself the somnolent ray to gain a longer time in bed on mornings in return.

It was Sunday, and, on a request by an anonymous client, I was about to depart to a small village north of Nottingham of which I had never heard of before. It stank, this job, but the only reason I had taken it up was the hefty down payment I received by mail. Such a way of doing business is all too suspicious, but I needed money…badly. That was my way of dealing with finances. “Shove it all, enjoy,” I’d say, and that’s what led me to this financial gutter. Many bills lay unpaid, but it wasn’t all that bad, or wasn’t it? I had bought the apartment, it was mine, but I had to take a loan from the bank and I am due late with the payment.

All that led me to accept this suspicious job. She called me once—yes, it was a woman with a gentle, soft-spoken voice—and said that I’ll be receiving an envelope, and explaining her situation. A brother of hers, she said, went missing a month ago and the police were unable to find him, so she turned to a sleuth, me. At first I refused, but the day after, I got the envelope and found two thousand pounds inside. She phoned again, asking if I’ll accept, and, having an hour to think between getting her envelope and receiving the phone call, I accepted. Further information was revealed after I agreed to take the case. She said her brother’s name was Jesse Gale, and warned me not to try and find her, because it would be in vain, for she is not by that surname any longer, and that she had erased all ties to her family. It stank, and I still ate it. She said nothing much, except for the name of the village, and gave the directions. A place called Morrow’s Glade, and as she explained, one should go north-east of Nottingham and take the Lambley Road, turn left at the pasture filled with sheep—convincing me that it cannot be missed as there are always sheep there—continue along the dirt road and ask for further directions at the place peculiarly called Kensington. I wrote the directions and readied them in my pocket intending to give them to a taxi driver.

After a scarce breakfast, I decided to visit the Roman Catholic Cathedral at Derby Road. Once or twice I went there, not out of devotion or faith, but for the gorgeous interior of the edifice, the calmness and tranquility it provided. Two thousand pounds were more than enough to provide me with a ride to Morrow’s Glade and settle me for an indefinite number of days. Furthermore, the client said more money will await me when I arrive at the village. It was enough to give me a reason to be ostentatious and hire a cab to drive me to the Cathedral and wait outside. When I entered, I found only two people: a woman I became friends with about six months ago, and her six-year-old son. She waved subtly and smiled. I did the same and approached them below the crucifix, regarding the interior as if I was there for the first time. Suddenly I felt my shirt being pulled downwards, so I looked and saw the boy.

“Mister, mister,” he said. “Does God exist?”

I was quite dumbfounded with the question, and looked warily at the mother. Her eyes depicted her as more confused than I was, so I crouched beside the child and placed my hand on top of his head.

“You’ll find out,” I said, for there was no better answer I could muster, being an agnostic, deemed an atheist and seen as a good man by the child’s mother. I could not burden the child with my beliefs and opinions, because they are yet unfathomable for such a young, susceptible, and fragile mind. A simple ‘no’ wouldn’t be true to my own beliefs, nor would it be true to the beliefs the child is supposed to have, and the beliefs its mother already has. The day was drawing bright—shades of sun were faintly illuminating the stained glass—and I didn’t know what the two were doing here at this hour, because the mass was still some time away, nor did I want to stir their congenial lives by, as the mother would perceive, corrupting the child’s mind. Thus, I just straightened up, and left the Cathedral.

Once outside, I entered the back seat of the cab and gave the folded piece of paper with the directions to the driver. As we drove, I lost sense of time, refusing to look at my watch, making myself look at the fertile landscape around me. Lush forests spread across the hills to the left and right of the Lambley Road. For some reason I found certain things, minorities mostly, strange inside the cab. A black spot on the back of the driver’s seat caught most of my attention, and after further examination, I concluded it was from a cigar. Considering the unusualness of the job, I ascribed that profound feeling to excitement, and a certain, healthy dose of adrenalin surging mildly through my body, enhancing perception, imparting me with suspicion of everything around me. Sure it gave me an amount of confidence, but it also bode ill things. Nevertheless, I never did believe in the ability for a person to forebode anything, so that didn’t worry me; what worried me was the possibility of the job going very wrong, and the way it had started, and my suspicion being naturally aroused, I could only expect bad things to happen.

Quickly, it seemed, we got to the pasture congested with sheep. The driver turned left on the dirt road, and the tyres instantly started to make a crunching noise. Not a single word was uttered ever since we left Nottingham, and I preferred it that way because I was not in the mood, nor condition, to think of answers to questions the driver might’ve asked. Probably an hour passed before we reached the sign Kensington placed in front of a small house. There was nothing there except for an elderly man vivaciously looking at the cab. The driver turned off the engine and went out, approached the old gent and started an inquiring conversation. Several times did the man point his hand in the same direction before the driver came back into the cab and started the engine.

“He said it’ll take us around two hours to get there,” he informed.

“It’s alright. I’m not in a rush.”

That said, the cab started moving, slowly accelerating until it gained a speed deemed safe by the cabdriver. I didn’t bother guessing the speed, nor trying to see the dashboard for the exact information on the current speed. For some reason I paid attention to the time from this point on, and noticed that, instead of two hours, it took us three hours to get to Morrow’s Glade. The road winded, sometimes precipitously, sometimes there were U-turns, and sometimes the road seemed so dilapidated that I thought if the cab’s tyres would make it through the trip. Be it as it may, we arrived to Morrow’s Glade in the afternoon, around four.



The village was encircled by a wooden palisade, and at the entrance were gates made of thick, iron bars with spear-like peaks. They were wide open, and the cab drove inwards without hesitation. Immediately after penetrating into the village, I took a look around through the window.

It was a rather small village, with not many houses. Every house had a first story, and only one of them, placed conveniently near the center of the village, had two stories. That one, to my conclusion, was my momentary destination, a place where I would find an envelope and get a room. Peculiar thing about the houses was that they all had an antique look to them. I took an estimate and put them somewhere in the eighteenth century. They were old, yet well-preserved, and radiated some gloomy eeriness even in broad daylight. What I also saw were the street lights: wooden poles with lanterns hanging on the top.

The cab parked in front of the two-story building. Still looking through the window, I took a few moments before I paid the man and exited the vehicle. Once outside, I took a better look at the village. Standing with my back turned to this hostel of sorts, I was able to see a dozen houses closing a circle around me. Farther in front of me, at the closing of the circle, was a church; not particularly big, but not small either. It was big enough for there to be much free space even if all the townspeople were to attend the mass, I gathered. To my right was a store in which, as much as I could notice after taking a brief look from this distance, were all sorts of stuff: food, various utensils and other everyday things. Several people would pass by the center in which was a simple, decrepit, small fountain encircled by a black fence. The fence was a smaller version of the gates at the entrance. One of the passersby, I noticed, glanced at me furtively. I didn’t like the look he had given me; it was a look given to intruders, trespassers, unwelcome kind. However, there was not much heed for me to give.

Behind me, as I said, was the place I would make my temporary headquarters, and that was exactly what I had set myself on doing. Inside I found an old woman at the reception desk. The slouched old lady looked at me morosely, her haggard face teeming with suspicion. To the right of the reception desk were the stairs leading to the first floor. The cabdriver brought my suitcase and placed it next to me; then he left and I heard the engine start and the vehicle leaving, the sound dwindled as it was going further and further away. Once the sound of the engine was completely gone, I approached the desk, trying to look as friendly as I could without making it seem false.

“Good afternoon. My name is Val Fielding. I believe there is an envelope delivered here on my name.”

She looked at me askew. “Yes.” She took out a white envelope from behind the counter. “I suppose you’ll be staying here as well?” She looked inquisitorial and annoyed.

“Yes, though I’m not sure for how long.”

She took out a notebook, opening it languorously and morosely handing it to me together with a pen. “Sign here.” I signed. “Here.” She took one of the keys that were hanging behind her. “Room number 5.”

I took the key, smiled, and slipped up the stairs, away from the macabre look of the old woman. It was a small establishment, and I found the room quickly. The big, old-fashioned key fit the keyhole, but it took a keen turn for it to click, and for the door to open. Stale air gushed from within. Despite the air, the room was immaculate, kept in a rather fine state, and, considering how backward this place was—thus unvisited—I couldn’t figure out why they kept the rooms clean and prepped up—or maybe it was just this room. A skeptical thought slithered into my mind: did they know I was going to stay? Did they know I was on an investigation? Did they know I was looking for someone, and whom I was looking for? Those thoughts were judicious, as much as they were ludicrous, and I felt a sudden, strong urge to check the other rooms; but I fought it off.

An auburn closet stood next to the bed. I approached it, opened it, and started emptying the suitcase, folding my clothes, and placing them inside the closet. Even with the suitcase emptied, the closet still held considerable free space. At the bottom of the suitcase was a box with bullets, and in one of the compartments was a gun—.357 Magnum Colt Python with a 4-inch barrel. It cost me a hefty amount, and it was worth it, although I used it only once—other than in the practice range that is. The cylinder was empty. The box contained thirty six powerful cartridges. I took out six of them, loaded the gun, and secluded the box within the clothes in the closet. Putting the revolver away on the small table next to the bed, I reposed on the mattress to relax and think.

This was a rather distinct situation I found myself in. These people evidently didn’t want me here, so I couldn’t rely on cooperation. Well, perhaps I could’ve expected a minimal amount of cooperation. I hadn’t met everyone in the town after all. Maybe there was some soul with a track of amity towards strangers—outsiders. Still, that feeling about the other rooms being wrecks simply lingered, spiting my attempts to shrug it off. No! I am not going to break into the damn rooms! I rebuked myself, but no matter what I did, the urge and suspicion wouldn’t let up. Thoughts needed to be diverted, so I concentrated on what my next step was going to be.

That old receptionist presented a shrewd choice. On the other hand, that shop with various items could hold many a secret, but what kind of a person worked there played a major role in the success of my insinuation.

Night was almost among the little town, and I decided to take a simple stroll, to let the draught blow between my ears and clear the mind within.

“Good evening,” I said as I left the building. There was no reciprocation from the receptionist.

Outside I saw an old man sitting on a bench against the fencing around the fountain. Clear, fragrant, evening air filled my nostrils. Had I not been visiting my grandmother in the country, this fragrance would be entirely new to me.

Despite having decided to make this a simple stroll, I approached the old man and sat beside him.

“Good evening,” I said, already expecting answerless air.

“Good evening,” the man returned, to my surprise.

“Nice weather you’re having here.”

“Weather? Oh laddie, it’s been so long since I heard anyone talk about the weather,” he moaned the words.

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“We’re all familiar faces,” he looked at me with his haggard face and grinned grimly.

I was left bedazzled, mouth half-way open, as the man stood up and floundered away. What the Hell? That look, that grin, the sound of his last words…it made my heart shrink in consternation for reasons I couldn’t yet begin to understand. That gent wasn’t just another conventional old man gripping to his age as the only form of pride; there was something different about this one, and it made chills run throughout my body. Having experienced such an encounter, I decided to pull back to my room and stay there.

Once back in my room, I looked through the window. Another old man was sitting on the bench, slouched, reclining on a stick. A thought made me flinch, and I glanced at the small table next to the bed; the revolver was still there.
I didn’t dream that night. A knock woke me up in the morning. I rose up, descending my feet on the wooden floorboards.

“Yes?” Drowsiness was evident in my voice.

“Breakfast.” A female voice reeking of innocence. On the mention of breakfast, I immediately realized that I hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning, and my stomach grumbled. I staggered to the door, unlocked and opened them. She stood there, looking at me as if trying to grasp every contour of my face.

“H-here.” She handed me the platter, which I took promptly. Beans and a loaf of bread.

“Thank you.”

“Um…” She looked down the hall. Her features depicted her as frightened and too curious for her apparent age. She was certainly older than me—that is, older than twenty seven, as I haven’t mentioned my age yet—though not much I guessed.

“Yes?”

“Could I come here tonight around midnight?” I frowned confusedly. “N-no.” She blushed. “Not…that. I have something to talk to you about. Please?”

Her directness certainly punched me in the face, but I spat stern words of agreement nevertheless. The gratitude which lit her face was unlike any expression I had seen in a woman thus far. Had I been more lucid, maybe the conversation would’ve went a different way. Anyway, what was done, was done. I didn’t regret accepting her proposal. Instead, I looked forward to the meeting. Not for lascivious reasons, though she was good-looking, but out of curiosity. Perhaps it was something important. She might know something about the man I’m looking for. It was credible, as everyone in this town seemed to know something. Such a realization didn’t take long to be grasped.

I ate fast. It was both because of hunger and my eagerness to start looking for the man. Another sunny day set the sights of the town with lively rays, but still was unable to take away that bizarreness with which it had intensely radiated. I left the platter on the chiffonier and left the room. On my way out of the building, I didn’t see the old woman at the reception desk. It was nothing strange. Maybe she was on a break. I went out and the sun bathed me. Its rays hit me so suddenly and so fiercely that I immediately felt nauseated, but the feeling faded in some sort of queasy quickness, leaving some foggy aftereffect. What I just described sounds worse than it really is, and it happens fairly often during sunny days such as this one, especially if you spend time in a murky room before going out.

The store where I was going to start my investigation had no name. It had no sign or anything, and if I had thought about a store without any sign whatsoever, I probably wouldn’t imagine it to be strange as it was strange to actually witness it. I walked in. There was no bell nor anything else to announce my visit. I was too eager to talk to the proprietor, or whomever was working at the counter, to notice what the store held. When I approached the counter, a middle-aged man walked out from the back room. You can always recognize if a person is middle-aged. They are in that phase when time stops flowing, and their faces keep the beauty of youth while having a strong, mature texture. This man wasn’t beautiful though, but I was talking about youthful beauty rather than conventional beauty.

“Ah, you’re new in town,” he said good-naturedly. His dark brown hair was unkempt, but looked nice. It suited him.

I smiled instinctively and said, “Yes I am.”

“So, what can I do for you? Is there anything here that caught your fancy?”

When he said that, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t looked around. Turning my head to the left, where most of the stuff was exhibited, I saw so many random items that I can’t even remember what I really saw. The place was loaded with trinkets and gadgets and whatnot. I started saying, with a bit of hesitation, which was, for the most part, an act, “Um, I’m not exactly here to buy anything.”

His green eyes shot me. Well, his green eyes had been shooting me ever since my almost confused self looked around the store. That act probably told him that I wasn’t there to buy anything, though there was no ill will in his eyes. “What else can I help you with sir?” he asked tentatively.

I took out the picture of Jesse Gale and placed it on the counter. “Have you seen this man?”

“Well, I’ll be damned! That’s Jesse, Jesse Gale isn’t it? He looks so much younger on that picture,” said the clerk as if he was greeting some childhood friend on a high school reunion.

Could it really be this easy? I wondered. All that money for such an easy task. “Where is he?” I clumped out the question like a rookie.

“Well, friend, he was here. Bought a machete he did. I don’t know why he needed one, but he bought one.” The clerk started talking like a sieve and I honestly felt like I got a jackpot. He continued, “Everyone who comes here buys strange stuff. And I, my friend, have so many stuff. I have stuff that I don’t even know I have.” He giggled.
“What they do is: they browse around and bring it to the counter, you see, and I offer a price, or they offer a price. It’s a bargain, it really is.”

There goes my jackpot, I thought. This guy was pulling me away. “And Jesse Gale? Did he buy anything besides the machete?” Every detail was helpful. Details had always been helpful, and these particular details could help me pinpoint what he was planning to do with the stuff he bought.

“Ah, yes, Jesse. Let me tell yah: that Jesse was a peculiar fella, he really was.”

“Really?” I took out my notebook and scribbled some info. “So, did he buy anything else?” I asked again.

“Just a flask. Nothing else. A damn good one that flask was. I didn’t know I had it.” He giggled again. The first giggle I hardly noticed, but this second one annoyed me.

“How long did he stay here?”

“Well, not long. He just bought the items and left. Fifteen to twenty minutes tops.”

“No, I meant in town. How long did he stay in town?” I couldn’t guess if he was plain dumb, or just pulling me on.

“Oh! In town you mean.” He grinned ignorantly and scratched his head like a tiny tot. That act made him look some ten years younger. It was astonishing. “Hmm…two weeks, I think.”

“Do you know where he went?” I scribbled something else in the notebook. While scribbling, I always made it seem like it’s not important. Seeing movies with these journalists scribbling stuff enthusiastically, or holding Dictaphones in front of people’s faces, made me practice so my scribbling could be less conspicuous. And I was good at it. The clerk hadn’t even once looked at my notebook, nor felt uneasy.

“Well, I guess he went out of town.”

I raised my head and looked at him. Propped on the counter by big, heavy hands, he was grinning like he just gave a perfect answer. The grin didn’t seem like it had the purpose of mocking me. Instead, this guy really looked proud of himself, and I just couldn’t discern if he was acting or if he was just one sandwich short of a picnic. “Yes. Thank you. You’ve been helpful,” I said with conviction, skillfully concealing the irony behind my words, and if he was half dumb as he sounded, he’d have bought my fake gratitude. Though he was of some help at least—if he wasn’t lying that is.

This is one spot (bolded it) that I think you could take one of these sentences out:



That made me stop reading it (it's very fluent up to that point. You're doing a very good job with the narration.) and think about it for a bit, because it didn't really make sense to me.

I think if you wanted to say, "I forgot to mention the center", you'd want to start a new paragraph and include something about the center that would be important enough for your character to backtrack and say he forgot it in such a fashion. Personally I think you should just take out the sentence "I forgot to mention the center". It doesn't really go with the rest of it (in my opinion).

And, a little error, but:



I don't think you need the comma in the bolded area since it's not a new thought being tagged on, but rather is still with the thought "it took a keen turn for it to click and for the door to open".




For this one, I think it'd work best if you put 'unlocking' and 'opening' instead (and I think it would be good to change 'them' to 'it', since I'd presume there's only one door.). It sounds a bit awkward the way you have it (may just be me though). I guess it'd work if you just added an 'and' after the comma as well, but personally I've never really liked saying 'and' every other word...




It sounds a bit clumsy to have two 'comma, but's in one sentence. Try finding a different word to show the contrast with the first 'but' (I would suggest using 'yet').




You want to add 'at' or 'towards' (or something of that nature) after shot / shooting in these sentences.




It should be, "he looks so much younger *in* that picture", since he can't be "on" the picture (if you get what I'm saying...). Sorry, I know I'm being a bit nit-picky here...




What you have isn't grammatically correct.

"And I, my friend, have so many things" would work, or
"And I, my friend, have so much stuff" would work too.



Anyway, sorry, I'm not trying to be a pain with the above...You've really written it very well and I think you should keep up with it (if you haven't already written more to it).

Good work, Vince. =).

Some things I can't seem to notice no matter how many times I read through it. Thank you for the support and for pointing these out.

Here's a small update.


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For all the thinking I had done the day prior, I didn’t have a clue of where to go next, and it demoralized me a bit. Standing in front of the store, I kept looking around the small town. It was incredible how confounding the town was, and to spend years living here would be insanity. As I stood there thinking about my next destination, a familiar voice suddenly called to me from behind.

“Sir, I remembered something.” It was the clerk. I turned around to face him without saying anything. “I remembered that he said he’ll be back on Friday. This Friday. That’s all. Now I have some work to do. Have a good day sir.”

And before I could even thank him on the information, he disappeared into the store. Some work to do. He probably had nothing to do, but I still decided not to follow him and inquire more deeply. Considering it was Monday morning, four days remained till Friday. If Jesse was going to come back to town, any further investigation would have been in vain, so I decided to wait it out. A recollection of the woman who had brought me food surfaced, and I suddenly grew anxious to talk to her. Anxious and curious.

At that moment a woman caught my attention. She exited one of the houses and went in the direction of the church. Her attire consisted of a long, white, cotton skirt and a black tank top. She entered the church and I decided to follow.
The interior of the church seemed empty in a way. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was missing exactly, but it was one of those things that we don’t need to see in order to know. Sitting in the front row, having the whole church to herself, she stared at the crucifix. I approached the front row and sat beside her. Her green eyes gave me attention only when I sat down. I felt strangely uncomfortable, and to get out of such a situation before it made me look like a bashful juvenile, I took out the photo of Jesse Gale and showed it to her.

“Have you seen this man?” I asked with a slight, innocuous frown to regain my composure and seriousness. She simply nodded. “Is he coming back?” She nodded again. “When?”

“Friday,” she said with sort of a contorted voice. Attempting to change her voice seemed deliberate, but I didn’t know why she would have done such a thing.

“What was he doing here?”

“Don’t know.” She stood up and tied her long, bright brown hair into a pony tail. “I have to go.”

Yes, of course you do, I thought. After she left the church, I lingered for a while. Not for a little while, but for a long while. Probably several hours, because when I walked outside, the sun was already starting to slant westward. My hungry stomach urged me to go back to the hostel and see if the old lady would give me something to eat. She did give me something: beans. But they grew cold as lunchtime had already passed. Never being finicky about food, I ate the entire meal. ‘The entire meal’ sounds a bit too much, but it was nothing special. It was beans and a loaf of bread, just like what I had for breakfast.

What was there to do in such a town? For the townspeople, I imagined, the day eroded with everyday errands. As for me, what possibly could I have killed time with? Only thinking about reaching the bedtime of today seemed like so far off, not to mention thinking about waiting for Friday; that was eternity. Especially if a person is waiting for something: event or a person or whatever, the wait seems much longer than normal. Personally, anticipation makes me fidget. Not necessarily nervous, just fidgety, which is, I guess, nervousness of sort.

I decided to retire to my room and try to somehow spend time until midnight, for I remembered the visit I’d have been receiving that night. A nap sounded fine, but I wasn’t too tired or anything really, considering that I did almost nothing physical. As I was walking through the hallway to reach my room, I knocked on one of the doors without stopping or easing my pace. It was a simple urge which I humoured for no apparent reason. When I walked in the room, I found that, at first glance, it was intact. The gun was on the chiffonier and I reprimanded my forgetfulness for not putting it away somewhere. That was the first thing I did then though: I put the gun under the pillow. Then I smiled at myself. Can’t I be more original? But who can these days? You see all those people copying each other, and when finally someone does something original, he or she gets copied so many times in such an incredibly short period of time that we don’t even know what’s the original, nor who should be commended for it. It annoyed me more than you could imagine. It made me feel insignificant. Everything was easier hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Almost anything you’d do was original and recognized, though those recognitions weren’t always friendly. Come to think of it, they were mostly fatal. Perhaps that’s the problem with today’s society. Perhaps we need restrictions, fear, cruelty. But there is already too much cruelty. So how could originality be restored? The thought plagued me for years and I’d always come to the negative answer: that it can’t be restored. We had spent all of the ideas and found out almost everything about the world and where we came from—or had we? No, we most certainly hadn’t, but it wasn’t something I knew at the time. Something happened on Friday that goes beyond anything I could conceive. Though first I need to tell you what had been happening through rest of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I can tell you that it’s nothing nearly as mesmerizing and monumental in comparison to what happened on Friday and from Friday on, but I still feel the need to recount on these raggedy days.

Nothing significant happened until around half past eleven when a knock came at the door. I opened the door and found the visitor I had been expecting. She was half an hour early.

“Good evening,” she said as she walked inside of the room lit only by moonlight.

“Good evening.”

“Again, I apologize for bothering you this late.”

“No, don’t worry about it. Sit wherever you like.”

She took a chair that was at the desk, turned it around and sat down. Her face radiated affection and considerable, underappreciated beauty. “Well, I am quite aware of what I am about to ask and how sudden it is. I mean, you just got here and for me to ask something like this is…to a point, absurd,” she spoke. Her eyes and the way she spoke presented her as an intelligent woman.

I sat on the bed, put my feet up, pulled the pillow up and reclined on it. It was some anticipation she held me in, I admit. “Let me be the judge of that.”

She gave a sad smile and went straight to the point. “I want you to get me out of here.”

Not moving, nor saying anything for a minute or two, I ruminated on her words in my head. “Out of this town?” I asked calmly. The reason I managed to stay calm was because I took a bit of time before speaking.

“Yes.”

“Why?” But I sort of found the question silly. That town was an enclosure.

“I can’t stand it here anymore. There is a whole world out there, and I’ve been trapped here since the day I was born.” Hope seeped from her words.

“Then why don’t you leave?”

She stooped her head. “My…mother, you’ve seen her, she works at the reception, doesn’t allow it.”

“You could just walk out and leave. What’s the big deal? You’re a grown woman.”

“No, you see, they’d chase me and bring me right back. I tried once.”

“What? That’s against the law.” Again I found myself to be silly. What law, besides their own, could reach a place like this.

“Do you see any policemen around here?”

“You’re right,” I answered as if defeated.

“Please, think about it. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Not answering, I stared pensively. In the dark she couldn’t see that I was thinking, and she stood up to leave. “I’m Val.”

She stopped, confused. “Oh! My name is Adrianne. I’m sorry for not introducing myself earlier, but my mind is all over the place right now. It’s not every day that I ask something like this.”

“It’s alright.”

“Good night,” she said with a hint of bashfulness.

“Good night.”

For all intents and purposes this sentence is fine, but if you can go without commas in something, do it. It makes things smoother reading for others so that they don't have to always make all these pauses. I've been a bit notorious with my excess commas in Prafyr myself, but it's something to work on.

So anyway, I would suggest taking out the second comma in this sentence before the 'and'.

That's actually all I really found in this. Superb reading as always. Glad to see more of it, and I look forward to reading what you put next. ^^

Thank you.

I read somewhere that you can't go wrong with putting a comma, though it does hinder the flow. I'm trying to put them only where necessary though, but one can never "know" in some situations. That's why writers need readers.

A lot of older authors, like Charles Dickens, used a lot of commas in their writing. It’s fine to do, but I think in the long run it’s better to just make things easier for the readers instead of bogging everything down with commas every instance you can. I don’t have too much trouble reading something like that, but I can be a bit anal retentive about excessive commas and whatnot in any writing (especially when it's not cut clear and concise. Lately when I've been reading books a lot of these things just jump out at me more than they used to, so it's sort of become a focus with me for my own writing). It just really stands out to me personally. I dunno. >.>.

Anyway, I agree whole-heartedly with your last statement though (of course. =p.). That’s always the best thing for any writer. =).

Another update. It's not much considering how long it's been.

===

Lethargy took me over when she left the room, but I remained in the sitting position to think about her request. What she was asking was reasonable enough. That couldn’t be denied at all. But who am I to contradict these people’s ways? Although I knew from the beginning that I’d be helping her, I still spent some time thinking about it all. Would I be able to pour some reason into these people, her mother, and walk away simply? No. Many of my past experiences had proven time and time again that talking and reasoning only prolong the inevitable, or in some cases they even speed it up. There was not going to be any talking and reasoning. The only thing that could’ve been done was to just take her with me without anyone knowing. Would they hunt us down as she said? I certainly wasn’t planning on shooting a person, or persons, and going to jail for someone I just met. Nevertheless, it was decided: I was going to help her.

Embroiled in thinking about how to get her out of this town, I finally noticed that I still had a job to do, which held priority. Tomorrow, Tuesday, my cousin, who had connections with the police, was coming back from vacation and I was planning on giving him a call to ask him to check up on Jesse Gale. Something, call it intuition or sixth sense, was giving me a feisty feeling that things didn’t add up.

That night I dreamt about a large meadow with a forest at the far off rim. I was running, sweaty and breathing deeply, towards the forest as someone was chasing me. Who it was, or how many there were, I did not know. What I did know was that I didn’t reach the forest because I woke up just when they were about to catch me.

Upon waking up, I found that the blanket was still underneath me and that I didn’t change my clothes. I can get quite slothful sometimes, if not oftentimes. That was a probable flaw in not having a care in the world. But there are many upsides, or at least that’s what I thought. A person who doesn’t care has a lot less stress in their life. They don’t plan for tomorrow, and from personal experience I learned that it is a good thing. Now you might ask why I bought the apartment if I wasn’t planning my future. The decision to buy the apartment struck me one day and I just did it without thinking if it was a good thing or not. It was just something that I wanted to do, so I did it. I didn’t want goals in my life. Goals hardly have a positive effect. When you fail to achieve them, you’re sad and depressed, and when you achieve them, you find out that the process of achieving that goal isn’t about fulfilling it, but about going through that process, for when you reach it, you feel happiness and contentment which last a short time before you start feeling emptiness, possible loneliness, insignificance—futility. So why would people need goals? Some say it’s what keeps them going. That’s true. But we’re not all the same, are we? I find solace in not having any goals. Life is much more diverse, thus more interesting, than constantly pursuing one, or two, or three goals.

Adrianne brought breakfast that morning and told me she’d meet me on the bench near the fountain whenever I show up. I agreed and after finishing the meal, made my way outside and sat on the bench. She came out of the hostel, approached me while wearing a nervous smile and sat down.

“Hello. I didn’t think you’d be here this soon,” she said.

“Well, there is not much to do here, is there?” I teased.

“Yeah,” she said longingly and stared in front of herself. I figured that I didn’t make a careful choice of words.

“Isn’t your mother going to get suspicious seeing you talk to me?”

“Oh no!” She livened up. “I spend time with all of our customers.” I looked at her. “No. Not fornication.” She grinned,
but I noticed that her timidity had waned. It was as if she could read my mind.

“So, what about Jesse? Have you talked to him too?”

“Yes. Quite often.” She settled in her seat as if she was concentrating, or trying to remember something.

“Did you ask him for help?”

“No. You’re the first one I asked.”

“Why?”

“Well, there haven’t been that many visitors. All the visitors before Jesse and yourself were some traveling ragtags who didn’t care about anything else but getting by for today.”

I thought about how I was no different than them, but that wasn’t true. “Then why didn’t you ask Jesse?”

A motherly giggle escaped her. “Jesse is, how should I put it, incapable of pulling something like that off. At first I thought that I could ask him.” She sighed. “He was my thread of hope. But the deeper we went with our conversations, the more I figured that he can’t help me.”

“Why?”

“He’s got these silly dreams.”

“What kind of dreams?”

“Childish dreams. He’s in his own world.” She sighed again. “I don’t feel comfortable talking about his personal stuff
if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, of course. Do you know where he went?”

“No. All I know is that he’s coming back this Friday.”

“Did he say that?”

“Yes.” Then she smiled again. I found those smiles to be quite soothing. “Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated?”

“Well,” I gave a faint smile, “you kind of are being interrogated. I’ve been hired to look for him.”

“By whom? His sister?”

“Yeah. Did he tell you about her?”

She nodded. “He told me quite a bit about his sister, but it’s not polite if I talk about it.”

I placed my elbows on the bench recliner. “I understand.”

“About what I asked last night…” Her tone became more serious. “Have you decided?”

“I’ll help you,” I said blandly.

The old lady came out on the sill and waved to Adrianne, signaling her to come over. Adrianne got up. “Thank you so much. We’ll talk later. I need to go now.” Jovial, she almost loped to the hostel.

For a while I remained sitting on the bench, and for a while I wandered around the fountain, contemplating the same scenery over and over again. The day slipped away faster than I had thought it would. Before I knew it, tepid darkness overwhelmed the daylight, lulling it to sleep, and slithering into the houses and rooms only to be partially killed by the artificial light. Not once did I turn the light on in the room appointed to me. One of the probable reasons was the gentle moonlight seeping through the window those three nights I had been there. That night, however, there were some hints of clouds. Some errant ones would interrupt the moon’s radiance only to release its brightness in luminous profusion. I sank into sleep with comfortable celerity.

The sun woke me up. My own mind intercepted me by surfacing the thought, entirely on its own, of it being Tuesday morning. I got up, refreshed by the long slumber, and went down to ask for my breakfast.

“The food went cold,” said the old lady.

“It’s ok. My own fault for sleeping this long.”

“Yes, it is. I brought it to you, but you didn’t answer the door. Do you think it’s easy for me to climb the stairs at this age only to kiss the door?” Her nagging was very out-of-date. I don’t even need to mention how irking it was.

“I apologize. Please, spare yourself of further strain and let me come and get the breakfast by myself.” Talking eloquently always seemed to put women of any age at a disadvantage.

“Yes, you make sure you do.” She seemed to calm down.

With that, I ate my meal and went outside, bent on browsing the nameless store. At first I didn’t find anyone in the store, but after a short while, the man I had a conversation about Jesse two days ago came out of the back room.

“Ah, good sir, welcome. May I help you with something?” The usual, good-natured grin delineated his features.

“I’ll just take a look, thank you.”

“Sure, sure. Please do.” He went into the back room, but it was as if he evaporated.

The store struck with augmented strangeness; a strangeness that was absent before because I came with a different purpose at the time. Now my purpose was just the contents of the store, and paying attention to what it held made it much more diverse—in a perplexing way. One of the ramshackle shelves held a microwave. The thing was encrusted in corrosion. The shelf below held a vacuum cleaner which was missing several crucial parts. I was never a person who would be meticulous with their looking around a store, so I sped through the short rows between shelves, casting glances at the amalgam of items around me.

What took my attention was a collection of tomes in the far off corner. I took one of them and opened the first page. It said:



I flipped to the second page.



What the Hell is this? I completely lost track of my surroundings. Was it some fantasy anthology? I had never before heard of something like this. The name of the author was nowhere to be found. I opened a random page and started reading the following excerpt:



Engrossed in the reading, I recoiled when the book got wrested out of my hands. It was the clerk, now with a slight seriousness among his features.

“Please sir, these are not for sale.” He placed the book back in its respective place.

“I was just looking.” I justified myself without seeing a need to.

“I’m sorry. Browse anything else in the shop, but stay away from this shelf.”

“But…why is it here if it’s not for sale?”

“That is not…your concern—yet,” he said with a level of profoundness I could have sworn he didn’t possess the last time we conversed.

“Yet?” I skewed my head slightly and my eyebrows curved into a confused frown.

“Don’t inquire about this.”

“Who’s the author?” I persisted.

“Please do not inquire about this.” He held no threat in his comportment, but I decided to desist because it seemed of infinite importance to this man.

“Alright. My intention wasn’t to upset you.”

“Thank you, sir. Everything is alright. You did not upset me.” His expression returned to the one he had before; an expression of fatuous amity.

Having gone through an inexplicable experience such as this, I decided to take my leave of the store without looking through the rest of the stuff. Once outside, I strained myself to remember what I had read, but in vain. Some fragments of those few sentences I read came to mind, but it wasn’t enough. I went to the bench and sat to clear and calm down my mind in order for the read lines to surface.

I see what you meant about the story taking more of a far-fetched/sudden turn into a fantasy-esque story, but the transition doesn’t seem too awkward (at least not yet, to me). You’ve already introduced most of the villagers to seem queer, so having something like that jump out within the context of the story seems to fit in really well.

Lookin’ good. Keep it up. =).

Well, that was actually an inkling of the transition which will be far more far-fetched (this sounds strange ). Actually, this is supposed to make the transition a bit less sudden. Though it's good to have it sudden and surprising, but with some limits at least.

Anyway, thank you for reading.