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feedback, please?
I've gotten into another rut of writer's block, and I've convinced myself that it's because the whole story, two month's work so far, has been, basically, a waste.
So, if you don't mind, can you please if my efforts are of any worth or, at least, interesting? And sorry, no COR version.
Thanks.
ps. keep in mind that reality, in my story at least, is suspended greatly.
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from my story "little symphony"
16.
Three confrontations, in the span of five hours, occurred the following day. The number of loons, after the first two confrontations, had increased; and, by the third, there were as many as fifty spilling into the lot. Between the second and third, James, armed with Tipper’s S&W, had jogged to the kitchen and quickly crammed a tray with a variety of cold cuts, condiments, and three loafs of bread.
James and Tipper had snacked by the window. There was little chatter between them and more of passing conspicuous gazes. When they finished, an hour ticked away and, during Tipper’s later shift, The Loons had begun spewing out of O’Brien Avenue and both ends of Roman Avenue. James, who had been thinking about the odds of him crossing paths with the loon-versions of his thought-to-be-dead parents, was summoned; he noted he had seen and killed? the waiter from The Little Angel’s Restaurant in the earlier throng; which meant, along with recognizing a few other faces—most notably, The Big Man—he had remembered seeing in town a week ago, that The Loons were reanimated corpses—or something to that effect?—of those who had disappeared.
He had gone to the window, gave the area an unnecessary scan, and, having snatched his Heckler off of the floor, he had stationed himself in the hall. Tipper had observed from the window as he, in a cool, one-by-one manner, put the thick crowd of loons out of commission.
Afterward, as the last echo of the violence lifted, he, for the first time, had regarded the lot meaningfully. It was carpeted with the twisted bodies of The Loons, who were, even in their inexorable state, frightful images that were difficult to erase; beneath them, the snow bedding, reaching from one width of the lot and to the other, had been soaked into a bright, almost radiant red colour. Despite this, James and Tipper had grown numb to such a macabre display. It had, in a way, become routine for them, and, when they approached the idea from this perspective, it frightened them.
On one occasion, just as twilight broke into the sky, the cousins spoke about this matter. They circled the question, coming to no real resolve, and figured it was best to simply—or at least, try to—ignore these frustrating emotions.
Some time after, things were much calmer; Tipper was at post, and James, taking the opportunity, slept. Hours went by, and the shifts seemed to become longer, far more tedious than they initially were. Unfortunately, they seemed to be getting too long for James himself; at one point, at around two ’o clock in the early morning, he had drifted from the window, and, out of some unusual urge, he lay next to a napping Tipper on the bed they did use. He had no reason to, but he felt compelled to have her in front of him, for him to admire while other, more pressing matters were at hand.
Slowly, he began to stroke her rich hair, and, with each hypnotizing stroke, the weight of his eyes became heavier and heavier until, finally, he had succumbed to The Sandman’s spell—
There was, first, a brass ensemble, singing a triplet rhythm; these simplistic measures expired and then modulated into a festive overture of dancing strings. It was music, James’s mind registered; and then the registration shattered into multiple theories. He had not heard a single note in what seemed to be an eternity; the last piece of music he remembered listening to was a German ballad. But now, as he lay half-asleep, wondering whether or not he was still dreaming, there were lively melodies ascending to high octaves.
James shot up from his lying position like the limb of a catapult, gasping a choked wheeze, and, in the course of supporting his torso with his arms, he had disturbed Tipper. She, hearing the music, instinctively clutched James’s arm and lifted herself to his level. “What is that?” she whispered. Their eyes had been drawn to the window, which was evidently bridging them and the joyful source.
“The hell if I know!” James cried and then, having released himself out of his cousin’s grasp, leaped off the mattress.
“Careful!” Tipper exclaimed.
There was a man of different impressions dancing quite merrily about the lot. He wore a black cassock, a black Galero hid his scalp, and, after examining him a little more thoroughly, James saw that his collar was that of a clerical nature. A scarlet aura of ghostly qualities blazed along the grooves of his figure; wherever he moved, the aura, adjusting the dead loons’ death stares into demonic decorations, obediently shadowed him.
His arms were held out, and he was cackling. The Priest would twirl and then leap, almost flying against gravity—defying the laws of physics in a thrust—to another point in the lot. He was flying! His feet would touch the ground, crunching into the dead loons, sending untamed squirts of blood, and then, twirling like a magnificent ballerina, he would propel himself into the air. The jaunty music, meanwhile, was reaching for an explosive crescendo, and The Priest, maintaining his witch-like demonstration, twirled in feral movements that were, to an average man, physically impossible to execute.
Tipper, whose nerves had been swollen more into anxiety than curiosity, marched to the window, and, startling him, wormed her way under James’s arms. She poked her head through the window frame, clamping the sill, and saw the spectacle.
The horns were trumpeting staccato riffs, and the strings were climbing into higher dynamics. A roll of snares were easing in, and a party of cymbals crashed! The secret climax was teasing them, toying with their anticipation, whistling like an incoming artillery shell, and The Priest, its advocate, soared skyward. He, in mid air, crossed stares with the cousins and, with his arms held against his side, drifted back down. It had not occurred to James, until that surreal instant, that The Priest’s irises were translucent and that his teeth resembled a shark’s. When he landed, without so much as producing a grunt upon impact, the music, having yet to attain its potential, immediately ceased. The Priest made an abrupt motion and, as if beckoning them, shot his forefinger at the cousins. He burst into his nefarious cackle!
James pulled Tipper in and slammed the windowpane shut. The Priest’s cackle, unlike the dark hour’s ambience, did not suffer from James’s action. Its presence had merely been muted and eerily tangled with the stuffy silence of the cousins’ room.
“What ’r ’ya ’doin?” Tipper asked.
James, who had armed himself with his Heckler, placed the duffel on the bed they did not use; he blindly dug through its contents, feeling for a certain shape, and produced three magazines that went straight into the pockets of his coat. “Listen ’t me,” he sharply said, “I want ’ya ’t lock the door, ’kay?”
“Why?” Tipper asked, “where’r ’ya going?” She approached him and then clasped his arm.
“’T see what that guy’s deal is, of course,” he said and then easily broke free.
“No, you’re not!” she cried. She, throwing herself against him, clung onto his arm a second time and, rallying what little strength she possessed, pressed her weight upon his.
“Oh!” James groaned, “I hate it when ’ya do this! I hate it!”
“Let me go with ’ya, then!”
“’Outta the question!” James drove her forward but was unable, in that patronizing maneuver, cast her aside.
“Stop!” she pleaded, as they wrestled with each other, “’f Christ’s sake, ’dun—be—such—’a—idiot!”
James pushed her twice and, upon the second attempt, drove her on the bed they did not use. He reminded her, scolding her almost, to lock and bolt the door. He hesitated at the threshold, flinging uncertain glances between her and The Priest, and then, promising her he would return, rushed out into the hall. Tipper cursed at him and, while she grumbled dejected oaths to herself, she performed his instructions. She, after testing the door’s reliability, immediately returned to the window, lashed at the curtains, cursing at them to move aside, and saw that The Priest had taken flight into O’Brien Avenue.
“Get back here!” James demanded in a howl. He sprang seven steps shy from the staircase’s landing, smacked into the snow bedding, and then, regaining his balance, chased after The Priest. “I said ’t get back here!”
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Mixed Genre Mixes [50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s]:
MGM 6 /
MGM 5 / MGM 4 /
MGM 3 / MGM 2 / MGM 1
Electronic Dance Music Mixes:
EDM 7
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It will add a little drama and change the mood right away..making it take on a more serious tone.
