Writing Trials of Magnolia Cove

[Charles]

[i]This is my new short story, thus far. I'll post the rest when it's completed. I figure it'll be easier to make adjustments based on suggestions if I post it up in pieces. Plus, I won't be putting as much stress on everyone to read a whole lot.[/i]

Men speak many different languages, but none louder than silence. He?s been left alone, at the mercy of his own thoughts. The office is small, makes him feel like he?s trapped inside his head, a prisoner shackled by the chains of his own consciousness. At any moment, he could spontaneously combust, and an endless torrent of pain and heartache might trickle and flood, drowning him in the confines of the four walls. It?s 4:15 pm.

His form imposes on a black suit that hugs his body. It stretches tightly over his back. The arms are too short; they reveal his naked wrists. So, he sits back in a leather chair, relaxing the overworked material. He blends into his shadowy surroundings.

It?s 4:20 pm. He straightens his tie with anxious fingers and gazes past a large office plant, through the room?s only window. It commands a view of a divided highway. Clouds appear to be painted onto the sky with the bristles of God?s paintbrush. Colors bleed from the sky, and sharply contrast with a flat of skeletal trees that line the road. They have long been stifled by the bitter grasp of winter.

He reaches into his breast pocket and withdrawals a Zippo lighter. It?s 4:22 pm. He plays with the flame, allowing himself to be distracted by the clicking sound. Patches of daylight pass through the window and fall, like stones, on picture frames and plaques, garnishing the room in sparks. It?s 4:25 pm. Adrenaline clogs his arteries. The empty ticking of a large, oak clock sings baritone with the chorus of chatter in the adjoining secretary?s lounge.

Finally, his psychiatrist enters. The door clicks open, allowing the outside sounds to permeate the room for only a brief instant, before being swept out again by the gunshot thud of the door, closing behind her. He shifts in his seat, instinctively shrinks away at the presence of another being. She pauses at the threshold of the room.

?I?m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting Mr. Winslow,? she says. ?Are you comfortable? Would you like a glass of water? A cup of coffee??

He attempts to speak, but his voice has grown hoarse during the space of the interruption. He clears his throat.

?I?m fine,? he says, ?thank you.?

?Are you sure? It would be no problem,? she says ?Once we begin, I would prefer that we had no further interruptions.?

?I?ll be fine,? he says, ?I don?t want anything to drink.?

She glides though the room and sits across from him. Her chair appears to be elevated higher than his. For the first time, Mr. Winslow notices a manila folder in her crimson clutches His heart fights to stay in his chest.. He inhales deeply, scoffed at the prospect of the whole endeavor, at the climate controlled, leather seated, modern deco decorated splendor swallowing him whole.

?Well, where do you want begin,? she says, ?What do you want to talk about??

?I?m ready to talk about her,? he says, ?I?m ready to talk about it. I need to talk about it.?

His stares at her. His elbows are resting on his knees, his fingers are steepled, as if he?s in deep contemplation over some matter. She smiles. Her red lips part, revealing perfectly straight, icy white, teeth.

?Well, this is a pleasant surprise,? she says, ?I agree with you wholeheartedly. You really need to do this. You need to face the past if you ever want to move forward.?

?I know,? he says, ?I?m ready to talk about everything. About Mrs. Whittlebone.?

?I?m listening,? she says, ?Tell me about Mrs. Whittlebone.?

Silence.

He pauses to take a moment for himself, leans back and melts into the chair again. His eyes are half-open--like he?s lost in a state between consciousness and sleep.

?It?s okay,? she says, ?I know it?s difficult.?

?Mrs. Whittlebone was a widow who lived on Magnolia Cove with her two grandchildren,? he says.

?Oh yes, that?s a nice area,? she says delicately scratching notes onto a small pad.

?Yes, it was a quiet little area and her home was the oldest,? he says, ?Which, of course, was fitting because she was the oldest woman in town.?

?I see,? she says, ?So, how is Mrs. Whittlebone--or her grandchildren, perhaps, important to you? What-?

?I need to describe the house,? he says, ?That?s important to me.?

?Okay, go on,? she says, ?I won?t interrupt.?

?It?s really important,? he says.

?I know,? she says.

It felt like he was spilling his life out onto the canvas of the world. Everything had to be perfect.

?The house was ghastly--a decrepit building whose foundation bore stress cracks. It was large--dwarfing surrounding homes,? he says. ?But, it seemed isolated, sitting atop a hill, far removed from the rest of civilization. Surrounding trees made its features nearly indistinguishable and when night inevitably defeated day, it was transformed into something even more hellish . It was the old haunted house cliché.?

She is staring at him, able to view the most intimate fears of his soul, he suspects. It holds him in a paralyzing stasis until the impromptu chiming of the large clock shouts gives him a start.

The psychiatrist removes her moon shaped glasses and dabs at them delicately with a violet handkerchief.

?Can--you tell me, Mr. Winslow--what is, excuse me, what was your relationship to Mrs. Whittlebone? Did it have something to do with the house??

?She was my grandmother,? he says, ?We grew up in that house. She raised us.?

The somber words now give her pause. Her face expresses nothing.

?The house benefited little in the way of renovation,? he goes on, ? It settled under age and lack of care. Dust touched everything, emanating from spider web constellations in the corners, it even coated the furniture. It diminished the luster of a once exquisite cherry wood dining room set and gave the carpet a somewhat ashy complexion. Mrs. Whittlebone had developed an acute sense of loathing for anything less gray than herself. That?s the way it was.?

[The Vampire: Ed]

The great thing about reading this is that I could picture it as a movie. I can't wait to see the rest when it's done, good job thus far.

[Lady Asphyxia]

[color=darkred][size=1]I like it. Okay, I'm in a really lazy [tired] mood, so I just skipped to the dialogue, but what I did read, I liked. And I'll edit this later to put in a proper criticism. Heh. [/color][/size]