Writing Absolute [M-LV]

[Wondershot]

[IMG]http://img157.exs.cx/img157/5264/absolutephoto16it.jpg[/IMG] Serge glared defiantly at the stained oak door in front of him, as though expecting it to wither under his cold stare and matching grimace. Serge, however, did not seem quite as confident as his face entailed, and, instead of continuing his hapless staring contest, opted to fall to his knees before the door in an attempts to peek under the frame. The door covered almost everything above the white permanent carpeting, but, from what he could tell, everything was completely dark beyond his room, as though it were nighttime. Serge glanced back at the bedside table, the only object occupying it being the ancient clock radio which incessantly flashed the numbers 12:00 throughout the room. Serge turned to the radio after getting up from his kneeling stance, and proceeded to turn on the radio function. White noise now filled the otherwise static room, and Serge tried all of the channels he was familliar with, the news, the rock station, talk radio, only to be greeted with the same ceaseless flood of white noise. Serge twisted the knob in frustration, when the white noise was broken by a garbled sound similar to a person's voice. In haste, Serge twisted the knob back in an attempt to find the voice again, and found himself listening to white noise with a small, warbling voice in the background, rendered completely indecipherable thanks to all the noise in the foreground. Serge meticulously turned the knnob in an attempt to tune in the voice, when all sound stopped completely and the 12:00 continued blinking as though nothing had happened. Serge vaulted out of his bed in frustration and opened his closet, only to be met with the stench of a week's worth of laundry waiting for him. Having been unable to open his door, he now had to live with the laundry he himself had avoided doing up until that moment. Serge clamped his left hand over his face and proceeded to fumble around in the dark for something he could use to break down the door, when he felt a small breath of his air down his back. Serge froze, and, a second later, took one huge bound towards the thick cream-coloured curtains in the corner and threw them open. His windows had been blacked out completely, not a speck of light could be seen outside, and, contrary to what Serge had been thinking, nothing had managed to get in or out through his window. Serge spun around on one heel and walked towards his desk lamp, which, miraculously, still functioned along with his PC, even though he could not seem to use his phone or connect to the Internet. Serge had previously toyed with the idea of attempting to set the room on fire to either burn a way out or get the attention of someone outside, but eventually scrapped the idea after writing all the things that could have gone wrong on his arm. His arm still bore the marks of: -can't breathe -f_re blo__ing the _ay ou_ -n_ __e w__ld _et i__ide The rest had been rendered completely illegible. Serge stared back at the closet, where some of the stench had begun to leak out into his living space. Serge, after having been trapped in this room for...longer than he could remember what time it was when he last was outside, knew that the invasion of the smell of his own clothing was the one thing that would surely drive him insane from being sealed inside his own living qauarters. Reaching inside, he proceeded to salvage the last of his clean clothing out from the closet in an attempt to ensure that it would stay at least reasonably normal-smelling. Slamming the closet shut, Serge threw the rest of his clothes on his desk chair and proceeded to file through all the clothing he would wear for the next few days. His train of thought was interrupted, however, when a small lump tumbled out of a pair of blue jeans and landed on the floor under his desk. Serge returned to his kneeling position in an attempt to discover what what had fallen out, and, in his haste, banged one hand hard on the side of his desk. Serge watched as a large red mark began to materialize on the words "can't breathe" and what was left of "blo__ing". Cursing under his breath, Serge returned to his search for the missing brown lump, and came up with it not a few seconds later in total darkness. Serge, unable to tell quite what it was, ran his fingers over it in an attempt to discern its shape and what it was made of. He came up with a small opening which his hand fit into smoothly, and he realized that he was wearing a single perfect leather glove. Serge couldn't help but grin, as he usually had the worst habit of losing all his best pairs of gloves and, in some rare cases, finding single gloves in the oddest places, even public environments. Oh, Serge, they fit you perfectly! Serge jumped up in shock, and banged his head hard on the desk above him. Grasping the back of his head with both hands, Serge collapsed onto the floor, curses now becoming quite audible. "Câliçe, qu'est ce que va arriver maintenant?" As though in answer to his question, Serge banged his head on something immediately after exiting the darkness under the desk, as, thanks to the shock of skull colliding with hardwood, one of the desk drawers had opened right above his head. Serge proceeded to rub his head with more ferocity as he peeked into the desk drawer, examining several things that had shifted around in the confusion... "Où vas-tu coucher ce soir, Serge?" Serge whipped his head to the right, because the voice had issued from the clock radio on his bedside table. Serge jumped onto his bed to get a closer look at the radio, when a piercing shriek issued from the radio, and Serge jumped up in suprise. Covering one ear with his left hand, Serge ripped the alarm clock radio's wire out of the wall. The noise did not cease. The clock still flashed 12:00. Serge, with one hand, hurled the radio violently against the blackened window with all his might. The radio shattered on impact with the glass, but the window did not even crack. The noise stopped, but Serge could still feel it pinging around in his head. He flopped back onto the bed, rubbing his temples agitatedly. "Merde, quand est ce que ça va arrêter?" Serge's arm went limp, and he fell asleep instantaneously.

This is the first part in a medium-length story. I'm not sure exactly how many parts there are, but I know exactly how it ends.

In the meantime, Enjoy it for all it has to offer.

[Shinmaru]

Interesting start to the story. You tell enough to get the reader hooked in, but not so much that you give everything away. There's definitely more than a bit of secrecy here. Like with the marks on Serge's hand...I'm sure that I could figure out what they said if I spent enough time thinking about it, but I'm too lazy for that :p The voices and the radio strike me as interesting, too. It'll be nice to see where you go with all of that.

Good work so far.

[DeadSeraphim]

[COLOR=Indigo][SIZE=1][FONT=Arial]I like this. The situation Serge is in has me intrigued and I'd like to see more, lol. Though I think you used his name a bit much for a narrative that, thus far, only has one character, heh. But that's just a minor complaint. ^_^;

Nice work.[/FONT][/SIZE][/COLOR]

[Wondershot]

Wow, thanks for the responses, and I'm glad I was able to convey that sense of intrigue. This is my first attempt at a story of one in a supernatural situation, so I'm glad I'm doing okay so far.

Oh, and the story is divided into "Rooms", which are longer than one post each, so keep in mind that this is still "Room 1".

"[i]Ou suis-je maintenant?[/i]" Serge twisted around slowly in his bed in an attempt to recall the thoughts of the previous evening...or whenever it was at the time. He wasn't even very convinced that it was actually morning at this point, as he had lost all sense of time. Serge proceeded to slowly unwrap himself from the bedsheets around him, although something about his sleeping position didn't seem right to him. He threw one of the covers off in frustration, and proceeded to scratch his head with one hand and look down at his wrist for that reminder about why he shouldn't burn his house down. The letters on his forearm were still somewhat legible, but something about them had struck Serge as fairly odd. He glanced back at his desk in an attempt to regain some of the events of the previous evening. "That stupid bump on my head better not have given me amnesia..." Halfway to the desk, Serge froze completely, even stopping his almost mechanical scratching. "Wait..." Serge took another look at the notes on his forarm, and the words "can't breathe" stared back at him as always, in his usual terrible cursive. However, something was very different about the writing from the previous day. The mark was gone. Serge distinctly remembered banging his arm on the desk before reaching down under it, and it had left a huge red mark across the words on his arm. However, this morning (if it actually was morning) there was no mark. Surely such a mark on his arm would have left a bruise for at least a few hours. For how long had he been asleep? Serge let his hand drop to his side as he continued to ponder the meaning of this seemingly instantaneous healing process, when a horrible thought occured to him. His arm snapped up rigidly and he stared long and hard at his left hand, wondering what was happening to him. The glove was gone, as well. Serge collapsed into his desk chair, breathing becoming immediately more laboured and tense. Just what was happening to him? He could now clearly remember the glove on his left hand, the one that had appeared out of a pair of pants on his massive laundry pile. It was gone, and, furthermore, now Serge could remember why he woke up feeling so strange. He had fallen asleep on the couch sideways, but when he woke up he was sleeping on the normal side of the bed. He glanced back in the direction of the bed to confirm his fears, and what he saw nearly stopped his heart completely. The clock radio was there. The clock radio, the one he had smashed on the window previous to falling asleep. Still there. Still flashing 12:00. Serge fell to his knees and practically crawled back to his bed weakly. This was too much. He did not understand, and he saw no sign of anything improving. He knew he was going to die in his room, but he knew that he would be driven insane just before he died. He finally reached the side of his bed, and put his elbows up, clasping his hands together in prayer. "[i]Notre Seigneur,[/i] I do not know why this is happening, [i]ni quel péchê que je suis coupable de commetre[/i]. Please, before I die, please tell me what is happening." A single tear rolled down Serge's face, when a massive bang, as though a grenade had detonated just outside his door, blasted any thoughts of God from his brain, and he jumped back with a cry of terror. Clasping one hand over his heart, Serge waited for his breathing to slow down enough for him to stand up. His legs were unsteady and he held his desk chair for support as he reached a shaking hand up to about chest level. Taking small steps, he walked towards the bedroom door at the foot of the bed, reaching a hand out tentatively for the doorknob. As though in fear that the knob would bite him, Serge's trembling hands reached for the doorknob almost soundlessly. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted slowly. The door opened with a small creak, and Serge glanced out into the hallway. The lights were on, but there was still zero indication of what time of day it was. Serge, almost completely overcome with the gravity of the situation, bounded for the stairs leading down to the front door. That is where he stopped dead when he saw what lay before him. The path down the stairs had been blocked completely. A messy fence of what appeared to be chicken wire and chains lay before him, completely blocking the stairway downwards. Serge threw himself against the fence in desperation, rattling it loudly in the hope that it would give. It did not. Serge took a small look between the chains and saw his front door. The window panes on the door were blacked out as they were on his room, and Serge's heart became cold as that once bright flare of hope inside him began dimming by the moment.

[DeadSeraphim]

[COLOR=Indigo][SIZE=1][FONT=Arial]I got a kind of... *thinks* GroundHog Day feel from this part. The chickenwire and chains came right out of left field though, lol. I have my theories on how this will unfold, but I think I'll wait and see what you do with it.

Oh, and for what it's worth this line: "That stupid bump on my head better not have given me amnesia..." struck me as a bit off, heh. Good work anyway! :)[/FONT][/SIZE][/COLOR]

[Wondershot]

[IMG]http://img187.exs.cx/img187/4268/absolutephoto21rs.jpg[/IMG] Looking morosely at the blackened window in his room, Serge sat back in his office chair and reached for a cup of water on his desk. The water had been acquired from the toilet in the bathroom down the hall, as his taps did not seem to be working, and the cup was left over in his room from a while back. Serge could not even remember what he had last drunk from the cup, but he was rather relieved to finally have some relatively fresh water in his mouth, even if he was now sorely in need of food. Food, Serge swivelled around in his desk chair, regretting the last few meals he had eaten in the living room downstairs. Stomach growling, he thought bitterly that had he any idea that these strange things would be happening to him, he would have at least tried cooking a little more often, rather than just buying instant noodles at the Depanneur every week. On that thought, however, Serge froze as he was about to get up. Hands gripping the armrests of his chair, he turned his head slowly towards his desk, then looked down at the aluminium wastebasket immediately underneath. A strange thought just occured to him, and, ready to embrace it with unfettered euphoria, Serge bolted down the hall, past the chained up stairs, and towards a hall closet opposite the bathroom. Throwing himself at the bottom shelf, Serge proceeded to pull out a suitcase and tear it open, sifting through a neatly packed pile of clothes, some toiletries, and, finally, a few packs of instant noodles at the bottom. Serge tore the first one he saw open with gusto, and proceeded to crunch up the package with his hands and eat the noodles dry. "Next time I could try boiling the second pack somehow." Serge thought smugly as he crunched up the dry noodles. He felt like one of those reality television people, only surviving in his own home was a little more taxing ordeal than he had imagined. With that in mind, Serge turned around and threw open the door to the bathroom, ready to fill the second pack with water... The window was open. Serge stared with incredulity at the far double window. It was wide open, no black covering, no indestructible window panes, it was open and the clouded sky streched out before him. Serge walked slowly towards the window, as though expecting it to slam shut as he got close. It did not. Serge continued to stare skyward as he approached. He had not seen natural light for a long time, and even the white hue of the clouds seemed to sting. Serge did not close his eyes, he was in shock. He looked at the ground, and jumped. His house was not where it used to be. He was surrounded by trees and one tiny road and a smaller house across the street. This was not where he lived. Serge reeled and put a hand on the bathroom counter to support himself. [i]Serge! Cette maison est très belle![/i] Why don't we buy it? Both of Serge's shivering hands gripped the countertop as though they knew he was going to fall. He continued to stare out the window in horror, there was snow on the ground. The last time he had seen the earth it was still early fall. Why had the snow come so quickly? And why was his old neighborhood displayed out the window like that? A female voice issued from the sink. "[i]Serge! Votre diner est prete![/i]" Serge flew back from the counter in terror and felt his knee hit the bathtub hard. He could not stop himself, he was beginning to fall. Hands flailing helplessly, he did not even feel the back of his head smash into the bathroom tile, did not even notice the tile split underneath the back of his head, did not even percieve his knees buckling suddnely as he dropped to the ground, head sliding down the wall. Following closely, a small trickle of blood ran down the spot where the tile split. Serge awoke, back in bed, alarm clock radio still fixated on 12:00. Without even waiting to think, he threw himself to his feet and pounded furiously towards the bathroom, throwing the door open. The window was shut and blackened. The tile remained unbroken. What's more, his bathtub had vanished. Serge stared helplessly at the spot where the bathtub had been moments before. There was now a massive hole in the floor where it had been, and he could see the kitchen below from where the tub used to be. Staring morosely at the hole, Serge crouched down and sat on the edge of the hole before letting himself drop into the kitchen. He wasn't even thinking about food. He wanted this nightmare to end.

[DeadSeraphim]

[COLOR=Indigo][SIZE=1][FONT=Arial]The dry noodles addiction is something I can definitely relate to, lol. But anyway...

This is written as well as the previous chapters. ^_^ The sense of desperation and mystery is getting more intense as it continues, heh. If I could read French I'm sure some of this mystery would dissipate, but the fact I don't know what it says adds to the mystery somehow.

And I'm glad I didn't have to eat your children. ^_~[/FONT][/SIZE][/COLOR]

[Godelsensei]

The whole ordeal of being trapped is really well presented here. Impressive, though I don't understand the motivation behind crossing out some of the words. Oh well, I'm sure it's all on artistic grounds. : )

Just couldn't resist adding the part about the dried instant noodles, could you? *shove*

Very haunting--different from "Senpai", but similar to that thing about the guy getting the lift home.

Good work.

[Wondershot]

Many apologies for the long delay, but I promise that should this happen again, feel free to lynch me at your own discrestion.

Of course, if you do, there will be no guarantee that this story will finish.

Serge looked at his feet, studying intently the pattern of the grey woolen socks that stood out against the light brown of the tile floor in the kitchen. The floor was dotted with small pellets of plaster dust where he had come through the ceiling, and the room was only barely illuminated by a dim ceiling light set very low, as if to conceal the greater details of the room. Serge leaned to his side and clumsily stroked the wall in an attempt to find the dimmer. Feeling its smooth texture against his fingers, he slowly twisted it to the right, only causing the dimmer to go lower. In annoyance, Serge twisted it in the other direction, but the light continued to recede. Serge stared at what was barely left of the ceiling light before walking around the kitchen island and reaching an arm behind the coffee machine to flick madly at the lights in the adjacent dining room, separated only by a thin pair of shutters. It ruins the mood, mon cher. Serge stopped trying the lights, and calmly reached his hand out from behind the coffee machine, turning around to face the dining room area, as the shutters were open. The dark wood table and ivory candles were all set up, and there was even a clean white matchbook nearby. He couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten in there, as he had a tendency to simply take instant food up to his room. Overcome by a mysterious sense of withdrawal, Serge began to reach out into the dining area when a small tingling sensation began prickling at his arm, and he looked to his left to see the food pantry right next to him. Having then recalled all his past hunger, he tore open the pantry with expectation to find it full of spices and cooking implements and food that would take a long time to prepare. Serge shut the pantry in frustration, as he didn't have any clue how to use most of the items in the kitchen any more. Turning back to his left, Serge came face to face with the dining room shutters, closed. He had been locked out. Serge tried the shutters in frustration, and they did not move. He kicked them in anger, but the thin wood withstood his fury. Serge collapsed and sat right on the kitchen floor. He was being toyed with. A wild animal in a zoo, a prisoner in his living space, a castaway in his own neigbourhood. If that's where he actually was. Serge, wash up first and then you can eat. Completely disgusted, Serge threw himself to his feet and stormed towards the bathroom door. He threw it open in a rage, hearing it slam against the washing machine in the corner. Serge proceeded to turn his wild eyes onto the bar of soap in the sink, and snatched it up, rubbing it against his dry hands. "Ah, mon dieu, how glorious it would be to simply eat this bar of soap and laugh at those determined to drive me mad!" Serge turned on the hot water tap, and felt the rush of warmth creep up his hands and forearms, until it started to sting and he turned the water off. Looking up at the mirror above the sink, Serge did not see himself, the wild terror in a t-shirt with pen on his arms, but rather a clean shaven man in a calm blue shirt and black pants. Serge jumped back, and the man in the mirror replied in kind. Serge stared for a moment, tap water still running, before reaching down and splashing some of the hot water on his face. He reached for a towel, and suddenly found a blue buttoned shirt sleeve over his arm. Reaching up, he grazed his chin softly. Smooth. Serge looked out the bathroom door, and turned his attention back to the dining room at the other end of the kitchen. The shutters were open again, and there was some kind of yellow light emenating from inside. Stepping out of the bathroom, the freshly clothed Serge took a cautious step towards the kitchen, and a soft tap came from underneath his foot. He looked down to see a pair of polished black shoes, laces done tightly, a stark contrast to the light brown of the tile floor. He began walking again, slightly speeding his pace with each step, the dancing and playing yellow light in the distance. Serge loooked into the dining room, barely glancing at the fact that the bay windows had been blackened before stopping fully as though hit by a strong wind. The dining room was full. The table was stacked with wonderfully presented foods, turnips and mashed potatoes and peas and a dish of bread stuffing. There was butter and gravy and a massive bottle of red wine on the side, as well as a white baguette neatly sliced and lying in pieces in a cloth wrap which was held up by a wicker bread basket. The yellow lights had been created by the ivory candles in their holders, casting a warm light over the whole ensemble. The table was even centered by a huge red roast right in the middle, and the finest silverware had been already set out for him in front of a chair, complete with a neat white cloth that covered only his spot on the table. Serge approached this monstorsity with the look of utmost terror crossing his face, and he finally stared down at the small bit of space near where he sat down, only to see a small, clear, heart-shaped box of chocolates. Just for him. Serge seized the box of chocolates, and, in one lightning motion, hurled it with all his strength against the bay windows. "Pourquoi?!" The box of chocolates studdered in midair, and stopped completely before hitting the window. It hung there, right at eye level, still as peaceful and still as when it had been on the table. Serge, please don't give up, s'il te plait. Serge walked around the table, very slowly, and picked the box of chocolates out of the air. Turning around, he saw that the huge banquet had disappeared, but his portion of the meal was there on the plate before his seat. Sitting down, he put the box of chocolates down on the table beside his plate, and removed the napkin on his plate from its ring, draping it over his black pants. He reached and picked up his fork and knife off the table, and slowly ran the knife over the roast. He could almost hear it separate under the pressure of the blade. Looking down at the meat, he slowly opened his mouth and let the tender roast run over his tongue. It was the best meat he had ever tasted in his life. He felt the caressing wamth of a tear running down his face. He woke up in his bed, and the world had returned to blackness.

[Godelsensei]

This story is progressing very interestingly, and I find it quite irksome that you had to go and get sick and not be able to update more.

As a tip, try and use different lengths, when it comes to sentences. Don't position two very long sentences, peppered with commas, right next to each other, 'cause it makes the writing seem dragged out.

I only noticed this in a few places, though.

Good work.

[KarmaOfChaos]

[color=deeppink][size=1]I am most definitely intrigued. You did very well with setting the mood of the story, making the reader feel s/he is going partially insane right along with Serge (in this case that's a good thing). I just have a few suggestions:

1) You seem to restate "Serge" a lot. Unless you are doing this on purpose for some specific reason, it seems a little repetitive. Try using 'he' instead of Serge. I really only noticed this in the first couple of posts though.

2) A big part of how a reader will view a story is in character-perception. Maybe you could add some visual description, because when I first started reading, I imagined him as a large bald black man (probably a result of the name Serge), but then in the mirror scene I started to view him as a scrawny white man, and started pronouncing his name "ser-jay". Yea. Lol.

Good stuff! Can't wait for more. ;) Although someday you and Godel are going to drive me insane with your French. >.>

-Karma[/size][/color]