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I hope that this blog will become a place to look after my writing ideas and that, over time, I can use it to archive all my favourite creative sites on the web. Maybe others will enjoy it too.

Thursday, 22 August 2013

It's Psychological

Back in the saddle again, and not even side-saddle, but a new edit of those first paragraphs of the nano attempt from last year. I'm hoping this will help me get started again. There aren't many huge changes but I hope it's easier to read, has less run on sentences and fewer repeated words.

Analysis is intriguing and is from 750words.com as ever.


Rating: PG-13 (swearing, sexual content[?] and violence[?])

Feeling mostly Affectionate[?], and concerned mostly about Home - intriguing.

Mindset: Extrovert - Negative - Certain - Feeling

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Hearing; Us and Them: Them

40 minutes at 24 words per minute



Unnatural silence followed the screaming of seconds before and Walter was certain that it wasn't a good sign. Pacing up and down the corridor, which had seemed such a good idea, now seemed out of place and over anxious. Hands clasped behind his back, straining for some form of action, he surveyed the domain in which he now felt like a trespasser. Hair in his moustache tickled his top lip. He wanted to sneeze. He wanted it to be over. He was hungry.

"We... ah..." The balding man coughed again, slightly and not without tremour.

Snapping his eyes to meet those of the smaller man, Walter frowned, "Yes?"

"A decision, Mister Caston, Sir; we need a decision."

Silence lingered like an unwanted guest, it was starting to smell already. It wasn't natural. It wasn't right. "A decision?" A sniff.

"Well, more- that is- we need your decision, Sir?"

"Quite right," Walter puffed out his chest to emphasise his words, "Quite right. Very well. Yes."

"Sir?"

"Confound it, man, yes: I consent. Pull the little bastard out and be done with it."

"Yes Sir," replied the little balding man as he scurried away, reminding Walter of a rat, and then closed the door. Some commotion followed from within, sounds like people talking, and the unmistakable sound of his wife groaning.

When the screaming resumed it was loud, lusty and long. 'But,' reflected Walter, 'at least it was right.' Pacing was thus resumed for a short while, meaning that his hands stopped shaking with inaction and his breathing return to normal with the rhythm of his feet on the wooden floorboards. Familiar creaks, just here by the scullery door and then there where the servants used to enter the main house, mingled with the continued screaming. Tightened lips, a thin veneer of a smile, and then he turned on his heels, took a seat on a wicker chair and pulled out his hip flask.

Slugging the whiskey warmed his insides, 'the fire of conscription courage,' as his father would have said, 'God rest his soul.' A nod, Walter felt more like himself and inspected some of the artwork on the walls. His brother's. Modern stuff coming out of Tallamy and Wisterich: lines, colours and splotches intermingling like the results of some spasticated mental patient wiping the walls with faeces. All a lot of rot, of course, true masters worked in the traditional style, like the landscapes and portraits that populated the private areas of the house. None like them now, all gone, with no one taking the time to study the classics any more. The Emperors of Stone, the language and wit of the Ancients, all of it so much rubbish to the people claiming to be part of the country these days. Harrumphing he looked again at the modern stuff and cocked his head, there was a certain poetic symmetry between his wife's agony and the splotches of paint splashed like pain across the canvas. Another swig of the whiskey, savouring the taste, listening and nodding sagely. The good life.

Presently, the screaming stopped. Walter stood, dusted down the jacket from imaginary dirt, and then walked briskly to the lounge door. Behind the heavy, dark, wooden door there was a new sound, mewling and pathetic, announcing to the world the entry of the little bastard who would now meet his father. An intake of breath, 'they had better be decent,' and the door was thrust open with a little more force than necessary for him to stride into the room. Ignoring the woman on the bed whom fate had made his wife, legs strapped down on the iron frame to allow better access and covered with the aftermath of forceps assisted delivery, Walter nodded to the doctor and looked at the two nurses hastily wrapping the mewling bundle.

"Is that it?"

One of the nurses made to curtsey but stopped when she realised that no one else was doing so. A flash of recognition flared in Walter, the old ways were dying out but the provinces kept them alive, nodding. "Yes, Sir. It's a boy, Sir."

"Hmm," it came out as an admonishment. "I know. Is it healthy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good." It was better than nothing. Squinting he could almost see a face in amongst the blankets and the blood. "Shouldn't it be louder than that?" He waved irritably at the first nurse to open her mouth. "Never mind, the little bastard will do. I suppose." As if noticing the woman on the bed for the first time Walter started a little. "Clean her up a bit and get her decent, she'll be cooking and cleaning by the end of the afternoon," then to the woman herself, "Cook something big, I shall need a good meal when I return in the evening. Make sure the bed is turned down." His hands returned to their old position behind his back. "Thank you, Doctor, I hope the bastard didn't give you too much trouble."

"No more than one would expect," answered the Doctor with a tired smile.

Walter clapped him on the shoulder, once, then walked to the door. "I think this calls for a little celebration." And then he was gone.