Tyloric
Illogical Process of Elimination
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Solidarity Preview
This is going to be a rewrite of my very first nano, which was originally titled 'Writer's Block'. This version will be vastly improved.
I had been staring at the white void of my computer screen for a decent thirty minutes now. It had to be laughing at me by this point. “Ha ha!” it prodded, “You can’t think of anything to write!” Taunting me, over and over, like some incessant bully on the elementary school playground. This demented computer had it in for me, I knew it. Even the help tools were shaking their heads at me in distaste.
My fingers fiddled with the keyboard, thinking that maybe if I held them there on the keys they would eventually form coherent words. But, like always, they didn’t. Nothing came, nothing at all. The screen stayed blank. It was always blank; a white blob in the middle of the computer screen. I could all but hear my eyes sizzling from having stared at it for so long.
I couldn’t help but let my mind drift back to my childhood and about how much easier, about how much more fun it had been to write things. The words wouldn’t stop coming to me then; overflowing, spilling on to the pages. Stories, poems, it didn’t matter. They just all seemed to come naturally back then. Granted, they made absolutely no sense and left many of my teachers sending me to the school therapists, but all artists must suffer for their art, don’t you think?
Heh, adulthood. I wonder how anyone could consider someone like me an adult. I mean, yeah, I was twenty-two but that doesn’t mean--
No! Cut that out. You’re wandering again. Stop wandering. Focus on the words. The words. Focus… focus… maybe, just maybe… nope… nope, thought I had something there.
I stared at the title for a bit: UNTITLED by Henry Thorn Sparrow.
I sighed, defeated, and closed the laptop, clicking the desk lamp off. The street lights spilled into room from the small cracks in my window’s blinds. The digital clock on the illuminated the morbid numbers ‘eight fifty-seven PM’, mocking me almost as much as the computer screen had.
But still, I had given it an effort, right? That’s what counted. At least this Friday night (in on a Friday? You’re so sad) hadn’t been a total waste.
Deciding that writing just wasn’t going to happen tonight, I stood up and head out towards the kitchen. As soon as I opened the door to my room, however, that proved to be a more difficult task than originally anticipated. The top half of my apartment was shrouded in a thick, white, fog. Or, more accurately, cigarette smoke. I sniffed. Marlboro, full flavor 100’ if I were to trust my sense of smell.
“Well, this is new,” I coughed a bit. My body was slightly more heavy than it had been a second ago.
“What’s up?” A deep voice queried from inside the hazy abyss that used to be my living room.
“Paul?” I questioned.
“’Sup?” the haze replied.
“Didn’t we talk about smoking in the apartment?”
There was a slight pause. “I seem to recall something of the sort.”
“Uh-huh. And what are you doing in the apartment?”
Another pause, “…smoking?”
My head felt like it was about to fly away. “Oh lord, I need some air.”
Gathering all of the courage I had in my in me, I braved the toxic smoke, praying that I would not encounter any sinister creatures within its blanket of death. I didn’t take three steps before I smashed my big toe into something. I fell forward, too disoriented to catch my balance in time, and landed with a hard thud on the hard wood floors. “Ow, dammit!”
There was another query from the direction of the couch, “’cha doin’ down there?”
I moaned in pain and frustration, my toe throbbing.
Paul barked a laugh. “I think you’re a bit of a lightweight, bro.”
I sighed. “Just how many cigarettes have you had since I went in my room?”
Yet another pause as he considered his answer. “Six? Seven? Fifteen? Hell if I know.”
I glared at the ceiling, or where the ceiling would have been if I could have seen it. “How have you not suffocated yet?”
I could hear the grin in his voice, “Practice.”
I got to my feet again, my legs feeling a bit like jelly. Let me emphasize a bit more clearly; it was like being in a biker’s bar during happy hour on a Saturday night, and smelled similarly.
I walked over to where I knew the window would be. It was one of those windows that slides vertically, rather than horizontally. When I gave it a solid tug, however, I was dismayed to find that it wouldn’t budge. Again.
“God damn thing, open!” I braced myself on the opposite side of it, so I could push it rather than pull and forced all my weight on the stubborn frame.
“Do ya need some help?”
“I’ve… almost… got… it…” I grunted out each word, my voice strained as I worked against the steel framed window. I was sure it was going to move soon… until my palm slipped from the smooth surface and tumbled forward, landing a good face plant in the process. The resulting thud echoed. This just wasn’t my night.
“Son of a *****,” I groaned, rolling over. I just lay there for a bit, wallowing in my own frustration. The padding of bare feet came up next to my ear, and I glanced over to see Paul looking down at me amusedly. I noted that he had very nice feet, perfectly clipped nails. Very nice.
He was wearing a black shirt and blue jeans, a necklace with the St. Christopher, the Patron Saint of Travelers, dangling from it.
“Hi!” I said cheerily.
He rolled his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Well, I was just trying to open that window there,” I gestured at it dramatically, “but then I saw how utterly spotless this here floor was,” I stretched, “and I just had to lay on it. Join me?”
“Pass,” he said, and reached to open the window.
I huffed, “Good-” he slid it open with a brief grunt of effort, “-luck.”
“Don’t mention it.” He padded off back towards the couch.”
“Yeah, well, I got it loose!”
I stood, wobbled for a moment, and then turned to glare at the open window. Mumbling a quick curse, I stuck my head out into the chilled night air. The dank city air smelled wonderful compared to the gas chamber that used to be my apartment. The light-headedness seemed to melt away as the strength in my limbs returned. It got me to thinking, not for the first time, about why anyone would smoke? What was it that smoking made them feel that was so great? Because it just seemed… gross.
Turning around, but leaning in a way that my head stays outside, I gazed back in to the living room appraisingly. The smoke had cleared a bit (damn chain smoker) and my eyes wandered over to Paul, who was sprawled back on my maroon-red couch, PSP in hand.
I haven’t known Paul all that long, a week and a half maybe. He was one of the only decent people to have responded to my ad looking for a roommate in the paper. In the end, it was either him or a preppy, overly joyous cheerleader who was a student at the university a few blocks down. I came to the conclusion very quickly that no one can possibly be that happy and that she was either a, a serial killer, or b, after my soul to feed to her cheerleading cult. I wasn’t willing to take a chance on either.
Paul was the kind of guy who didn’t have to try to be cool, he just was. He had tightly curled straw-blond hair, green eyes, and stood just over six feet. He had side burns that traveled from his ears, to his chin, and up to his bottom lip, his cheeks being free of facial hair. He had a build that was muscular, but he wasn’t too big. He was more lean than anything.
He was unfairly cool. The only real problem I had with him was that he smoked. A lot. All the time. I mean, I had my head sticking out of the window become there was so much smoke in the air. It was irritating, I’ll be honest.
“So, no more smoking inside.”
He frowned, “We don’t have a balcony.”
“Well, you could lean out the window like the rest of the people in the complex.”
“But what If I drop my PSP?”
“Don’t play it while smoking?”
He considered this. “But-”
“No smoking inside, Paul,” I said with finality.
He huffed, “Yeah, sure thing, Captain.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Captain.”
“What?” I repeated.
“Captain Sparrow.”
I tilted my head to the side, looking at him like he was crazy. “Who?”
He returned the gaze with a ‘you have got to be kidding me, you idiot’ one, “Didn’t you ever watch Pirates of the Caribbean?”
It took a moment for everything to click into place. “Oh… Oh. Ha, aha. I get it. Clever.”
He grinned wolfishly, “Now you’re catching on.”
“Well crewman, I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back later.”
“Aye aye, captain.” He saluted.
The sky was that orange hue that happens when it’s over cast, and the city lights are reflecting back down at you. I loved it, it was like a permanent sunset. Couple that with fall weather beginning to set in, it was the perfect time for a stroll.
I was one of those people who just liked to walk everywhere. Go around the block once or twice and my head would suddenly be clear of any and all problems, just me and the pavement beneath my feet… and maybe a prostitute or two, maybe a bum, but usually just me and the concrete; soothing.
But, as always, when you speak of the devil…
“Hey there, good looking.” A voice came from in front of me when I reached the corner, “Looking for a little… company?”
Raising my head to look away from one of my closest friends, the sidewalk, I saw what appeared to be a woman. Well, she didn’t appear to be, she was a woman, or rather, had been. Now she resembled what looked like a beached whale. She was dressed in clothes that were far too small for her, her tight pink **** straining at the seams, and oh my, those poor denims. I could practically hear the button and zipper crying out in pain as they tried to contain this woman. They had to be at least three sizes too small.
“Naw, I’m good.” Slapping on my best smile.
“Aww, come on, sugar. Everyone could use a little…” she smacked her lips lightly. Girl had talent, I’ll admit. “Company,” she finished sensually.
A couple thoughts had begun running through my head at that point. One was to run away screaming ‘I need an adult, I need an adult!’ just because it’s something I would do, and would otherwise find funny. But that would humiliate her, and I’m not that big of an ass. The other was that I take her up on her offer and have some fun. That thought lasted all of two seconds before I disregarded it.
I looked at her sadly, “Sorry, hun. I’m batting for the other team.”
She actually looked disappointed. “It’s always the cute ones.” And with that she just turned and walked back down the street.
It, for some reason, felt bitter sweet turning her away like that. For all I knew, I just made it so her kids wouldn’t have anything to eat tomorrow. I shrugged the feeling off, not letting it too far past my defenses. There was nothing I could do about her problems.
Still, the thought continued to linger in the back of my mind, ever after I got home.
When I woke up the next morning, I felt odd. A bad sort of odd; I could tell today was going to be a bad day. My life would probably be so much better off if I would just pay attention to this feeling whenever it comes around.
But, I can’t. Like all productive members of society, I have to go to work.
Reluctantly, I grabbed hold of the covers, threw them off my body, and sat up. The cold, hardwood floor nipped mercilessly at my once snuggly wrapped feet, reminding me yet again that I really ought to buy some house shoes.
Shambling over to the bedroom door like a zombie, I walked lazily in to the living room to find Paul still dressed in yesterday’s attire, still playing his PSP.
He gave me a brief, distracted glance, “Morning, Cap’n.”
I glowered at him for a good fifteen seconds before zombie walking towards the bathroom. “My name is Henry,” I mumbled.
“Morning, Captain Henry.”
Ass, “Have you been there all night?” I asked as I walked by.
He gave me a look of mocking bewilderment. “Of course not.”
I grunted.
“I mean, I did get hungry eventually, had to take a leak, so not all night.”
I didn’t even dignify that with a response. I just kept walking toward the bathroom, my goal set. Shower, shave, breakfast. Routine is routine.
When I finally stepped in to the shower, I groaned as the warm water stretched my tense muscles, cascading down my body. This was the only drug I need. I was a man of simple pleasures, really. Warm bed at night, chilly walks in the evening, icy cold showers.
Wait, what?
I screamed bloody murder as I realized the shower had suddenly gone from steamy to arctic, jumping out of the tub like a kangaroo. The floor was too wet to offer enough friction to stop my sudden advance, and I went crashing to the floor. Instinctively, I reached out to grab the nearest thing to steady myself, which in this case was the shower curtain. But it wasn’t strong enough and the thin plastic was ripped away from the metal rings. I ended up sprawled out over the floor in all my naked glory.
To make matters even more pleasant, the bathroom door opened.
“Are you o-” Paul stopped mid-sentence as his mind tried to register what he was seeing. He blinked, blinked again, and then something strange happened: his face turned beat red and he averted his gaze to the ceiling. It was one of the most adorable things I had ever seen.
One thing you need to know about me, though, is that I tend to use nonchalant humor to cope with embarrassing situations. “Hiya, Paul,” I said
“H-hi.” He stammered, “You, um… you okay?”
“Water heater cut out.” I said.
“You… need help with anything?” he swallowed.
“Nope. I, uh, I think I’m good.”
“Yeah, okay. Cool.” The door could have closed any faster.
I knew I should have stayed in bed.
This is going to be a rewrite of my very first nano, which was originally titled 'Writer's Block'. This version will be vastly improved.
Solidarity
by Tyloric
by Tyloric
Chapter 1
My fingers fiddled with the keyboard, thinking that maybe if I held them there on the keys they would eventually form coherent words. But, like always, they didn’t. Nothing came, nothing at all. The screen stayed blank. It was always blank; a white blob in the middle of the computer screen. I could all but hear my eyes sizzling from having stared at it for so long.
I couldn’t help but let my mind drift back to my childhood and about how much easier, about how much more fun it had been to write things. The words wouldn’t stop coming to me then; overflowing, spilling on to the pages. Stories, poems, it didn’t matter. They just all seemed to come naturally back then. Granted, they made absolutely no sense and left many of my teachers sending me to the school therapists, but all artists must suffer for their art, don’t you think?
Heh, adulthood. I wonder how anyone could consider someone like me an adult. I mean, yeah, I was twenty-two but that doesn’t mean--
No! Cut that out. You’re wandering again. Stop wandering. Focus on the words. The words. Focus… focus… maybe, just maybe… nope… nope, thought I had something there.
I stared at the title for a bit: UNTITLED by Henry Thorn Sparrow.
I sighed, defeated, and closed the laptop, clicking the desk lamp off. The street lights spilled into room from the small cracks in my window’s blinds. The digital clock on the illuminated the morbid numbers ‘eight fifty-seven PM’, mocking me almost as much as the computer screen had.
But still, I had given it an effort, right? That’s what counted. At least this Friday night (in on a Friday? You’re so sad) hadn’t been a total waste.
Deciding that writing just wasn’t going to happen tonight, I stood up and head out towards the kitchen. As soon as I opened the door to my room, however, that proved to be a more difficult task than originally anticipated. The top half of my apartment was shrouded in a thick, white, fog. Or, more accurately, cigarette smoke. I sniffed. Marlboro, full flavor 100’ if I were to trust my sense of smell.
“Well, this is new,” I coughed a bit. My body was slightly more heavy than it had been a second ago.
“What’s up?” A deep voice queried from inside the hazy abyss that used to be my living room.
“Paul?” I questioned.
“’Sup?” the haze replied.
“Didn’t we talk about smoking in the apartment?”
There was a slight pause. “I seem to recall something of the sort.”
“Uh-huh. And what are you doing in the apartment?”
Another pause, “…smoking?”
My head felt like it was about to fly away. “Oh lord, I need some air.”
Gathering all of the courage I had in my in me, I braved the toxic smoke, praying that I would not encounter any sinister creatures within its blanket of death. I didn’t take three steps before I smashed my big toe into something. I fell forward, too disoriented to catch my balance in time, and landed with a hard thud on the hard wood floors. “Ow, dammit!”
There was another query from the direction of the couch, “’cha doin’ down there?”
I moaned in pain and frustration, my toe throbbing.
Paul barked a laugh. “I think you’re a bit of a lightweight, bro.”
I sighed. “Just how many cigarettes have you had since I went in my room?”
Yet another pause as he considered his answer. “Six? Seven? Fifteen? Hell if I know.”
I glared at the ceiling, or where the ceiling would have been if I could have seen it. “How have you not suffocated yet?”
I could hear the grin in his voice, “Practice.”
I got to my feet again, my legs feeling a bit like jelly. Let me emphasize a bit more clearly; it was like being in a biker’s bar during happy hour on a Saturday night, and smelled similarly.
I walked over to where I knew the window would be. It was one of those windows that slides vertically, rather than horizontally. When I gave it a solid tug, however, I was dismayed to find that it wouldn’t budge. Again.
“God damn thing, open!” I braced myself on the opposite side of it, so I could push it rather than pull and forced all my weight on the stubborn frame.
“Do ya need some help?”
“I’ve… almost… got… it…” I grunted out each word, my voice strained as I worked against the steel framed window. I was sure it was going to move soon… until my palm slipped from the smooth surface and tumbled forward, landing a good face plant in the process. The resulting thud echoed. This just wasn’t my night.
“Son of a *****,” I groaned, rolling over. I just lay there for a bit, wallowing in my own frustration. The padding of bare feet came up next to my ear, and I glanced over to see Paul looking down at me amusedly. I noted that he had very nice feet, perfectly clipped nails. Very nice.
He was wearing a black shirt and blue jeans, a necklace with the St. Christopher, the Patron Saint of Travelers, dangling from it.
“Hi!” I said cheerily.
He rolled his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Well, I was just trying to open that window there,” I gestured at it dramatically, “but then I saw how utterly spotless this here floor was,” I stretched, “and I just had to lay on it. Join me?”
“Pass,” he said, and reached to open the window.
I huffed, “Good-” he slid it open with a brief grunt of effort, “-luck.”
“Don’t mention it.” He padded off back towards the couch.”
“Yeah, well, I got it loose!”
I stood, wobbled for a moment, and then turned to glare at the open window. Mumbling a quick curse, I stuck my head out into the chilled night air. The dank city air smelled wonderful compared to the gas chamber that used to be my apartment. The light-headedness seemed to melt away as the strength in my limbs returned. It got me to thinking, not for the first time, about why anyone would smoke? What was it that smoking made them feel that was so great? Because it just seemed… gross.
Turning around, but leaning in a way that my head stays outside, I gazed back in to the living room appraisingly. The smoke had cleared a bit (damn chain smoker) and my eyes wandered over to Paul, who was sprawled back on my maroon-red couch, PSP in hand.
I haven’t known Paul all that long, a week and a half maybe. He was one of the only decent people to have responded to my ad looking for a roommate in the paper. In the end, it was either him or a preppy, overly joyous cheerleader who was a student at the university a few blocks down. I came to the conclusion very quickly that no one can possibly be that happy and that she was either a, a serial killer, or b, after my soul to feed to her cheerleading cult. I wasn’t willing to take a chance on either.
Paul was the kind of guy who didn’t have to try to be cool, he just was. He had tightly curled straw-blond hair, green eyes, and stood just over six feet. He had side burns that traveled from his ears, to his chin, and up to his bottom lip, his cheeks being free of facial hair. He had a build that was muscular, but he wasn’t too big. He was more lean than anything.
He was unfairly cool. The only real problem I had with him was that he smoked. A lot. All the time. I mean, I had my head sticking out of the window become there was so much smoke in the air. It was irritating, I’ll be honest.
“So, no more smoking inside.”
He frowned, “We don’t have a balcony.”
“Well, you could lean out the window like the rest of the people in the complex.”
“But what If I drop my PSP?”
“Don’t play it while smoking?”
He considered this. “But-”
“No smoking inside, Paul,” I said with finality.
He huffed, “Yeah, sure thing, Captain.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Captain.”
“What?” I repeated.
“Captain Sparrow.”
I tilted my head to the side, looking at him like he was crazy. “Who?”
He returned the gaze with a ‘you have got to be kidding me, you idiot’ one, “Didn’t you ever watch Pirates of the Caribbean?”
It took a moment for everything to click into place. “Oh… Oh. Ha, aha. I get it. Clever.”
He grinned wolfishly, “Now you’re catching on.”
“Well crewman, I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back later.”
“Aye aye, captain.” He saluted.
Solidarity
I was one of those people who just liked to walk everywhere. Go around the block once or twice and my head would suddenly be clear of any and all problems, just me and the pavement beneath my feet… and maybe a prostitute or two, maybe a bum, but usually just me and the concrete; soothing.
But, as always, when you speak of the devil…
“Hey there, good looking.” A voice came from in front of me when I reached the corner, “Looking for a little… company?”
Raising my head to look away from one of my closest friends, the sidewalk, I saw what appeared to be a woman. Well, she didn’t appear to be, she was a woman, or rather, had been. Now she resembled what looked like a beached whale. She was dressed in clothes that were far too small for her, her tight pink **** straining at the seams, and oh my, those poor denims. I could practically hear the button and zipper crying out in pain as they tried to contain this woman. They had to be at least three sizes too small.
“Naw, I’m good.” Slapping on my best smile.
“Aww, come on, sugar. Everyone could use a little…” she smacked her lips lightly. Girl had talent, I’ll admit. “Company,” she finished sensually.
A couple thoughts had begun running through my head at that point. One was to run away screaming ‘I need an adult, I need an adult!’ just because it’s something I would do, and would otherwise find funny. But that would humiliate her, and I’m not that big of an ass. The other was that I take her up on her offer and have some fun. That thought lasted all of two seconds before I disregarded it.
I looked at her sadly, “Sorry, hun. I’m batting for the other team.”
She actually looked disappointed. “It’s always the cute ones.” And with that she just turned and walked back down the street.
It, for some reason, felt bitter sweet turning her away like that. For all I knew, I just made it so her kids wouldn’t have anything to eat tomorrow. I shrugged the feeling off, not letting it too far past my defenses. There was nothing I could do about her problems.
Still, the thought continued to linger in the back of my mind, ever after I got home.
Solidarity
But, I can’t. Like all productive members of society, I have to go to work.
Reluctantly, I grabbed hold of the covers, threw them off my body, and sat up. The cold, hardwood floor nipped mercilessly at my once snuggly wrapped feet, reminding me yet again that I really ought to buy some house shoes.
Shambling over to the bedroom door like a zombie, I walked lazily in to the living room to find Paul still dressed in yesterday’s attire, still playing his PSP.
He gave me a brief, distracted glance, “Morning, Cap’n.”
I glowered at him for a good fifteen seconds before zombie walking towards the bathroom. “My name is Henry,” I mumbled.
“Morning, Captain Henry.”
Ass, “Have you been there all night?” I asked as I walked by.
He gave me a look of mocking bewilderment. “Of course not.”
I grunted.
“I mean, I did get hungry eventually, had to take a leak, so not all night.”
I didn’t even dignify that with a response. I just kept walking toward the bathroom, my goal set. Shower, shave, breakfast. Routine is routine.
When I finally stepped in to the shower, I groaned as the warm water stretched my tense muscles, cascading down my body. This was the only drug I need. I was a man of simple pleasures, really. Warm bed at night, chilly walks in the evening, icy cold showers.
Wait, what?
I screamed bloody murder as I realized the shower had suddenly gone from steamy to arctic, jumping out of the tub like a kangaroo. The floor was too wet to offer enough friction to stop my sudden advance, and I went crashing to the floor. Instinctively, I reached out to grab the nearest thing to steady myself, which in this case was the shower curtain. But it wasn’t strong enough and the thin plastic was ripped away from the metal rings. I ended up sprawled out over the floor in all my naked glory.
To make matters even more pleasant, the bathroom door opened.
“Are you o-” Paul stopped mid-sentence as his mind tried to register what he was seeing. He blinked, blinked again, and then something strange happened: his face turned beat red and he averted his gaze to the ceiling. It was one of the most adorable things I had ever seen.
One thing you need to know about me, though, is that I tend to use nonchalant humor to cope with embarrassing situations. “Hiya, Paul,” I said
“H-hi.” He stammered, “You, um… you okay?”
“Water heater cut out.” I said.
“You… need help with anything?” he swallowed.
“Nope. I, uh, I think I’m good.”
“Yeah, okay. Cool.” The door could have closed any faster.
I knew I should have stayed in bed.
