Post by Ana on Aug 1, 2012 13:16:03 GMT -8
I just wrote this today. It's the first chapter of my story for Camp NaNo so it is horrifically unedited but Holly was bugging me to put it up so here it is 
Let me know if you like it or don't like it and why. Also, is it intriguing?
Warning: includes swearing and manure. XD
Let me know if you like it or don't like it and why. Also, is it intriguing?
Warning: includes swearing and manure. XD
In the time it took for John to traverse the distance between stone and concrete, he reflected on the fact that perhaps he should have looked down before launching himself off of the wall.
Along with the shattering feeling in his shins, and the throbbing grazes on the palms of his hands, the fall also granted John a memory. Not a memory that was particularly dear to him but one that he bitterly regretted not retaining better.
His mother had once corrected his assumption that there were only fields beyond the stone wall. She had plainly stated that there was a disused airfield there, used for the development of fighter planes in the Cold War. If she had led with the subject of fighter planes perhaps John might’ve remained interested long enough to file this information in an easily accessible area of his brain. As it was, he became distracted with throwing a tennis ball at his brother’s face before his mother could finish her sentence. Such is the way with the attention spans of six year-olds.
Ten years on, John could hardly have been expected to remember this interaction. At least not without a good rattling of his bones first.
In spite of his sore hands and legs, John pushed himself up so that only his black plimsolls were touching the concrete. With a glance back at the stone wall he realised how high it actually was. It hadn’t looked nearly as menacing from the other side.
He couldn’t see the road beyond at all now, but he could hear it. There was not a lot to be heard from the small country road, but the sound of boyish laughter carried through the air.
“Oi!” John called, tilting his face up a little in hope that this would help them hear.
More laughter followed, as did the slamming of doors and the revving of an engine.
“Wait!” cried John.
He ran straight at the wall, in a desperate attempt to jump over it. He should have known better. It had taken him three goes just to hoist himself up on the other side.
The screeching of tyres told him that he had been abandoned.
“PRICKS!” he yelled after the car, knowing full well that they wouldn’t be able to hear him. They’d gone.
“Call yourselves my mates,” he muttered and kicked the wall angrily. This did more damage to John than the wall but he was in no mood for caring.
Pulling out his phone, he quickly dialled a long-ago memorized number and held it to his ear. It rang for roughly three seconds before it went to voicemail.
“Yeah, just hang up on me then,” he seethed. “Stop being a dick and call me. Also, you’re officially a wanker for driving off and leaving me and when I find the bloody cider you’re getting none of it.”
Then, out of things to say that didn’t make him sound totally and completely pathetic, he hung up.
He could have said, “I thought we were friends,” or “I can’t believe you did this to me," but his friends had already thrown his cider over a wall into some fields, waited for him to fall from a painfully high wall, and then driven off laughing. He didn’t exactly want to give them something else to make fun of him for on Monday at school.
He didn’t bother dialling another number. If Nick was going to ignore him then he was certain the others would too.
Slipping his phone back into the pocket of his jeans, John leaned against the infamous wall that had done him so much harm over the past ten minutes and sunk to the floor.
The rough surface of unkempt concrete was unforgiving on his arse but his sitting options were severely limited.
From a quick glance at his surroundings, it was clear that not only was his cider not in sight but nor were any other people.
Apart from a two story, box of a building to his right, there was nothing. Just a whole lot of distance ahead. He was stranded.
He could always walk home, he supposed, but he lived all the way over in the next village which was a pain in the arse to get to. It would be at least an hour and a half’s walk and it’d probably be dark by then. Not that he was scared of the dark or anything, but cars came ‘round those narrow country roads pretty quickly. He’d most likely end up dead in the road and that was really not how he had wanted the night to go.
John had wanted to go to the party and snog someone. He wanted to mess about with his mates and drink a lot of cider. But no. He was in an empty airfield with almost no way of getting home.
He’d have to call his mum.
It was a low John hadn’t wanted to reach but it was what had to be done.
He took his phone out again and checked the time: 18.13
“Shit,” he swore. His mum wouldn’t be home for another hour.
He supposed he’d just have to wait it out.
Getting to his feet once more, he tried to look as far down the concrete road before him as he possibly could. It didn’t even look wide enough for a plane to land on, let alone long enough. There just seemed to be a lot of rusting farm equipment and a huge pile of manure.
The manure must have been at least fifty feet from him but upon seeing it he was overwhelmed with the exceptionally unpleasant scent of horse shit. Or cow shit. He wasn’t an expert in identifying animal shit. He wasn’t even sure if he was actually smelling the manure or if the sight of it was enough to trigger his oversensitive gagging reflexes.
John decided to upgrade his friends from pricks to wankers. They had left him here on a sham of an airfield, with the sun just beginning to set, and a suffocating amount of manure. And it looked like it was going to rain.
And people said he was a git for wearing a jumper in summer.
Deciding that he might as well take cover, he made his way over to the box of a building, kicking loose stones as he went and muttering profanities under his breath.
He poked his head through what must have once been a doorway (it no longer held anything that vaguely resembled a door and so could hardly be called a doorway). The room was barely even a room anymore. There was a gaping hole in the wall opposite, giving John the same view that he had had with his back against the stone wall. The ‘room’ was moulding. There was a small puddle of broken glass in one corner, several switches and levers with power warnings over them, left exposed for anyone to come and fiddle with.
He thought that this must mean any power that used to run to this building was cut off long ago. Either that or the government was as careless as his dad always said it was. Both options seemed likely the more he thought about it. Was it possible for him to die in there? He could reach out and grasp at a metal lever or push a red button. What would happen? Surely if it was dangerous someone would have died there before him.
But what if they had?
Suddenly he was very aware of the dirty floor beneath his feet. Like when you’re walking through a graveyard and you suddenly remember that you’re surrounded by dead people.
Shivering, he turned away from possible death and spotted a rusting ladder in the only corner that was not already occupied with danger signs, holes in the wall, or broken glass.
He stepped over pipes and bin liners and other things he was in no mood to investigate, moving to stand as close to the ladder as was possible without knocking into it. Then he looked up. There was a square hole in the ceiling that he supposed was supposed to be access to the upper level.
One hand on the wall for support, John used his other to test the strength of the ladder. It gave a deafening screech of protest under his pressure.
He loosened his grip and said, “Well, that’s definitely a death trap.” Then there was a shriek and a thud above his head.
Along with the shattering feeling in his shins, and the throbbing grazes on the palms of his hands, the fall also granted John a memory. Not a memory that was particularly dear to him but one that he bitterly regretted not retaining better.
His mother had once corrected his assumption that there were only fields beyond the stone wall. She had plainly stated that there was a disused airfield there, used for the development of fighter planes in the Cold War. If she had led with the subject of fighter planes perhaps John might’ve remained interested long enough to file this information in an easily accessible area of his brain. As it was, he became distracted with throwing a tennis ball at his brother’s face before his mother could finish her sentence. Such is the way with the attention spans of six year-olds.
Ten years on, John could hardly have been expected to remember this interaction. At least not without a good rattling of his bones first.
In spite of his sore hands and legs, John pushed himself up so that only his black plimsolls were touching the concrete. With a glance back at the stone wall he realised how high it actually was. It hadn’t looked nearly as menacing from the other side.
He couldn’t see the road beyond at all now, but he could hear it. There was not a lot to be heard from the small country road, but the sound of boyish laughter carried through the air.
“Oi!” John called, tilting his face up a little in hope that this would help them hear.
More laughter followed, as did the slamming of doors and the revving of an engine.
“Wait!” cried John.
He ran straight at the wall, in a desperate attempt to jump over it. He should have known better. It had taken him three goes just to hoist himself up on the other side.
The screeching of tyres told him that he had been abandoned.
“PRICKS!” he yelled after the car, knowing full well that they wouldn’t be able to hear him. They’d gone.
“Call yourselves my mates,” he muttered and kicked the wall angrily. This did more damage to John than the wall but he was in no mood for caring.
Pulling out his phone, he quickly dialled a long-ago memorized number and held it to his ear. It rang for roughly three seconds before it went to voicemail.
“Yeah, just hang up on me then,” he seethed. “Stop being a dick and call me. Also, you’re officially a wanker for driving off and leaving me and when I find the bloody cider you’re getting none of it.”
Then, out of things to say that didn’t make him sound totally and completely pathetic, he hung up.
He could have said, “I thought we were friends,” or “I can’t believe you did this to me," but his friends had already thrown his cider over a wall into some fields, waited for him to fall from a painfully high wall, and then driven off laughing. He didn’t exactly want to give them something else to make fun of him for on Monday at school.
He didn’t bother dialling another number. If Nick was going to ignore him then he was certain the others would too.
Slipping his phone back into the pocket of his jeans, John leaned against the infamous wall that had done him so much harm over the past ten minutes and sunk to the floor.
The rough surface of unkempt concrete was unforgiving on his arse but his sitting options were severely limited.
From a quick glance at his surroundings, it was clear that not only was his cider not in sight but nor were any other people.
Apart from a two story, box of a building to his right, there was nothing. Just a whole lot of distance ahead. He was stranded.
He could always walk home, he supposed, but he lived all the way over in the next village which was a pain in the arse to get to. It would be at least an hour and a half’s walk and it’d probably be dark by then. Not that he was scared of the dark or anything, but cars came ‘round those narrow country roads pretty quickly. He’d most likely end up dead in the road and that was really not how he had wanted the night to go.
John had wanted to go to the party and snog someone. He wanted to mess about with his mates and drink a lot of cider. But no. He was in an empty airfield with almost no way of getting home.
He’d have to call his mum.
It was a low John hadn’t wanted to reach but it was what had to be done.
He took his phone out again and checked the time: 18.13
“Shit,” he swore. His mum wouldn’t be home for another hour.
He supposed he’d just have to wait it out.
Getting to his feet once more, he tried to look as far down the concrete road before him as he possibly could. It didn’t even look wide enough for a plane to land on, let alone long enough. There just seemed to be a lot of rusting farm equipment and a huge pile of manure.
The manure must have been at least fifty feet from him but upon seeing it he was overwhelmed with the exceptionally unpleasant scent of horse shit. Or cow shit. He wasn’t an expert in identifying animal shit. He wasn’t even sure if he was actually smelling the manure or if the sight of it was enough to trigger his oversensitive gagging reflexes.
John decided to upgrade his friends from pricks to wankers. They had left him here on a sham of an airfield, with the sun just beginning to set, and a suffocating amount of manure. And it looked like it was going to rain.
And people said he was a git for wearing a jumper in summer.
Deciding that he might as well take cover, he made his way over to the box of a building, kicking loose stones as he went and muttering profanities under his breath.
He poked his head through what must have once been a doorway (it no longer held anything that vaguely resembled a door and so could hardly be called a doorway). The room was barely even a room anymore. There was a gaping hole in the wall opposite, giving John the same view that he had had with his back against the stone wall. The ‘room’ was moulding. There was a small puddle of broken glass in one corner, several switches and levers with power warnings over them, left exposed for anyone to come and fiddle with.
He thought that this must mean any power that used to run to this building was cut off long ago. Either that or the government was as careless as his dad always said it was. Both options seemed likely the more he thought about it. Was it possible for him to die in there? He could reach out and grasp at a metal lever or push a red button. What would happen? Surely if it was dangerous someone would have died there before him.
But what if they had?
Suddenly he was very aware of the dirty floor beneath his feet. Like when you’re walking through a graveyard and you suddenly remember that you’re surrounded by dead people.
Shivering, he turned away from possible death and spotted a rusting ladder in the only corner that was not already occupied with danger signs, holes in the wall, or broken glass.
He stepped over pipes and bin liners and other things he was in no mood to investigate, moving to stand as close to the ladder as was possible without knocking into it. Then he looked up. There was a square hole in the ceiling that he supposed was supposed to be access to the upper level.
One hand on the wall for support, John used his other to test the strength of the ladder. It gave a deafening screech of protest under his pressure.
He loosened his grip and said, “Well, that’s definitely a death trap.” Then there was a shriek and a thud above his head.
