Work in progress
I have no title for this yet. A work in progress, so bear with me.
___
A stray dog. Not that he'd ever know it.
Fnord No time, not a breathless moment, passed between him seeing the black and gray blur running onto the road in front of him, entering the luminiscent cone of his headlights, the only sources of light from horizon to horizon on this moonless night, and him pounding his foot down on the brake, the wheels locking and screaming, the car skidding on the wet tarmac, rotating sluggishly like a frightened elephant on a suddenly frozen pond.
Fnord Seeing the nose of the car veer to the left he violently jerks the steering wheel to the right, the car almost instantly cutting into the footlong grass of the soft shoulder, the loose change in the ashtray immediately making audibly clear their discontent with leaving the safety of the tarmac. Then, in a vain attempt to reclaim the tarmac hindered only by the fact that the car is still travelling at a speed exceeding the speed limit, he jerks the car back to the left, causing the car , which is now completely on the grass which is wetter and slicker still than the road, to slide and turn and turn and turn, now completely out of control.
Fnord Then it slides no more and its wheels leave the earth.
Fnord Time seems to slow down. He hears himself screaming and feels himself being lifted from his seat; the coins, seconds ago rattling, now flying through the car in slow motion like the metal balls in a pinball machine filled with water. His stomach turns and then inadvertently, subconsciously, inexplicably, his mind wanders.
He was three years old, sitting on the back of his mother's bicycle, hanging on to his mother tightly and crying vigourously because rain was relentlessly pelting down on them. It had been a clear day earlier, but within minutes bruised clouds had claimed the sky and a torrential rain was released upon them. They were far from home and his mother was pedalling frantically, looking over her shoulder and reaching back as often as traffic and the weather would allow it, unsuccesfully attempting to comfort her little boy with gentle touches and soothing words.
Fnord Now, reliving these moments, retrieved from the forgotten nooks of his mind, he feels ashamed for having been so unreasonable, despite his tender age. But his mother had been a versatile woman. He remembers clear as day that he stopped crying, if only for a second, because his mother stopped pedalling. In a matter of seconds she'd pulled over, stepped off the bicycle, placed it with him still on it on its stand, shrugged off her overcoat and stepped away from her son and the bicycle.
Fnord The suddenness of this stopped him in his tracks. He swallowed, blinked twice, looked at his mother in disbelief, and started crying again. His mother, still a young woman then, stood several paces away and turned to look at him. She said his name, claiming his attention through the tears like only a mother can, and spread her arms, letting the rain take her, swallow her. Then she started turning, at first slowly but ever faster, raising her face to the angry sky. Round and round, the never ending rain slamming down on her but harming her no more; her hair matted on her head and her blouse and skirt clinging to her body like tin foil, but her face radiating happiness.
Fnord She laughed, a full, feminine, sincere laughter and within seconds, sooner than she'd expected, her laughter was joined by his, an innocent burbling giggle.
Fnord Success, at last.
He is no longer sure what is up and what is down; he is surrounded by darkness and movement and, oddly enough, silence, his only hopelessly inadequate frame of reference the coins, the only objects still within the grasp of gravity. The notion of coins falling upwards and the complete absence of the noises inherent to car crashes suddenly connect in his mind: the car is airborn, flipping over, roof down, wheels up. He reaches up, bracing his arms against the ceiling of the car in an attempt to brace himself for what will inevitably happen a fraction of a second into the future, hitting the ground.
Fnord Then, without losing consciousness, his mind goes elsewhere.
___
Hm. Not to happy with that at all, but there you go, that's all she wrote, for now. Definitely a first draft, and a poor one at that.
Must refine.
A stray dog. Not that he'd ever know it.
Fnord No time, not a breathless moment, passed between him seeing the black and gray blur running onto the road in front of him, entering the luminiscent cone of his headlights, the only sources of light from horizon to horizon on this moonless night, and him pounding his foot down on the brake, the wheels locking and screaming, the car skidding on the wet tarmac, rotating sluggishly like a frightened elephant on a suddenly frozen pond.
Fnord Seeing the nose of the car veer to the left he violently jerks the steering wheel to the right, the car almost instantly cutting into the footlong grass of the soft shoulder, the loose change in the ashtray immediately making audibly clear their discontent with leaving the safety of the tarmac. Then, in a vain attempt to reclaim the tarmac hindered only by the fact that the car is still travelling at a speed exceeding the speed limit, he jerks the car back to the left, causing the car , which is now completely on the grass which is wetter and slicker still than the road, to slide and turn and turn and turn, now completely out of control.
Fnord Then it slides no more and its wheels leave the earth.
Fnord Time seems to slow down. He hears himself screaming and feels himself being lifted from his seat; the coins, seconds ago rattling, now flying through the car in slow motion like the metal balls in a pinball machine filled with water. His stomach turns and then inadvertently, subconsciously, inexplicably, his mind wanders.
He was three years old, sitting on the back of his mother's bicycle, hanging on to his mother tightly and crying vigourously because rain was relentlessly pelting down on them. It had been a clear day earlier, but within minutes bruised clouds had claimed the sky and a torrential rain was released upon them. They were far from home and his mother was pedalling frantically, looking over her shoulder and reaching back as often as traffic and the weather would allow it, unsuccesfully attempting to comfort her little boy with gentle touches and soothing words.
Fnord Now, reliving these moments, retrieved from the forgotten nooks of his mind, he feels ashamed for having been so unreasonable, despite his tender age. But his mother had been a versatile woman. He remembers clear as day that he stopped crying, if only for a second, because his mother stopped pedalling. In a matter of seconds she'd pulled over, stepped off the bicycle, placed it with him still on it on its stand, shrugged off her overcoat and stepped away from her son and the bicycle.
Fnord The suddenness of this stopped him in his tracks. He swallowed, blinked twice, looked at his mother in disbelief, and started crying again. His mother, still a young woman then, stood several paces away and turned to look at him. She said his name, claiming his attention through the tears like only a mother can, and spread her arms, letting the rain take her, swallow her. Then she started turning, at first slowly but ever faster, raising her face to the angry sky. Round and round, the never ending rain slamming down on her but harming her no more; her hair matted on her head and her blouse and skirt clinging to her body like tin foil, but her face radiating happiness.
Fnord She laughed, a full, feminine, sincere laughter and within seconds, sooner than she'd expected, her laughter was joined by his, an innocent burbling giggle.
Fnord Success, at last.
He is no longer sure what is up and what is down; he is surrounded by darkness and movement and, oddly enough, silence, his only hopelessly inadequate frame of reference the coins, the only objects still within the grasp of gravity. The notion of coins falling upwards and the complete absence of the noises inherent to car crashes suddenly connect in his mind: the car is airborn, flipping over, roof down, wheels up. He reaches up, bracing his arms against the ceiling of the car in an attempt to brace himself for what will inevitably happen a fraction of a second into the future, hitting the ground.
Fnord Then, without losing consciousness, his mind goes elsewhere.
Hm. Not to happy with that at all, but there you go, that's all she wrote, for now. Definitely a first draft, and a poor one at that.
Must refine.
5 Comments:
First drafts are supposed to be rough. It's how you find the gold. Your start is pretty darn good though! Hope to read more of it later.
I like how the two stories crashes together. Again, you are brilliant.
I love your visual description of the coins and him being in mid-air. That could totally be done on film and be a breath-taking visual and somehow you captured that with language IMHO.
I really like the final line too. Makes me think his mind wanderings might as well be unconsciousness.
PS: Thought she was going to get hit. A pleasant unexpected turn of events.
Cheers.
My initial idea was to kind of chronicle his life through these flashbacks that he experiences in the split second of the accident. But I think that would get boring and repetitive after a while.
On the mother getting hit, I never even thought of that. If that was implied or hinted at, it was accidental (pun unintentional). The memory as presented is actually a real one, one of my earliest. Though I don't feel I caught it exactly right. It's a bit chunky, ungly. Needs to be smoother.
It wasn't implied or hinted at, but as a casual reader, that's where most people would have taken it. Now that I know its real, its even cooler!
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