(no subject)
The sun had long set when Vincent had finished gathering his things from his locker. He merged into the crowd of men streaming endlessly from the factory, embraced by the cold night that sharply contrasted the heat of the factory. Vincent turned the corner and drew a small brass case from his pocket. From inside, he produced a cigarette, his last, and a small lighter. After a few frustrated attempts, the soft, cherry glow that shone through the ashes was the only light that emerged from the alley. Back at the factory, he could hear the echoes of voices as his coworkers hurried home, or to the pub, or wherever it was that they would go. It meant nothing to Vincent. He preferred the silence of that dark alley to the rapturous roar of any pub. The only distractions there was the sound of deep drags from a cigarette and the ringing in his ears that he had grown so accustomed to.
He had spent the better part of the last 10 years in the confines of that factory. His body was riddled with reminders of just how dangerous that machinery can be. Burns from steam pipes that had burst, cuts from shrapnel, even a broken left hand from a piece of iron that had come loose from its bindings. Still, though, he felt lucky. The two men next to him had been killed instantly when the beam toppled from its resting place. For years, that incident had left the deepest scar of all. With his hand pinned under the steel, he was able to do nothing but sit, staring at the face of one of his deceased coworkers. The expression of terror frozen on that man’s face and in Vincent’s mind.
Such thoughts, however, merely drifted through his head these days. Instead, Vincent dreamed. He dreamt ways to escape the life of monotony and drudgery that he was shackled to. He dreamt of one day seeing the ocean, of starting a family, (of meeting a girl). Every day his mind wandered to places far off and exotic. His mother used to tell him stories of pirates and hidden treasures, stories of kings and queens holding extravagant courts, and epic tales of folk heroes who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor.
Vincent snapped to when he realized that the ember of his long idle cigarette was burning his finger. He casually flicked it to the ground and laid his boot heel to it, extinguishing the warm glow instantly. With his hands in his coat pocket, he set off for home.
The deadbolt hesitated as Vincent put the weight of his body on the key. With a quick jerk, it jolted into the door and he flung the door open, throwing the key back in his coat pocket and throwing the coat on a chair. Calling the apartment quaint would misrepresent its true nature. It was small, dirty, and in disrepair. The pilot from a small gas lamp in the corner cast an eerie shadow over the sparsely decorated room. He gently turned the cog on the gas light, intensifying the light that poured out of it. Now the contents of the room were visible. A small couch sat along one wall, covered with enough dust to disguise the stains in the upholstery. An old chair sat next to the door, decorated only by his lifeless coat draped over the back. In the corner, a small wood stove sat cold and quiet with a blackened iron kettle resting on top. A few cupboards with their doors hanging precariously from the hinges lined the walls in what one, with some imagination, would call a kitchen. Most importantly, there was a door that led to the only room that mattered in Vincent’s life; his room.
After securing the front door behind him, the worn boy cast off his suspenders and threw himself in the chair next to the door to unlace his boots. With every pull of the laces, his fingers ached from the wear and tear of years of hard work. The bending of each knuckle could be traced to the formation of a wrinkle on his brow. The stench and sweat that covered his body reflected just how hard he had been working. He drew forth a great breath and let it out with a sigh. Clothing dropped to the ground as he stumbled toward the comforting embrace of his bed. Knowing it would be mere hours before the morning’s first light fell upon his bed, pulled the tattered blanket up to his chin and yawned. Sleep would come remarkably fast tonight.
Chapter 2
Just as Vincent’s eyes closed, a bell began to ring. He wondered if the night had really passed that quickly. The dark room masked the location of the bell that had interrupted his slumber. Wildly, he threw his arm in the direction of his alarm clock, throwing him off the side of the bed when he didn’t make contact. This was not his folly, though, as the alarm clock next to his bed appeared to be missing, along with the nightstand it rested on. He drew himself upright and glanced around the room, spotting the glowing outline of a door. Without hesitation, he pulled the door open and stepped through, finding himself in a vast hallway. Vincent was momentarily frozen with shock at the surroundings he found himself in. Glancing left and right, he took in the surroundings the way an infant gazes wide-eyed at a new world.
All along his side of the hall were identical doors, some of which were just springing open to reveal alert young men, rushing down the hall toward something he couldn’t make out. Above his door he found the source of the ringing, some sort of alarm. Once he had gathered his wits, he assumed that the alarm must be some sort of fire warning, and he fell into rank with the stream of men walking down the hall. It was then that he noticed what lined the other side of the wall. Ornately decorated windows with gleaming brass hardware stood even with each door. As he passed the next window, he peaked out, hoping to make some discovery as to where he was. The sight that met his eyes threw him off balance, causing him to disrupt the line of men and stirring quite a commotion. They pushed past him as he strained his mind to process the sight that he had just taken in. Vincent rubbed his eyes and took another look out the window, this time making sure to trace the line of the horizon where the sky met the ocean to be sure it was real. Looking downward now, a small yelp slipped from his lips as he realized the building he was in was not at all a building, but some sort of ship, and, more importantly, a flying ship!
Throwing the window open, a great rush of salty sea air flowed in like cold water, washing over the few men that remained in the hall. Gripping the window frame tightly, he poked his head out of the window the get a better look at the ship he was riding on. Below were rows of holes with large, black, cast iron cannons protruding from each. Above him, fabric billowed and bubbled out to from a great balloon. Just as he was taking in the sights of the large, brass propeller that was slowly turning in the wind toward the rear of the ship, a firm hand grasped the back of Vincent’s shirt and pulled him back in.
“If yer thinkin’ of takin’ a cold bath, jumpin’ might not be yer best choice,” grumbled an older, grizzly man in a black trench coat and a old but ornate petticoat. “B’sides, the Cap’n rang the bell. Ye better get yer ass up to the deck before ye miss role.” With a shove, the older man pushed Vincent toward a stair case at the end of the hall and followed him up.
I don't really know where exactly I want to take it from here. Actually, I'm not sure the last little bit is exactly how I want to start the story out. Everything from falling asleep on was kind of a stream of consciousness haphazardly thrown at my keyboard. I guess we'll all see where it goes.
He had spent the better part of the last 10 years in the confines of that factory. His body was riddled with reminders of just how dangerous that machinery can be. Burns from steam pipes that had burst, cuts from shrapnel, even a broken left hand from a piece of iron that had come loose from its bindings. Still, though, he felt lucky. The two men next to him had been killed instantly when the beam toppled from its resting place. For years, that incident had left the deepest scar of all. With his hand pinned under the steel, he was able to do nothing but sit, staring at the face of one of his deceased coworkers. The expression of terror frozen on that man’s face and in Vincent’s mind.
Such thoughts, however, merely drifted through his head these days. Instead, Vincent dreamed. He dreamt ways to escape the life of monotony and drudgery that he was shackled to. He dreamt of one day seeing the ocean, of starting a family, (of meeting a girl). Every day his mind wandered to places far off and exotic. His mother used to tell him stories of pirates and hidden treasures, stories of kings and queens holding extravagant courts, and epic tales of folk heroes who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor.
Vincent snapped to when he realized that the ember of his long idle cigarette was burning his finger. He casually flicked it to the ground and laid his boot heel to it, extinguishing the warm glow instantly. With his hands in his coat pocket, he set off for home.
The deadbolt hesitated as Vincent put the weight of his body on the key. With a quick jerk, it jolted into the door and he flung the door open, throwing the key back in his coat pocket and throwing the coat on a chair. Calling the apartment quaint would misrepresent its true nature. It was small, dirty, and in disrepair. The pilot from a small gas lamp in the corner cast an eerie shadow over the sparsely decorated room. He gently turned the cog on the gas light, intensifying the light that poured out of it. Now the contents of the room were visible. A small couch sat along one wall, covered with enough dust to disguise the stains in the upholstery. An old chair sat next to the door, decorated only by his lifeless coat draped over the back. In the corner, a small wood stove sat cold and quiet with a blackened iron kettle resting on top. A few cupboards with their doors hanging precariously from the hinges lined the walls in what one, with some imagination, would call a kitchen. Most importantly, there was a door that led to the only room that mattered in Vincent’s life; his room.
After securing the front door behind him, the worn boy cast off his suspenders and threw himself in the chair next to the door to unlace his boots. With every pull of the laces, his fingers ached from the wear and tear of years of hard work. The bending of each knuckle could be traced to the formation of a wrinkle on his brow. The stench and sweat that covered his body reflected just how hard he had been working. He drew forth a great breath and let it out with a sigh. Clothing dropped to the ground as he stumbled toward the comforting embrace of his bed. Knowing it would be mere hours before the morning’s first light fell upon his bed, pulled the tattered blanket up to his chin and yawned. Sleep would come remarkably fast tonight.
Chapter 2
Just as Vincent’s eyes closed, a bell began to ring. He wondered if the night had really passed that quickly. The dark room masked the location of the bell that had interrupted his slumber. Wildly, he threw his arm in the direction of his alarm clock, throwing him off the side of the bed when he didn’t make contact. This was not his folly, though, as the alarm clock next to his bed appeared to be missing, along with the nightstand it rested on. He drew himself upright and glanced around the room, spotting the glowing outline of a door. Without hesitation, he pulled the door open and stepped through, finding himself in a vast hallway. Vincent was momentarily frozen with shock at the surroundings he found himself in. Glancing left and right, he took in the surroundings the way an infant gazes wide-eyed at a new world.
All along his side of the hall were identical doors, some of which were just springing open to reveal alert young men, rushing down the hall toward something he couldn’t make out. Above his door he found the source of the ringing, some sort of alarm. Once he had gathered his wits, he assumed that the alarm must be some sort of fire warning, and he fell into rank with the stream of men walking down the hall. It was then that he noticed what lined the other side of the wall. Ornately decorated windows with gleaming brass hardware stood even with each door. As he passed the next window, he peaked out, hoping to make some discovery as to where he was. The sight that met his eyes threw him off balance, causing him to disrupt the line of men and stirring quite a commotion. They pushed past him as he strained his mind to process the sight that he had just taken in. Vincent rubbed his eyes and took another look out the window, this time making sure to trace the line of the horizon where the sky met the ocean to be sure it was real. Looking downward now, a small yelp slipped from his lips as he realized the building he was in was not at all a building, but some sort of ship, and, more importantly, a flying ship!
Throwing the window open, a great rush of salty sea air flowed in like cold water, washing over the few men that remained in the hall. Gripping the window frame tightly, he poked his head out of the window the get a better look at the ship he was riding on. Below were rows of holes with large, black, cast iron cannons protruding from each. Above him, fabric billowed and bubbled out to from a great balloon. Just as he was taking in the sights of the large, brass propeller that was slowly turning in the wind toward the rear of the ship, a firm hand grasped the back of Vincent’s shirt and pulled him back in.
“If yer thinkin’ of takin’ a cold bath, jumpin’ might not be yer best choice,” grumbled an older, grizzly man in a black trench coat and a old but ornate petticoat. “B’sides, the Cap’n rang the bell. Ye better get yer ass up to the deck before ye miss role.” With a shove, the older man pushed Vincent toward a stair case at the end of the hall and followed him up.
I don't really know where exactly I want to take it from here. Actually, I'm not sure the last little bit is exactly how I want to start the story out. Everything from falling asleep on was kind of a stream of consciousness haphazardly thrown at my keyboard. I guess we'll all see where it goes.