Rust

Rust

A Story by Tom

Prologue

He was born on a Tuesday by emergency caesarian and by all accounts was lucky to have survived.  Later when he struggled with his purpose and his right to the imagined prosperity he dreamed of he would recall the story of his entry into the world with a realization that he was an accident of nature, one of the weak that society has nurtured through advancements and progress.  He would ponder the great attempt of civilization to preserve life irrespective of state as the root of society’s malign tumor, the fortunate cancers that suckered at diminishing resources and stole from those who had not tricked evolution with timing or place of birth.  The commodity he had been gifted when born into the world would be close to exhaustion before the sheen of youth was gone, crumbled so as each oxidized scale that flaked from the mirage of life left a scar that itched for what he once thought true.  He would remember the naivety of youth that held truths to him that were true because they could not be anything else and he would anger at the knowledge he now possessed, the awareness that brought no respite from the acuteness of his malevolence against himself.  He knew that it was a difficult thing to recall youth, people reimagine and do not remember objectively but he was sure of one thing, that as a young boy he believed many things, yet as time progressed on a relentless course he found these beliefs diminishing in potency and number, until so worn were the memories of his childhood faiths he could no longer believe, even in that which was presented with truth and clarity.         

Chapter 1           

He would often ride his bike far from the home where he grew up, out into the countryside that lay adjacent to the middle class housing development they had built on an old tree nursery and maintained evidence of a charmed past with roads lined with hundred year old Oaks, giant Horse Chestnuts and powdery ant mounds rising at every crook and crevice in the roads.  Stag beetles still appeared in May with their majestic pincers and barbed feet that would prick the surface of his skin like a needle attempting to remove a splinter and would cause grievance against any young girl unfortunate to find this clumsy pilot flying into their hair.  Once entangled the frantic flapping and attempt at removal would result in the inevitable action of cutting the beetle free with a pair of scissors along with a sizeable clump of hair as they would sob in trauma at the experience they had suffered.  He always found it amusing to see the exaggerated roar of distress that would come from the local children in fear of this grand insect and never felt a semblance of the same emotion.  His curiosity for this animal was no more and no less than it was for the myriad of other creatures that lived in the fields and woodlands, or swam in the lake or canals that bounded his territory of youth. 

He was a boy of great inquisition and enjoyed hours of exploration until he knew every nook and cranny, every hidden and unhidden path, the shortcuts from one place to another, the best spots for fishing or newt catching, the place to build the best camps or where a fire could be lit and enjoyed without the constant fear of an interfering adult.  His world was small enough that he could reach the four corners with time to return for tea, but large enough to free him of the clinically clean home that shackled his adventure.  He would sit in the gentle heat of summer waiting patiently for fish that would never come; he would hunt through the broad Horse Chestnut leaves foraging for autumn conkers until the only course of action was to lob branches and sticks into the boughs in the hope the tree would give up more fruit; in winter he would ride around the tracks of the common land mired and wet until hunger and dimming light brought him home; and in spring he would spend hours searching the reed banks of the canals for clumps of jellied frog eggs that he would take back to the tank he kept in the musty shed, carefully replicating a habitat and watching with eagerness as the tadpoles would slowly morph into miniature frogs, always careful to remove those that had perished.  He was intrigued by the carnivorous nature he witnessed, the perfection of these miniature replicas removed by those that struggled with limbs missing from a sibling’s feast.

                On days when he would return sodden and filthy from a long excursion his mother who loved him from a distance confounded by her own troubles would make him strip to his underwear in the back garden and would provide a bowl of tepid water and a flannel for him to clean the spattered mud from his legs, arms and face and he would dance as the cold would bite against the soles of his feet, though he didn’t mind this, he was well accustomed, he abhorred her obsession with cleanliness and her determination to maintain a house that looked like one in the catalogues or magazines that lay neatly piled in a newspaper rack in the living room.  He would stand under the hot shower and pain would massage the inside of his fingers and toes as his body imagined a greater heat against the cold than there was.   He would sit at the fold out table in the kitchen with one side collapsed against the wall and would eat the food his mother had prepared.  He was not a fastidious eater and he found great pleasure in not just the flavor but the sensation of swallowing and filling an empty stomach, however he maintained peculiarities like only eating the heads of broccoli and not the stalk, or washing down food less enjoyable with large gulps of squash diluted with water, he rarely chewed as much as he should and several times nearly choked on hard bacon fat he was too eager to swallow.  On one occasion in a defiant mood and not prepared to eat a tart ratatouille, his Father after much berating from his Mother threatened to feed him.  The resulting experience of a spoon being hastily shoved down his throat ensured he would avoid confrontations of the gastric variety for the entirety of his youth.

                He held his Father in high esteem and enjoyed a friendly relationship and an affinity that he never enjoyed with his Mother.   He was a man who had worked hard, was smart and astute and had achieved a degree of prosperity that was comfortable but not excessive, he was also a man that enjoyed the adoration of William who saw him through the youthful lenses of life that polish an individual bright and mask the depth of character that reveals all its glory and wretched flaws.  He was not a strict man but had a pressure cooker temper that would explode in a riot of fury when pushed beyond his limits of patience without the accompanying whistle to warn of impending danger and many times William would use his scrambling momentum climbing the stairs of the house to lessen the blow of his Father’s boot.        

© 2012 Tom


Author's Note

Tom
This is the first paragraph of a planned book I am writing and I would like to get some feedback.

Added a couple more paragraphs to give a sense of where I am going with it.

Also I have a problem with the tense. I like how it sounds now but it feels somewhat removed from a story and feels more like a look back and overview. Later on I want to use dialogue and tell events in more detail as they happened without this distance any ideas on how best to approach this?

My Review

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Featured Review

Please keep in mind this is one person's opinion as tastes in reading vary widely. I find this is bit hard to read. Some sentences are very long. While the descriptions are detailed, they slow the flow for me. Rather than tell about the parent's personalities, it would pull the reader in further to show them. Again, just my opinion. Keep writing. Best wishes with your work.

Posted 8 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Tom

8 Years Ago

Thanks for the input I definitely agree with the show don't tell aspect and I've come across the a h.. read more



Reviews

Please keep in mind this is one person's opinion as tastes in reading vary widely. I find this is bit hard to read. Some sentences are very long. While the descriptions are detailed, they slow the flow for me. Rather than tell about the parent's personalities, it would pull the reader in further to show them. Again, just my opinion. Keep writing. Best wishes with your work.

Posted 8 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Tom

8 Years Ago

Thanks for the input I definitely agree with the show don't tell aspect and I've come across the a h.. read more
sounds like a solid beginning...rings of steinbeck or kerouac...keep up with it...hammer this into someting big...just remember as in life to keep balance

Posted 8 Years Ago


Tom

8 Years Ago

Thanks for that, you've given me some nice easy shoes to fill lol. I've added a couple of paragraph.. read more
gombeggar

8 Years Ago

looking good as it goes along
I not a genius on these things...but by reading... i can say the book will be great...
cheers !


Posted 8 Years Ago


Tom

8 Years Ago

Much appreciated, I've added a couple of paragraphs to fill out where it is headed a bit
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Pax
I'm not a expert in this kind of things but i could say its very rich in emotions like how a poem does.. he has many mysterious journey and struggles up ahead of him...and i think this short view is very well written indeed!....great work my friend.

Posted 8 Years Ago


Tom

8 Years Ago

Thank you for this, I've added a couple of paragraphs to show where it is heading
Pax

8 Years Ago

your work is rich in imagery...i assure you that...great job!

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Added on October 2, 2012
Last Updated on October 2, 2012

Author

Tom
Tom

Barcelona, Spain



About
I am an eternal procrastinator, who has fallen from one place to another and every time landed upon the soles of my feet, albeit with a few collisions against the rock face on the way down. I am an E.. more..

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