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This is the opening to a short story I'm toying with. Is it worth carrying on with, or am I barking up the wrong tree? Any criticisms are welcome of course.[/FONT]
[FONT=Times New Roman]Stale Bread.[/FONT]
[FONT=Times New Roman]The first arrows of sober dawn sink into the bedroom, and Melissa is talking about God again. I’m not listening though, not while the white rind of last night’s sin is still caked on her nostril. What a laughable prophet she makes. Who is she even talking to? Tom and Anna are asleep, arms lazily draped over each other like drunken comrades in some domestic war. Roxanne and I are arranged into the shape of a cuddle, but any effort put into this endeavour has long since ceased, now we both float around idly in the no-mans-land between sleep and waking; Mel’s evangelical slogans are thudding dully against my skin. After a while Mel trails off with “I just think, you know, that life, like, has to have a point, and what point is there if there’s no God?” It’s a weak ending even by her standards. Slowly, she turns her head round so that our eyes lock in an unfocussed kind of way, and after a while I let my gaze wonder to the rest of her – her eager blue eyes, blocked by a few stray strands of sandy-blonde hair, and her small and delicate hands in particular. “What do you think, Matt? Matt… Matt.” At first the name just reverberates around the empty corridors of my mind without registering, but then I am jolted from my drug-assisted reverie. “Mmm, what? Sorry.” My voice sounds growly, I probably haven’t drank enough. I go and get a cup of water, and as I come back in she does this little feminine sigh and says “What are your views, on the whole god thing? Did you listen to what I was saying?” I look at her through dilated pupils, and I tell her it’s all bollocks and she should learn to fucking think. She starts crying.[/FONT]
[FONT=Times New Roman]No, of course I don’t, what do you think I am? A monster? Honest? Instead, I let Roxanne gently down onto my bed, clamber over to Mel and idly play with her hair, saying “I’m not sure, you know… I think everybody finds their own way.” Unbelievably, she leans her head back in my lap and coos her approval at my generic imitation of profundity. I don’t mind, though, and I lean down to her to enjoy a meaningless kiss.[/FONT]