Juan opened a package of Lifesavers and stared at the orange candy in disgust. He slowly pulled one of the small rings away and examined it in the flickering light, before suddenly smashing it into the large fireplace. "Fucking Lifesavers," he yelled, "you killed my wife!" Pearls of sweat ran down his forehead, and he let himself fall into one of the lavishly cushioned patent leather armchairs that were so numerous in this impersonal mansion he was supposed to call his home.
Juan hated everything about this house: its grandiose design, its stale air, and its numerous statues of former Prime Minister Arthur Meighen, the legacy of his adoptive father. After the statues had thoroughly creeped out his dinner guests, Juan had vowed to get rid of them.It seemed, though, that anytime he tried, something happened—sometimes to the house, sometimes to him—to draw his attention elsewhere until he lost the determination yet again. He measured the weight of the .22 as he passed it between his palms. Strangely enough, he couldn't remember when he had picked it up or to what end. This just went to show, he was convinced, why the statues had to go. But it was easier said than done.
Without looking, he raised his arm with a jolt and pointed the weapon at the large bronze statue in the corner. The bullet nicked the edge of the statue, leaving little mark as the gun was but a .22 and the statue was metal, and ricocheted back towards Juan, killing him. His brain had neither had the chance to figure out why the bullet had defied physics and ricocheted in a 180 degree turn, nor why he couldn't remember firing the gun, and he sank to the ground with a strangely confused expression on his face.
Meanwhile, in Cornwall, Topsy McFiddlesqueak, the morbidly obese Earl of Snackdom, was sitting down to a light meal of an entire potato tart, two wheels of cheese, and the better part of a sheep's hindquarters. The sheep bleated in terror. The potato tart, on the other hand, sat perfectly still, looking smugly satisfied with the situation it found itself in.
Juan hated everything about this house: its grandiose design, its stale air, and its numerous statues of former Prime Minister Arthur Meighen, the legacy of his adoptive father. After the statues had thoroughly creeped out his dinner guests, Juan had vowed to get rid of them.It seemed, though, that anytime he tried, something happened—sometimes to the house, sometimes to him—to draw his attention elsewhere until he lost the determination yet again. He measured the weight of the .22 as he passed it between his palms. Strangely enough, he couldn't remember when he had picked it up or to what end. This just went to show, he was convinced, why the statues had to go. But it was easier said than done.
Without looking, he raised his arm with a jolt and pointed the weapon at the large bronze statue in the corner. The bullet nicked the edge of the statue, leaving little mark as the gun was but a .22 and the statue was metal, and ricocheted back towards Juan, killing him. His brain had neither had the chance to figure out why the bullet had defied physics and ricocheted in a 180 degree turn, nor why he couldn't remember firing the gun, and he sank to the ground with a strangely confused expression on his face.
Meanwhile, in Cornwall, Topsy McFiddlesqueak, the morbidly obese Earl of Snackdom, was sitting down to a light meal of an entire potato tart, two wheels of cheese, and the better part of a sheep's hindquarters. The sheep bleated in terror. The potato tart, on the other hand, sat perfectly still, looking smugly satisfied with the situation it found itself in.
posted by Heather | 2:54 AM
9 Comments:
I am pleased. It all makes sense so far. Let me just remind y'all of the one character per person rule: Heather introduced Juan, Dan introduced his wife, and Steve introduced Juan's adoptive father. That leaves Jake and me to introduce characters, well, past the first five sentences.
What, dead characters count? I mean, the adoptive father could easily be dead, and the wife certainly is. If youre going to hold us to including dead characters, this could be one of those novels that consist primarily of the protagonist's thoughts. And those suck shit.
Fine. Apparently 'legacy' does in fact imply that he's dead. I somehow never realized that before, but Merriam Webster seems to suggest you're right.
So, yes, I guess you still have your character. But don't go on a rampage of referring to people without explaining who they are. Which is kind of the next person's job.
Team work, you damn individualists, team work!
Awesome. Haunted statues of former prime ministers.
That would be a great name for a band.
It would be a great name for a shitty band. In other news, I think we should start a band.
Also, it seems to me that Dan should've started a new paragraph with his latest.
Although seeing it now with the next two sentences, I think it's a pretty fantastic paragraph we've got there.
I agree. Nobel prize, here we come! Or, you know, maybe we'll make do with the Man Booker for the first novel we write together. That's right- novel. Better speed it up.
Well well well......
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