I was recently inspired to do a very unique take on a semi-popular idea. I don't want to say what it is precisely (and I encourage you not to look), but for those that must know: [SPOIL]the creation of Shuppet[/SPOIL] It is Pokemon related though it may not seem it from the first bits that I've scribed here. I'm hoping the story unfolds in a unconventional method (at least for fanfiction).
Since the initial hook is a very important part, in my opinion, I'd like to know what people think of how this begins. I welcome stylistic advice of any sort. I have the feeling that my writing comes across as a bit bland, and I'd like to know what I need to really draw a reader in.
So here it is....
The phone call came at precisely 6:17. Rory knew this because he had been watching the time quietly crawl by on the digital clock that woke him every morning. His wife Lana, a slender and attractive woman in her mid-twenties, had fallen asleep no more than 2 hours ago. Sleep, for her, had become a struggle to contain the shuddering breath that accompanied her sobbing just long enough for unconsciousness to wash over her. Rory’s physical exhaustion often met his wife’s emotional fatigue. Night after night he had tried to console her to no effect. After three weeks he just needed sleep. When the phone rang he answered with sleep still in his eyes.
“Huh? Yeah, we were. No, she’s still asleep. Hold on,” quietly he slid from under the sheets and sat the telephone receiver on the nightstand. Treading softly he left behind the relative comfort of his warm bed and made his to the kitchen downstairs. He picked up the receiver. “Sorry, Lil, I didn’t want to wake her, had to switch phones. She’s been having trouble sleeping.”
The morning sun streamed through the Venetian blinds, casting lines of light and shadow across his face. Through the strength of habit he committed himself to making coffee. “She’s still taking it hard. I wish there was something I could do,” Rory shifted the phone between his head and shoulder as he searched for a clean mug. “Yeah, I know. It takes time. That’s what everyone says, but we need to go on living.”
Rory Fells was a man that knew the valuing of living. He had been something of a daredevil since the age of ten. Ever opportunity for excitement was seized. He had camped in haunted hollows as a boy, raced at unreasonable speeds as a teen, and climbed rock faces as a young man. However, the event that most strongly asserted the value of living was the birth of his beautiful daughter Anna. But this wound was too fresh.
“No, no. It’s alright. I’ll let her know you called. Thanks,” he hung up the phone with a click. The coffee maker bubbled quietly. The birds outside sang sweetly. Rory collapsed under the strain of it all.
At 7:20 Lana awoke. Her eyes, a beautiful pale blue, were puffy and bloodshot. She lay in bed, unable to move, unable to feel anything other than her loss. Her body heaved with a heavy sigh and a tear slowly rolled across her pale cheek. Her hand moved across the cool sheet to where Rory had slept; she remembered mornings when Anna would climb between them; and the three of them, snuggled together, couldn’t dream of any greater happiness. The bed was empty and cold now as she lay awake watching time slowly crawl past.
Since the initial hook is a very important part, in my opinion, I'd like to know what people think of how this begins. I welcome stylistic advice of any sort. I have the feeling that my writing comes across as a bit bland, and I'd like to know what I need to really draw a reader in.
So here it is....
Voices from a Locked Room
The phone call came at precisely 6:17. Rory knew this because he had been watching the time quietly crawl by on the digital clock that woke him every morning. His wife Lana, a slender and attractive woman in her mid-twenties, had fallen asleep no more than 2 hours ago. Sleep, for her, had become a struggle to contain the shuddering breath that accompanied her sobbing just long enough for unconsciousness to wash over her. Rory’s physical exhaustion often met his wife’s emotional fatigue. Night after night he had tried to console her to no effect. After three weeks he just needed sleep. When the phone rang he answered with sleep still in his eyes.
“Huh? Yeah, we were. No, she’s still asleep. Hold on,” quietly he slid from under the sheets and sat the telephone receiver on the nightstand. Treading softly he left behind the relative comfort of his warm bed and made his to the kitchen downstairs. He picked up the receiver. “Sorry, Lil, I didn’t want to wake her, had to switch phones. She’s been having trouble sleeping.”
The morning sun streamed through the Venetian blinds, casting lines of light and shadow across his face. Through the strength of habit he committed himself to making coffee. “She’s still taking it hard. I wish there was something I could do,” Rory shifted the phone between his head and shoulder as he searched for a clean mug. “Yeah, I know. It takes time. That’s what everyone says, but we need to go on living.”
Rory Fells was a man that knew the valuing of living. He had been something of a daredevil since the age of ten. Ever opportunity for excitement was seized. He had camped in haunted hollows as a boy, raced at unreasonable speeds as a teen, and climbed rock faces as a young man. However, the event that most strongly asserted the value of living was the birth of his beautiful daughter Anna. But this wound was too fresh.
“No, no. It’s alright. I’ll let her know you called. Thanks,” he hung up the phone with a click. The coffee maker bubbled quietly. The birds outside sang sweetly. Rory collapsed under the strain of it all.
At 7:20 Lana awoke. Her eyes, a beautiful pale blue, were puffy and bloodshot. She lay in bed, unable to move, unable to feel anything other than her loss. Her body heaved with a heavy sigh and a tear slowly rolled across her pale cheek. Her hand moved across the cool sheet to where Rory had slept; she remembered mornings when Anna would climb between them; and the three of them, snuggled together, couldn’t dream of any greater happiness. The bed was empty and cold now as she lay awake watching time slowly crawl past.