Inspired by TheLily's "Short Stories" thread, I decided to try and write up a short story myself for maybe publication somewhere, if I can. I've no plot or theme settled yet, but here's 1,000 words exactly of it that I wrote to start with. Take a looksee, and lemme know whatcha think! 
He stopped the Chevy on the dirt road, which was composed of dust more than dirt, turned the engine off, then he waited for a moment and stretched his head back on the bench seat to pop his neck. It was stuffy inside, but the wind and the dust outside had forced him to ride with the windows up; after this was all over, he had promised himself on the ride out, he would use the money to get the air conditioner fixed. So far, no one had come out to greet him, so after another moment to slip his Oxfords on, he grasped the door handle and let himself out.
A blast of wind hit him as soon as he exited the car; his cheek stung from the grains of sand being embedded by the gusts which blew down from the mountains in the distance, and his hat was nearly stolen away until he clamped a hand down on it. Around him, the desert stretched out for near-eternity, the only distinguishing feature being a small, neglected-looking bungalow to his side. He rounded the front of the car and stepped forward, his suit being tugged at by the wind and dirtied by the clouds of dust being stirred up. There had been easier cases, to be sure.
At the door of the bungalow, the man knocked, half-expecting no response, but not terribly surprised when the door opened a crack and a voice came out. The wind made it very hard for him to hear the person addressing him, but he managed to catch the first few sentences.
“What’re you doing out here? I’ve got nothing for you, mister, so unless you’re outta gas or need a jump, I suggest you turn around and leave. Anyway, this area’s private property, my property, as far as the eye can see, so either go or I’ll call up the sheriff and have you booked on trespassing.”
The man in the suit put a hand on the doorframe, clamped his hat down again with his other hand, and gave the voice behind the door a friendly smile.
“Look, pal, I’m out here in this wind and this dust, and I can barely hear you; if you let me inside, just for a minute, I’ll get out of your hair. Or, if you can tell me where Harvey Llewellyn is, I’ll get out of your hair now.”
The voice was quiet for a moment, when the door opened wide and a short, older man in a scruffy vest glared at the man in the suit and threw him a gesture to get inside. The man in the suit wasted no time entering the bungalow, and quickly took off his hat and put it aside. The door was shut behind him and locked by his host, who stood and watched the new arrival.
“I suppose you’re here to tell me that I need to go back? Did Jackson send you, or Matthews?”
“Mr. Llewellyn, my name is John Bradshaw; I’m a private detective hired by Mr. Matthews to try and find you. He’s concerned that you might have gone through a mental breakdown.”
Llewellyn waved a hand and grunted as he left the cramped living room area of the bungalow and went into the adjoining kitchen and plugged in a dented coffee percolator. He reemerged with two coffee mugs and gave a nod to Bradshaw to see if he wanted anything. Bradshaw waved a hand and shook his head, so Llewellyn went and put back one of the mugs before finally coming to a stop at the couch across from Bradshaw and sitting down. The wall clock in the room ticked away nine seconds before the older man spoke.
“Matthews is a terrible agent, and don’t let him tell you otherwise. I told him that I wanted my last story to go in, unchanged, to the publisher, and he came back and told me that they wouldn’t take it, even in an altered state. Now he’s hiring private dicks out to come chasing me down because I need to go one extra step to write my next story.”
Bradshaw shifted his stance, having no other place to sit, and Llewellyn cast him a look before standing and walking off down the hallway cattycorner to the kitchen archway. He returned a moment later with a metal folding chair and set it down, already folded out, for Bradshaw to sit in across from him. Then, the author walked back into the kitchen and the sound of coffee being prepared could be heard. He returned and sat down with a sip at his drink.
“Well, Mr. Llewellyn, I know you don’t want to hear it, but Mr. Matthews thinks that your new story, from what you’ve sent in so far, may be your best work yet, but he wants you back to work on it. You’ve got everyone worried about you with your residence out here.”
The author tugged at his vest, mumbled something about the heat, and then sipped at his coffee; in that time, he made no attempt at eye contact with Bradshaw. Instead, his vision seemed to be focused on the Smith-Corona typewriter sitting at a small Formica-topped card table across the room, with a folding metal chair identical to the one he had brought for Bradshaw. When the private detective turned to look where the author was looking, he caught a glimpse of the writing area before his host spoke again and directed attention back to him.
“I know everyone’s worked up about me, but they don’t understand what I have to do to get things just right for this story. When you go back to Carson, or Reno, or Vegas, or wherever they picked you up, you can call Matthews and tell him that I’m not moving until this thing is done. I’m sorry that you’ve wasted your time, Mr. Bradshaw, but there’s really nothing that you can do to have me come back.”
He stopped the Chevy on the dirt road, which was composed of dust more than dirt, turned the engine off, then he waited for a moment and stretched his head back on the bench seat to pop his neck. It was stuffy inside, but the wind and the dust outside had forced him to ride with the windows up; after this was all over, he had promised himself on the ride out, he would use the money to get the air conditioner fixed. So far, no one had come out to greet him, so after another moment to slip his Oxfords on, he grasped the door handle and let himself out.
A blast of wind hit him as soon as he exited the car; his cheek stung from the grains of sand being embedded by the gusts which blew down from the mountains in the distance, and his hat was nearly stolen away until he clamped a hand down on it. Around him, the desert stretched out for near-eternity, the only distinguishing feature being a small, neglected-looking bungalow to his side. He rounded the front of the car and stepped forward, his suit being tugged at by the wind and dirtied by the clouds of dust being stirred up. There had been easier cases, to be sure.
At the door of the bungalow, the man knocked, half-expecting no response, but not terribly surprised when the door opened a crack and a voice came out. The wind made it very hard for him to hear the person addressing him, but he managed to catch the first few sentences.
“What’re you doing out here? I’ve got nothing for you, mister, so unless you’re outta gas or need a jump, I suggest you turn around and leave. Anyway, this area’s private property, my property, as far as the eye can see, so either go or I’ll call up the sheriff and have you booked on trespassing.”
The man in the suit put a hand on the doorframe, clamped his hat down again with his other hand, and gave the voice behind the door a friendly smile.
“Look, pal, I’m out here in this wind and this dust, and I can barely hear you; if you let me inside, just for a minute, I’ll get out of your hair. Or, if you can tell me where Harvey Llewellyn is, I’ll get out of your hair now.”
The voice was quiet for a moment, when the door opened wide and a short, older man in a scruffy vest glared at the man in the suit and threw him a gesture to get inside. The man in the suit wasted no time entering the bungalow, and quickly took off his hat and put it aside. The door was shut behind him and locked by his host, who stood and watched the new arrival.
“I suppose you’re here to tell me that I need to go back? Did Jackson send you, or Matthews?”
“Mr. Llewellyn, my name is John Bradshaw; I’m a private detective hired by Mr. Matthews to try and find you. He’s concerned that you might have gone through a mental breakdown.”
Llewellyn waved a hand and grunted as he left the cramped living room area of the bungalow and went into the adjoining kitchen and plugged in a dented coffee percolator. He reemerged with two coffee mugs and gave a nod to Bradshaw to see if he wanted anything. Bradshaw waved a hand and shook his head, so Llewellyn went and put back one of the mugs before finally coming to a stop at the couch across from Bradshaw and sitting down. The wall clock in the room ticked away nine seconds before the older man spoke.
“Matthews is a terrible agent, and don’t let him tell you otherwise. I told him that I wanted my last story to go in, unchanged, to the publisher, and he came back and told me that they wouldn’t take it, even in an altered state. Now he’s hiring private dicks out to come chasing me down because I need to go one extra step to write my next story.”
Bradshaw shifted his stance, having no other place to sit, and Llewellyn cast him a look before standing and walking off down the hallway cattycorner to the kitchen archway. He returned a moment later with a metal folding chair and set it down, already folded out, for Bradshaw to sit in across from him. Then, the author walked back into the kitchen and the sound of coffee being prepared could be heard. He returned and sat down with a sip at his drink.
“Well, Mr. Llewellyn, I know you don’t want to hear it, but Mr. Matthews thinks that your new story, from what you’ve sent in so far, may be your best work yet, but he wants you back to work on it. You’ve got everyone worried about you with your residence out here.”
The author tugged at his vest, mumbled something about the heat, and then sipped at his coffee; in that time, he made no attempt at eye contact with Bradshaw. Instead, his vision seemed to be focused on the Smith-Corona typewriter sitting at a small Formica-topped card table across the room, with a folding metal chair identical to the one he had brought for Bradshaw. When the private detective turned to look where the author was looking, he caught a glimpse of the writing area before his host spoke again and directed attention back to him.
“I know everyone’s worked up about me, but they don’t understand what I have to do to get things just right for this story. When you go back to Carson, or Reno, or Vegas, or wherever they picked you up, you can call Matthews and tell him that I’m not moving until this thing is done. I’m sorry that you’ve wasted your time, Mr. Bradshaw, but there’s really nothing that you can do to have me come back.”
Inspired by TheLily's "Short Stories" thread, I decided to try and write up a short story myself for maybe publication somewhere, if I can. I've no plot or theme settled yet, but here's 1,000 words exactly of it that I wrote to start with. Take a looksee, and lemme know whatcha think!
He stopped the Chevy on the dirt road, which was composed of dust more than dirt, turned the engine off, then he waited for a moment and stretched his head back on the bench seat to pop his neck. It was stuffy inside, but the wind and the dust outside had forced him to ride with the windows up; after this was all over, he had promised himself on the ride out, he would use the money to get the air conditioner fixed. So far, no one had come out to greet him, so after another moment to slip his Oxfords on, he grasped the door handle and let himself out.
A blast of wind hit him as soon as he exited the car; his cheek stung from the grains of sand being embedded by the gusts which blew down from the mountains in the distance, and his hat was nearly stolen away until he clamped a hand down on it. Around him, the desert stretched out for near-eternity, the only distinguishing feature being a small, neglected-looking bungalow to his side. He rounded the front of the car and stepped forward, his suit being tugged at by the wind and dirtied by the clouds of dust being stirred up. There had been easier cases, to be sure.
At the door of the bungalow, the man knocked, half-expecting no response, but not terribly surprised when the door opened a crack and a voice came out. The wind made it very hard for him to hear the person addressing him, but he managed to catch the first few sentences.
“What’re you doing out here? I’ve got nothing for you, mister, so unless you’re outta gas or need a jump, I suggest you turn around and leave. Anyway, this area’s private property, my property, as far as the eye can see, so either go or I’ll call up the sheriff and have you booked on trespassing.”
The man in the suit put a hand on the doorframe, clamped his hat down again with his other hand, and gave the voice behind the door a friendly smile.
“Look, pal, I’m out here in this wind and this dust, and I can barely hear you; if you let me inside, just for a minute, I’ll get out of your hair. Or, if you can tell me where Harvey Llewellyn is, I’ll get out of your hair now.”
The voice was quiet for a moment, when the door opened wide and a short, older man in a scruffy vest glared at the man in the suit and threw him a gesture to get inside. The man in the suit wasted no time entering the bungalow, and quickly took off his hat and put it aside. The door was shut behind him and locked by his host, who stood and watched the new arrival.
“I suppose you’re here to tell me that I need to go back? Did Jackson send you, or Matthews?”
“Mr. Llewellyn, my name is John Bradshaw; I’m a private detective hired by Mr. Matthews to try and find you. He’s concerned that you might have gone through a mental breakdown.”
Llewellyn waved a hand and grunted as he left the cramped living room area of the bungalow and went into the adjoining kitchen and plugged in a dented coffee percolator. He reemerged with two coffee mugs and gave a nod to Bradshaw to see if he wanted anything. Bradshaw waved a hand and shook his head, so Llewellyn went and put back one of the mugs before finally coming to a stop at the couch across from Bradshaw and sitting down. The wall clock in the room ticked away nine seconds before the older man spoke.
“Matthews is a terrible agent, and don’t let him tell you otherwise. I told him that I wanted my last story to go in, unchanged, to the publisher, and he came back and told me that they wouldn’t take it, even in an altered state. Now he’s hiring private dicks out to come chasing me down because I need to go one extra step to write my next story.”
Bradshaw shifted his stance, having no other place to sit, and Llewellyn cast him a look before standing and walking off down the hallway cattycorner to the kitchen archway. He returned a moment later with a metal folding chair and set it down, already folded out, for Bradshaw to sit in across from him. Then, the author walked back into the kitchen and the sound of coffee being prepared could be heard. He returned and sat down with a sip at his drink.
“Well, Mr. Llewellyn, I know you don’t want to hear it, but Mr. Matthews thinks that your new story, from what you’ve sent in so far, may be your best work yet, but he wants you back to work on it. You’ve got everyone worried about you with your residence out here.”
The author tugged at his vest, mumbled something about the heat, and then sipped at his coffee; in that time, he made no attempt at eye contact with Bradshaw. Instead, his vision seemed to be focused on the Smith-Corona typewriter sitting at a small Formica-topped card table across the room, with a folding metal chair identical to the one he had brought for Bradshaw. When the private detective turned to look where the author was looking, he caught a glimpse of the writing area before his host spoke again and directed attention back to him.
“I know everyone’s worked up about me, but they don’t understand what I have to do to get things just right for this story. When you go back to Carson, or Reno, or Vegas, or wherever they picked you up, you can call Matthews and tell him that I’m not moving until this thing is done. I’m sorry that you’ve wasted your time, Mr. Bradshaw, but there’s really nothing that you can do to have me come back.”
He stopped the Chevy on the dirt road, which was composed of dust more than dirt, turned the engine off, then he waited for a moment and stretched his head back on the bench seat to pop his neck. It was stuffy inside, but the wind and the dust outside had forced him to ride with the windows up; after this was all over, he had promised himself on the ride out, he would use the money to get the air conditioner fixed. So far, no one had come out to greet him, so after another moment to slip his Oxfords on, he grasped the door handle and let himself out.
A blast of wind hit him as soon as he exited the car; his cheek stung from the grains of sand being embedded by the gusts which blew down from the mountains in the distance, and his hat was nearly stolen away until he clamped a hand down on it. Around him, the desert stretched out for near-eternity, the only distinguishing feature being a small, neglected-looking bungalow to his side. He rounded the front of the car and stepped forward, his suit being tugged at by the wind and dirtied by the clouds of dust being stirred up. There had been easier cases, to be sure.
At the door of the bungalow, the man knocked, half-expecting no response, but not terribly surprised when the door opened a crack and a voice came out. The wind made it very hard for him to hear the person addressing him, but he managed to catch the first few sentences.
“What’re you doing out here? I’ve got nothing for you, mister, so unless you’re outta gas or need a jump, I suggest you turn around and leave. Anyway, this area’s private property, my property, as far as the eye can see, so either go or I’ll call up the sheriff and have you booked on trespassing.”
The man in the suit put a hand on the doorframe, clamped his hat down again with his other hand, and gave the voice behind the door a friendly smile.
“Look, pal, I’m out here in this wind and this dust, and I can barely hear you; if you let me inside, just for a minute, I’ll get out of your hair. Or, if you can tell me where Harvey Llewellyn is, I’ll get out of your hair now.”
The voice was quiet for a moment, when the door opened wide and a short, older man in a scruffy vest glared at the man in the suit and threw him a gesture to get inside. The man in the suit wasted no time entering the bungalow, and quickly took off his hat and put it aside. The door was shut behind him and locked by his host, who stood and watched the new arrival.
“I suppose you’re here to tell me that I need to go back? Did Jackson send you, or Matthews?”
“Mr. Llewellyn, my name is John Bradshaw; I’m a private detective hired by Mr. Matthews to try and find you. He’s concerned that you might have gone through a mental breakdown.”
Llewellyn waved a hand and grunted as he left the cramped living room area of the bungalow and went into the adjoining kitchen and plugged in a dented coffee percolator. He reemerged with two coffee mugs and gave a nod to Bradshaw to see if he wanted anything. Bradshaw waved a hand and shook his head, so Llewellyn went and put back one of the mugs before finally coming to a stop at the couch across from Bradshaw and sitting down. The wall clock in the room ticked away nine seconds before the older man spoke.
“Matthews is a terrible agent, and don’t let him tell you otherwise. I told him that I wanted my last story to go in, unchanged, to the publisher, and he came back and told me that they wouldn’t take it, even in an altered state. Now he’s hiring private dicks out to come chasing me down because I need to go one extra step to write my next story.”
Bradshaw shifted his stance, having no other place to sit, and Llewellyn cast him a look before standing and walking off down the hallway cattycorner to the kitchen archway. He returned a moment later with a metal folding chair and set it down, already folded out, for Bradshaw to sit in across from him. Then, the author walked back into the kitchen and the sound of coffee being prepared could be heard. He returned and sat down with a sip at his drink.
“Well, Mr. Llewellyn, I know you don’t want to hear it, but Mr. Matthews thinks that your new story, from what you’ve sent in so far, may be your best work yet, but he wants you back to work on it. You’ve got everyone worried about you with your residence out here.”
The author tugged at his vest, mumbled something about the heat, and then sipped at his coffee; in that time, he made no attempt at eye contact with Bradshaw. Instead, his vision seemed to be focused on the Smith-Corona typewriter sitting at a small Formica-topped card table across the room, with a folding metal chair identical to the one he had brought for Bradshaw. When the private detective turned to look where the author was looking, he caught a glimpse of the writing area before his host spoke again and directed attention back to him.
“I know everyone’s worked up about me, but they don’t understand what I have to do to get things just right for this story. When you go back to Carson, or Reno, or Vegas, or wherever they picked you up, you can call Matthews and tell him that I’m not moving until this thing is done. I’m sorry that you’ve wasted your time, Mr. Bradshaw, but there’s really nothing that you can do to have me come back.”
This sounds like the beginning of some mysterious supernatural novel! It has a subtle creepy undertone because of the author's unknown circumstances.
I like.
I like.
Thanks, Sanne! Speaking of authors and unknown circumstances, though..., I've absolutely no idea where the story will even go. I was just hit with a random idea for the setting and everything up to the first lines of dialogue, and another random idea for the identities of the two men and their purposes there. All I have is the first 1,000 words written here, and the title, "Dusk".
Speaking of authors and unknown circumstances, though..., I've absolutely no idea where the story will even go. I was just hit with a random idea for the setting and everything up to the first lines of dialogue, and another random idea for the identities of the two men and their purposes there. All I have is the first 1,000 words written here, and the title, "Dusk".
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