- last post: 01.01.0001 12:00 AM PDT
Hey guys, would you please give me your critique of my finished Chapter One of my book? It still needs some polish. Its a little short for a full chapter, but it seemed like a great way to end a chapter.
EDIT: I put breaks between paragraphs for easier reading.
CHAPTER ONE: Tattered Remnants
Staring eyes. Eyes staring penetratingly through him, singing his soul.
Why did they stare at him so condemningly?
Dunmorix, as he was known in the war, returned the looks he was subject to with a confused gaze. Estranged, he was uncomfortable with this situation.
It seemed as if they had never seen a battleship before, or even a boat for that matter. He surveyed the crowd of staring eyes quizzically, and hastily moved onwards.
Not only did they show unfriendly looks, they exhibited great fear in his presence. His people feared him.
As he moved through the streets of Manhattan, he was appalled by the terrible sanitation, adding to the nauseous feeling he harbored in his gut. But far more striking than the filth on the streets, was their emptiness. There was not a single soul outside. Dunmorix stood immobilized, eyes and jaw wide, as papers and trash whirled about his feet in a vortex. Even in his years of bizarre, new aged war, Dunmorix had never encountered a situation more surreal.
Born under the name of Idan, Dunmorix stood a formidable 6 and a quarter feet, his body rippling with bloated muscles. Although he was only 28, wrinkles were to be found at the corners of his mouth. He used to be a happy person- one who lived a normal life, with a love of justice. But after 10 years of war, his smile had faded. His own jubilation was a small price to pay for justice and the perseverance of compassion. He fought the Dark War for 10 years, for these people, and they alienated him.
His reverie on the empty street was shattered by the sound of a blaring car horn. He turned to see a dirty car directly behind him. As he slowly edged out of the way, the pilot leaned out of the window and inquired of Dunmorix what his purpose was in the middle of the street.
Dunmorix stared vaguely at the stranger, and disregarding the question, asked, “Where is the airport?”
Timidly, the stranger shrunk in his vehicle. With wide eyes, he pointed to the blatant “To Airport” sign which was erected directly behind him.
Dunmorix swiveled around to face the bright blue sign, face exhibiting a faint reddish hue, skin hot. Biting his lower lip, he slowly turned to the car, which was gone. More fear of him. Well at least he didn’t have to live with his embarrassment any longer than necessary. He walked with his tail between his legs nonetheless, his sack over his shoulder, like a dead body, dragging him down.
What he would give to be able to laugh at the silly mistake.
What he would give to love again.
Ascending the filthy front stairs of the old airport, Dunmorix thrust open the doors, slamming against the walls, reverberating through the empty building. The sound waves lashed the dead plants as if they had been deaf for years. Wincing at the obtrusive entrance he made, Dunmorix crept in as if covertly. Seeing the absence of any form of sentient life, he began repeating to himself, “Please let the planes still work… please let the planes work…”
Caught by a sudden sneeze provoked by the stagnant air, Dunmorix looked at the floor, and below the trash was a layer of dirt and dust over an inch thick. Choking in revulsion more than any physical response, he noticed a path of footprints in the heavy dust leading to and from a distant terminal. His dying hope took a drastic upturn.
Following the trail imposed in the floor, Dunmorix finally arrived in a nearly empty terminal. In one of the rotting, decomposed seats, lay an old man vesting a brilliant red hat, fast asleep. His snoring gave some consolation to Dunmorix, penetrating the overbearing silence.
For a brief second, he was back in a London train station, amidst the bustling flow of humanity… But that was also wartime…
“Who are you!?” burst the old man, apparently wide awake. Dunmorix jumped nearly three feet in the air and landed with a sickening thud on the floor. Standing back up, rubbing his buttocks, Dunmorix replied through clenched teeth, “I am Dunmorix.”
The old man, face crowded with wrinkles, pursed his lips and surveyed the newcomer in analysis. He then brought his chin to a resting position atop his thumb and forefinger. Dunmorix stood uncomfortably in the middle of the doorway undergoing scrutiny once again.
Then he noticed something.
The man did not fear him.
The mans eyes came to rest on his stripes and his regiment designation on his shoulder. He raised his chin, still staring curiously at Dunmorix’s shoulder. With a great deal of effort, he stood, and walked over to Dunmorix for closer inspection. He stumbled backward into his chair and asked, “Why are you wearing that military stuff? There is no military.”
Jaw hanging wide, a wave of revelation surged through him, nearly knocking him off his feet.
“You don’t know about the war?” he cried out incredulously.
Taken aback by the outburst, his comprehension ebbing at an exponential rate, the old man leaned forward in inquiry. “War since the Skirmish of 2127?”
Struck by this massive complication, he could only begin to piece together the massive meaning of all this.
“What is it? Well tell me, dammit!!” The old man shouted, slamming his fist onto the armrest, shattering it into splinters, now so close to the edge of his seat he was on the verge of falling off. His teeth clenching and unclenching, he waited in utmost suspense.
Steeling himself to quench the old mans insatiable curiosity, Dunmorix began.
“The Skirmish of 2127 wasn’t the end of a minor conflict. It was the beginning of the most destructive war in human history. This Dark War hasn’t ended yet- I’ve come from Europe to recruit forces from America… That is why I am here.” The old man collapsed back in his seat in disbelief.
“You’ve lost your mind. The rest of the world is exactly like it is here.” He was utterly perplexed.
Impatient with having to fill in the old man before he could sort out the deep significance of his new findings, he jumped into a very brief overview. “The Skirmish was left unresolved. China, Japan, and the Korea’s signed a pact, much like the Tri-Partite Pact,” he received only a blank stare, but he forged on nonetheless, “They led an all out assault on Russia and the middle east. Russia fell quickly, but Israel managed to hold back the onslaught for a while. They too fell in time, however. Europe resolved to stay out of the war. Then France fell. Again.” At this point, Dunmorix was giddy, and was rolling his words together. “Japan sent specialized forces into Africa trying to subversively convert the countries which merely ended up in a massive “cival war” of African countries. And now, all that stands in Japans (for that is who the real foe is) way is little Britain. And no wonder they had not been concerned about America. Its falling apart.”
The old man seemed even more confused after hearing what resembled a summary of the war. He stared at the floor, eyes moving back and forth periodically. Every few seconds, he would open his mouth to ask a question, but he would pause and do it again.
The summary left so much yet to be told. Dunmorix not only had his own answers to be sought, but he had a job to do.
“I must fly to Denver.”
The old man looked up, nodded a detached nod and went back to thinking.
“I need to leave now.”
[Edited on 7/17/2004 9:56:07 PM]