Miss_Tolstoy
New Member
This is the intro to the novel that I am writting. General comments and views as always really. But what I would also like to know is, does it make you want to read on?
ONE
Being England and being summer wind abdicated, rain took a business trip for a country that needed replenishing and windows opened, waistlines appeared and receded, while everything else that was made thorough for winter was being dusted in the attic, especially for those two weeks of moaning (including ‘I like it hot but not this hot) that we call a heat wave. Sun objected to its usual line of aloofness, where it wafted and moaned in and out as the clouds rose and then fell and then crushed into the hemline of the view, the horizon. Instead it stuck violently a continual and viscous rod of heat into the country. For those who had moaned to the spring and prayed for the summer; gardeners for the ripening, children for the playing, teenagers for the tanning and workers of all practices for the freedom, now all receded their demands and felt like a child at the zoo who shoots reels at the horses and then has no film left for the zebra.
Reason and sensibility were lost in the heat amidst the stifled and crying minds of the nation. Violence rang like a bell of joy for the state of boredom calling its lost soles home to battle. People muttered disrespect in the streets and in their homes as their innards and beliefs, the foundations of the world they new, lay bare and baking, homage to the sun. All this amounting and surpassing thought, law and reason, until the riots and the gangs became packs of smokers always looking for some one new to light up with, A habit that can not be done alone.
People now clustered in pods. In no other time had they been more aware of each other and where they were stationed. A street name became more than purposeful for directions, it became artifice for your tribes home. Wars were not fought over countries or cities. The U.N became as delightful an idea as heaven. As the heat made crescent waves outwards, always circulating, the idea of the collective shrunk and simplified. People now became violent over their streets.
And still sun bruned and cursed and shot menace from every gass crepephis it mustered, and even the fighting, exhausted from its own passion died. A government brought out from its pearl lined shell called for a public holiday. People in their collective masses and individual statements sat still, clinging to their own street names. They ignored their neighbours and lazed, fuelled by the merciless sun and forced by pain they looked inwards. They wait like drift wood for explanation or revelation for the lost beliefs of who they really are. The hidden sting and spices of their lives that they forgot so easily when it rained.
TWO
And here is burden lane. And no where was it more true than here. No where but in the hearts of the woman of Burden lane. All of them waiting to be defined, or redefine or maybe even to explore definition
Burden Lane, it echoed in their eyes and the brain picked at it repeating aloud for their inner ears. Each one young and old, had moved there at such a such a time in the past and on each moving date had paused briefly at the inconspicuous sign, slight tousled by leaves, to wonder who and how it had come by that name. Now with the sun commandeering violence as social pleasure did the name finally seem suitable. Now that they were ready to think.
ONE
Being England and being summer wind abdicated, rain took a business trip for a country that needed replenishing and windows opened, waistlines appeared and receded, while everything else that was made thorough for winter was being dusted in the attic, especially for those two weeks of moaning (including ‘I like it hot but not this hot) that we call a heat wave. Sun objected to its usual line of aloofness, where it wafted and moaned in and out as the clouds rose and then fell and then crushed into the hemline of the view, the horizon. Instead it stuck violently a continual and viscous rod of heat into the country. For those who had moaned to the spring and prayed for the summer; gardeners for the ripening, children for the playing, teenagers for the tanning and workers of all practices for the freedom, now all receded their demands and felt like a child at the zoo who shoots reels at the horses and then has no film left for the zebra.
Reason and sensibility were lost in the heat amidst the stifled and crying minds of the nation. Violence rang like a bell of joy for the state of boredom calling its lost soles home to battle. People muttered disrespect in the streets and in their homes as their innards and beliefs, the foundations of the world they new, lay bare and baking, homage to the sun. All this amounting and surpassing thought, law and reason, until the riots and the gangs became packs of smokers always looking for some one new to light up with, A habit that can not be done alone.
People now clustered in pods. In no other time had they been more aware of each other and where they were stationed. A street name became more than purposeful for directions, it became artifice for your tribes home. Wars were not fought over countries or cities. The U.N became as delightful an idea as heaven. As the heat made crescent waves outwards, always circulating, the idea of the collective shrunk and simplified. People now became violent over their streets.
And still sun bruned and cursed and shot menace from every gass crepephis it mustered, and even the fighting, exhausted from its own passion died. A government brought out from its pearl lined shell called for a public holiday. People in their collective masses and individual statements sat still, clinging to their own street names. They ignored their neighbours and lazed, fuelled by the merciless sun and forced by pain they looked inwards. They wait like drift wood for explanation or revelation for the lost beliefs of who they really are. The hidden sting and spices of their lives that they forgot so easily when it rained.
TWO
And here is burden lane. And no where was it more true than here. No where but in the hearts of the woman of Burden lane. All of them waiting to be defined, or redefine or maybe even to explore definition
Burden Lane, it echoed in their eyes and the brain picked at it repeating aloud for their inner ears. Each one young and old, had moved there at such a such a time in the past and on each moving date had paused briefly at the inconspicuous sign, slight tousled by leaves, to wonder who and how it had come by that name. Now with the sun commandeering violence as social pleasure did the name finally seem suitable. Now that they were ready to think.