Forrest Parkyr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deepintrospect) wrote2010-09-05 09:02 pm
deepintrospect) wrote2010-09-05 09:02 pm
"Atlas Shrugged", And I Died (Prologue)
Title: "Atlas Shrugged", And I Died
Author: Forrest Parkyr
Characters: Zeke Martin, Lucinda Martin, nameless Librarian
Rating: PG-15
Word Count: 592
Summary: The day had been going fine for Zeke Martin. He had awoken with a headache, but the dull ache had been easily cured by a smile from his lovely wife while she handed him a glass of orange juice and a plate laden with bacon, eggs and pancakes.
Author's Notes/Warnings: Character Death; covers prompts from Writer's Block 911 website Verb: "Bash" and How to kill a character: "A hard cover copy of Atlas Shrugged falling from a top shelf."
The day had been going fine for Zeke Martin. He had awoken with a headache, but the dull ache had been easily cured by a smile from his lovely wife while she handed him a glass of orange juice and a plate laden with bacon, eggs and pancakes. His wife,—oh, Lucinda—she was magnificent. But to stay on topic, he also sneaked some Advil in after breakfast, draining the dredges of coffee from his mug as he did so (Lucinda was strictly against all types of medicine: she thought he would end up taking so much that when he took it, it wouldn't do anything). And so, the day was started off well. He donned one of his suits, leaving the jacket unbuttoned to show off the newest NFL tie he had received as a loving gift from his wife, picked up his briefcase and set the coffee mug by the sink. He kissed his wife goodbye, heading off to work.
Lucinda waved to him through the window over the sink as she finished her coffee, wearing that beautiful pink silk robe that she slipped on every morning for breakfast. Oh how he wished he could take the time to slip it back off... But he had to work: he had to make money. He vowed that he would ask for a day off once he arrived at work today so that way he could surprise her with a day to themselves. He knew she had been wishing for that ever since he started this job. He opened the door to his car, stepping in and buckling himself up. After all, he was a law-abiding citizen.
It didn't take long to get to work. Traffic was light in the suburbs where he lived and it was still early enough that taxis didn't have a lot of jobs around the city where he worked. He locked up the car and walked into the building. He greeted the security guard with a wave and 'Good Morning.', receiving a raised Styrofoam coffee cup in response. He rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, took the hallway to the left and entered his office. It was of no surprise to him that he had several messages on his office phone. He took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack in the corner, setting his briefcase on his desk and pressing a button to listen to the messages.
Three hours later found him pursuing an interview at the city's library. The librarian was being difficult, running about and doing her job while he tried to scamper after her and ask questions, but such was the life of a journalist. She kept on putting books away onto the shelves, moving from Mystery to Fiction and finally to Literature. He ignored the many books he passed—he was in here for a story of his own, something that was happening in real life. Perhaps, though, he should have taken a look at Atlas Shrugged; not for the literary experience, but maybe if he had noticed the book slouching on the shelf, tipped from the last possible reader, he might not have died that day. As it was, he didn't notice, but continued walking after his potential lead. The book slipped more, the hard cover tumbled from a shelf one would normally use a ladder or step stool to get to. It struck—no, it bashed him on the head. In that final second he felt his body crumpling: joints folding and the floor rushing up to meet him.
Comments/Reviews are wonderful!
Author: Forrest Parkyr
Characters: Zeke Martin, Lucinda Martin, nameless Librarian
Rating: PG-15
Word Count: 592
Summary: The day had been going fine for Zeke Martin. He had awoken with a headache, but the dull ache had been easily cured by a smile from his lovely wife while she handed him a glass of orange juice and a plate laden with bacon, eggs and pancakes.
Author's Notes/Warnings: Character Death; covers prompts from Writer's Block 911 website Verb: "Bash" and How to kill a character: "A hard cover copy of Atlas Shrugged falling from a top shelf."
The day had been going fine for Zeke Martin. He had awoken with a headache, but the dull ache had been easily cured by a smile from his lovely wife while she handed him a glass of orange juice and a plate laden with bacon, eggs and pancakes. His wife,—oh, Lucinda—she was magnificent. But to stay on topic, he also sneaked some Advil in after breakfast, draining the dredges of coffee from his mug as he did so (Lucinda was strictly against all types of medicine: she thought he would end up taking so much that when he took it, it wouldn't do anything). And so, the day was started off well. He donned one of his suits, leaving the jacket unbuttoned to show off the newest NFL tie he had received as a loving gift from his wife, picked up his briefcase and set the coffee mug by the sink. He kissed his wife goodbye, heading off to work.
Lucinda waved to him through the window over the sink as she finished her coffee, wearing that beautiful pink silk robe that she slipped on every morning for breakfast. Oh how he wished he could take the time to slip it back off... But he had to work: he had to make money. He vowed that he would ask for a day off once he arrived at work today so that way he could surprise her with a day to themselves. He knew she had been wishing for that ever since he started this job. He opened the door to his car, stepping in and buckling himself up. After all, he was a law-abiding citizen.
It didn't take long to get to work. Traffic was light in the suburbs where he lived and it was still early enough that taxis didn't have a lot of jobs around the city where he worked. He locked up the car and walked into the building. He greeted the security guard with a wave and 'Good Morning.', receiving a raised Styrofoam coffee cup in response. He rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, took the hallway to the left and entered his office. It was of no surprise to him that he had several messages on his office phone. He took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack in the corner, setting his briefcase on his desk and pressing a button to listen to the messages.
Three hours later found him pursuing an interview at the city's library. The librarian was being difficult, running about and doing her job while he tried to scamper after her and ask questions, but such was the life of a journalist. She kept on putting books away onto the shelves, moving from Mystery to Fiction and finally to Literature. He ignored the many books he passed—he was in here for a story of his own, something that was happening in real life. Perhaps, though, he should have taken a look at Atlas Shrugged; not for the literary experience, but maybe if he had noticed the book slouching on the shelf, tipped from the last possible reader, he might not have died that day. As it was, he didn't notice, but continued walking after his potential lead. The book slipped more, the hard cover tumbled from a shelf one would normally use a ladder or step stool to get to. It struck—no, it bashed him on the head. In that final second he felt his body crumpling: joints folding and the floor rushing up to meet him.
Comments/Reviews are wonderful!