A Drunken Night (a novella)

[Deleted]

Preface

Good evening.

Thank you for coming to this thread. For a while now I’ve wanted to write a novella about a distinct character of mine, or actually several characters of mine, and since that work is now finally in progress, I would like to share what I’ve written so far with anyone who might care. Comments and criticism, expressed politely, are, of course, welcome and appreciated, as are any advices by which I might improve the devices of my writing, my story-telling.

Truly this is a story that has lingered with me for a while and yet, were it to be well received or indeed received at all (for sadly many a burgeoning writer it seems are met with nothing but apathy) it may be nothing more than the herald of a far greater tale, which even now is in the process of being made, and which I would share you, when the time comes, should you indeed be interested. As such, what I’ve written now and what I’ve posted here in this thread may indeed mark the beginning of a lengthy journey, one that I would welcome anyone to share with me, or indeed it may mark the end of another journey, the final judgement of my own worn out dreams, but would that it were to be, then truly I shall let it be.

And with that said, I thank you again for coming to this thread and bid you welcome to the story 'A Drunken Night'.

A Drunken Night

Chapter 1

He really shouldn’t have gotten another drink. It was late; he should have been home hours ago. The room was heavy with smoke and the sound of singing reverberated in the air. It was one of those nights when you were too tired to do anything, but not tired enough to go to bed. Indeed he had tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw her again – her eyes staring straight at him with that cold, unflinching gaze. At last, he had had enough; he went down the stairs and out the door and before long, he found himself on the streets again. It was raining. Drawn by a multitude of voices, he saw a light coming from a little house, tinting a warm glow midst the cold rain, inviting him. And that’s where he now found himself, in the Darkshire tavern, drinking up the remainder of his salary – one glass at a time. No one seemed to notice him as he sat at the bar, just another unknown soldier drowning his woes, trying in vain to sedate that beast that just wouldn’t go to sleep. How strange he might have seemed, had anyone cared to notice him, as he sat there alone, drowsy and melancholy, in the midst of a crowd that was almost ecstatic. Shouts and cheers echoed around the room, as all of the regulars celebrated the night. And indeed, why shouldn’t they? The work was finished, their duties done, and now at last it was Saturday, so why the Hell not? Those were the sentiments that the soldier once believed, redeemed from the grayness of daily monotony. Like them, he had loved the splendor of the unpredictable, the unethical randomness that galvanized the drunk. Like them, he had song the songs of the old men, songs of war and rapture, of love that was claimed and love that was lost. But that was long ago, in a different life. That was before the war, before the horror, which now barred down upon him, baring its white teeth.

For a while he had listened them talking, their high pitched voices piercing his ears with all the power of breaking glass. His head was throbbing violently and the more he drank, the more he felt like shit. Many times, he thought about rising from his seat and leave and yet remained seated, apathic, almost as if he was waiting for something. In fact, if it were not for the occasional coin of silver, thrown carelessly across the bar, as the young man suckled on yet another drink, he might have been mistaken for a statue. Not sculptured to perfection by any means, of course, for truly both the clothes he wore and his general appearance, gave off the impression of a drunkard or rather of a man who, after having long been dissatisfied with something, something which he was not able to change, resolved not to care too deeply about anything and in conclusion thereof soon fell into the most wretched state of decay. His hair was long and dirty and though it might have been bright once, now it was almost black. His face was thin, pale, glistening with dew – as if he lived in a constant state of a fever from which he could not relieve himself. His clothes were dirty, stained by mud, and ragged to an almost intangible degree. In fact had it not been for a long rope, which the man had flung clumsily around his waist, his entire garment might have dissolved many months ago.

And still, he went unnoticed, unseen, in the same way that dust might go unseen. Perhaps it was because the room was so poorly lit as to be illuminated by only a few flickering lights. Or perhaps it was because it was late and the men, being either drunk or blustered, had other things on their mind than to pause and acknowledge the presence of anything they could neither seduce nor subdue. Or perhaps it was just the way he presented himself, distant and aloof, as if the more vibrant, more vital part of him was off somewhere else, leaving only a husk of decaying meat to feed the crows. Or perhaps, he wondered finally, it was because with all of their passion and all of their excitement, they did not dare to look at the man, for what was he, really, but the bitter remembrance of how quickly, how brutally, it might all be swept away. Either way, whatever their motivations might be, he received the gesture, generously, with all the pleasure of bitter solemnity.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone or think of anything. He just wanted to get drunk as quickly and ruthlessly as possible and then wander off home again and fall asleep. He longed for that nothingness wherein all other things looses their qualities and to which he could surrender himself, gladly, willingly, with no regrets. Alcohol could bring him this, as securely and routinely as it could make him ill. Not that he cared for his illness or at least he didn’t when he was drunk. Like all things unpleasant, that too would soon lose its qualities. Life would lose its qualities and all that he was left with was the sweet sensation of death and a longing not to be. But without it things were different. How painful life could be! The images would haunt him relentlessly and he would see her once again. Sometimes, she would appear only for an instant, too quick for the eyes to see and yet, somehow, he would still see her; still feel her presence close to him. It was maddening, truly maddening. It was if the ground would dissolve beneath his feet and he would fall off into an abyss of horrors so unspeakable that were he to but open his eyes for a second, he would surely go mad. And still he wondered, sometimes, if perhaps it would not have been better if he did, for truly, it seemed to him then, mad people lived not in a state of rapture, but of bliss, of sweet and eternal unknowing, whereas he, was frozen forever in a wasteland between worlds, doomed and paralyzed like a dweller on the threshold.

And still he lost his sanity, slowly, gradually and perhaps more than any other, that was the reason why he drank; to go mad more quickly and then die, remembering nothing. He’d thought about taking his life, he’d even tried, once, only to find he could not go through with it. “What wretched business it all is” he whispered miserably, as he felt his thoughts untangle and then descend, helplessly, into the void.
It wasn’t until he was about to leave that he realized he’d been wrong. Someone had indeed been watching him, someone was still watching him, someone who, like him, was estranged from the festivities. By then, the voices had quiet, many of the young man had gone home to sleep, leaving only him and the older regulars perched till sunrise. Already the barmaids were walking their rounds, clearing the tables and washing them down with dishcloths. They were beautiful, the women, the young man thought and yet he was not surprised that he didn’t desire any of them. Their bodies looked thin and frail against the light of the dwindling lamps, as if, in his mind, they were nothing more than silhouettes, moving silently across the room, or shadows dancing upon an empty stage.

Darkness claimed him and he was just about to rise when out of nowhere, another man appeared. This man sat down next to him, smiled at him. At first he thought it nothing more than the act of courtesy and then suddenly the man began to speak. His voice had the sound of barely concealed glee.
“Allow me to introduce myself” the man began, almost hastily, as if any moment now something terrible was about to happen. “My name is Edmund Arkabor. I am a scientist of sorts. I originate from Redridge wherein I’ve lived most of my adult life. I only arrived in town last fortnight and since then I have spent my time studying. And would you know, just a few hours ago, I made a wonderful discovery!”
The man spoke so rapidly that although the former soldier tried, several times, to interrupt him, to tell him, roughly, if not unkindly, to leave him in peace, the man never once offered him any such opportunity. And nor did he seem to give pause now. Not waiting for any kind of reply, the man simply added with a smile, “Oh I see you’re one of those guys.”
“What guys?” The other man replied wearily.
“The wounded soldier guys. The men. The wounded men!”
“And what makes you think I’m wounded?” The young man replied, perhaps a bit more harshly than he had intended. For a moment, the other one was silent. Then he replied:
“I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who has seen too much too quickly and now thinks he’s seen it all. Well my young friend, you are wrong. You’ve seen nothing yet!”
“And how would you know what I’ve seen?” the soldier asked, feeling his anger rising with each deplorable breath. This was not how the night was supposed to end; this entire communion was unsought, unwanted.
The man did not reply immediately but instead made a rather unpleasant smirk that filled the man with disgust. There was something about him, some boldness, some innate certainty in his voice that made the soldier angry.
“I want to show you something” the man smiled and far worse than the smirk was that voice. It was so suggestive, so happy, that for a moment, the soldier was sure he’d tear the man to pieces.
“I’m sure you do” he replied coldly “but I have neither the time, nor the patience to indulge you. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
And with that the man was about to rise, when all of a sudden, the other man disappeared. It happened so fast that barely had the soldier registered his disappearance before, all at once, he was back, sitting on the chair next to him, laughing.
“What the Hell!?” The soldier roared, jumping to his feet, even as every nerve in his body screeched with torment.
“Curious now, aren’t you?” The man laughed.
“What the Hell happened?”
“Well why don’t you tell me” the man smirked again “since you’ve seen so much, surely you must have seen this, as well.”
“You disappeared?”
“Yes…” the man replied routinely with all the patience of a teacher guiding student “and…?”
“And re-appeared?”
“Bingo! Now, isn’t that a pretty shrewd observation of a man who’s spent the last three hours getting drunk?”
“I don’t know” another voice said suddenly “I’d expected him to come to the conclusion a little sooner.”
The soldier looked about confused, but no one else was there.
“He is a still little slow, isn’t he?” Another voice broke out, this time the voice of a young woman, a girl almost.
“What the Hell is going on!?” The soldier screamed as he stared around him bewildered.
And now the people noticed him. The barmaids looked blankly at him; as if they had only just now become aware of his existence. Just then, the man disappeared again, but this time, it seemed, there was no glee involved.
“Damn it! Not now!” He shouted and in a less than a moment he was gone.

“Did you see that?!” The soldier asked, now screaming, but the barmaids and the guests simply looked at him surprised. They had seen nothing. Then suddenly the man felt a hand upon his shoulder and as he turned around, he saw the full body of the bartender towering above him, looking down upon him like a giant might look at an ant. He felt like an ant.
“I think you’d better go home now” the bartender said, his rough voice rumbling as if it came from deep within the earth. The other guests were still looking at him, astonished, but also he saw, with a kind of sorrow in their eyes. Was it for him, he wondered, was it pity? Had he finally gone mad? The question began itching like a fleabite in his mind.
Just then a swoon overtook him and as his legs gave way beneath him, he saw her once again and then everything became black.

[Greyves]

I don't have time to comment deeply, as I'm on my phone at work. I think you have potential, but it does need some major work. The first glaring issue I see is that you spend the first five paragraphs doing absolutely nothing. While not written too shabbily, you've already bored anyone who picks up the book and glances at the first page. I suggest you save this introspection to later (or nix it completely) when you've already hooked your reader. Start off as soon as possible with conflict or action, hook me as a reader, then you've earned the right to narrative exposition.

Also....Hell vs. Nether? I'd pick one for whatever theology you're referencing and stick with it. Watch the adverbs as well. If I have time tonight, I'll come back and send you a more detailed rip-apart in a private message.

[Greyves]

You're certainly allowed to write it however you wish. There's nothing wrong with an introspective story. It still needs to be interesting and moving forward. As I stated, the very first thing a reader sees visually is your character chilling forrrrreeeevvvveeeerrrr thinking about things. Have him do that later. Get me interested in conflict and action ASAP. A good exercise is heading to your local book store and reading the first pages of published fantasy novels. Almost all of them will suck you right in with just the first line.

I do recommend that you reconsider your first chapter. If you plan on publishing this eventually, the first chapter/paragraph is crucial to making it past the thousands of other writers (just like you) who are vying for that same editor's attention. I have a lot of experience with this, and I appreciate your willingness to stick to your guns; however, I would not even read chapter two and pass this on to my acquisitions editor in its current state. If you want to publish eventually, you need a better opening.

[sammie13]

Please take part in my 10 minute Psychology dissertation study into World of Warcraft and Identity. PM me for details!!