Ihe
Forum Revolutionary
- Joined
- Apr 4, 2015
- Messages
- 1,119
Alright. I've tweaked my one-man show a little since last time. No big changes, but changes all the same. I've also come up with a temporary name for the story that I think sounds awesome and might stay.
So, tell me what do you think. All feedback is welcome, ofc, but I'd be specially interested in comments on the pace and the tone I'm giving (or not giving) the piece.
-----
Captain Geiza Toth stood naked before the blinking nav-panel, a slouched wobble in his stance. Unruly hair didn't cover shame much past his shoulders. But Geiza was alone in the small room, so he basked in the flashing red lights for another minute.
He couldn´t remember a time aboard the ship without that cursed glow raking at his face. There was less of it now though. Some of the LEDs had incurred his wrath and had fizzled out some time ago. Since then he'd been saving the rest for special occasions.
And such an occasion had come. He'd found something new to play with and celebration was in order. He contemplated the steely gadget in his hand with half-open eyes. It was solid and T-shaped, a curved lever coming out of its body. He hadn´t the slightest clue as to its purpose, but judging from the weight figured it would do a fine job at bashing LEDs—and there were so many of those pesky red ones, constantly yelling empty dangers... It would certainly be easier than going at them bare-handed, as he'd done in the past.
Sluggish gaze went back and forth between panel and tool. The lights seemed to twinkle a ruby-patterned smirk his way. Had that other sensor just winked at him?
After a short struggle with inert fingers, the gizmo fell out of his hand. The resulting clatter startled him out of his stupor, giving him time to do something about the saliva making its way out his drooping mouth. But nothing was done. Drool kept on its path down his bearded chin, undeterred.
The LEDs laughed at him once more. The captain slurped back some of the fugitive spit and decided he wasn´t in the mood for a bit of casual vandalism after all. He wasn´t in the mood for much of anything and so went back to lying in his own filth. Curling up under the nav-panel, he rested his head on cold metal floor, hands between legs.
Boxes of a material not unlike plastic made up most of the nest that surrounded him. Other construction materials included left-over scraps not unlike edible food, a few bottles nearly empty of something not unlike water, and dirty blankets not unlike cotton. Not unlike, but not quite the same.
Half a biscuit (but not quite a biscuit) lay near his head. He craned his neck and scooped it up with parched lips. His own breath assaulted him—acid and thick. The bottles were right in front of his face, but he made no attempt to reach them. Pseudo-water couldn´t wash that down.
The biscuit rolled around in his mouth, soggy and unchewed. A small vibration tickled his ear and he repositioned himself. So many new things today: first, the tool thingamajig; now this pleasant tingle. A pity things never stay pleasant for long.
The floor bobbed up and down. Geiza thought that was odd, what with being in the frictionless void of space and all. At one point in time he might've said something about shock absorbers and stabilizing frameworks. Today was not that point. He managed an underachieving "huh" instead.
Another quiver down the back of the neck. Then the hairs in his nose, tickling furiously. His whole body was humming despite himself. The floor shook. His head banged against it, then once more when he sat up, against the underside of the nav-panel. The biscuit lodged in his throat.
It took Geiza a single denied breath to make him move. He clawed at the floor in a darting crawl toward the pilot chair, stirring muscles unused for months. The ship convulsed and knocked him sideways. The veins in his temples thickened and stretched skin, nudging his eyes out. He pawed at the chair's back, feeling the edges as he rose to his knees. His eyes weren't being a cooperative pair. Murk poured from their corners.
Fist dug into abdomen, he threw himself against the chair's headrest, trying his best to come down on his belly; hitting chest instead. He stood taller for another attempt. His forehead hit the overhead panel with a loud thud and he staggered back, but wasn't dissuaded . Geiza's mane lashed wildly about as he threw himself again. Thud. And again. Thud. And again. Thud.
The murderous biscuit splotched on a screen and Geiza went to his knees. Warmth cascaded down his face. He swiped instinctively at his eyes. Blood.
He hit the ground before his hands assessed damage. Thud. Yet another knock on the head. That was the seventh, by his count. He'd always been good with numbers.
Someone tugged at his hair; flicked his forehead. Intense heat licked right under his greasy hairline. Someone tugged once more.
Someone... Someone! The urgency of that reality took a regained breath to reach Geiza. Eyes shot open. Still lying supine, he twisted his neck to look. Loosened brain smashed against skull in all conceivable angles. He let out a constricted whine. When the sparkling pain gave way to clear sight, he sat up. Bile flooded his mouth. He spit it out and lay down again.
Geiza's voice dripped down the corners of his mouth. Small drops. Barely any ripples in the air. "Anyone there?"
That wasn't his voice, was it? He tried again, louder, creaking like stressed wood about to split.
"Please. Anyone?" The question this time around had more to do with hearing his own voice than to probe for company. He waited. It had a familiar ring to it, the voice. Also the silence.
He sat up and steadied himself with palms pressed firmly on the floor. Bending waist, neck rigid, he looked around once more to stomp on the remaining curiosity, already dwindled to the status of a pesky mental flea. He saw nothing for his troubles. Splat.
The captain's fingers missed his forehead and poked his nose, where they lingered, momentarily distracted. He tried again and waved air by his ear. Third time his index finger caught a long strand of hair, followed it to the root, and made it to the swelling. He prodded carefully, wincing every second of the examination. Fingers came out dry—blood was caked.
How long had he been unconscious? He realized what a silly question that was when he remembered time wasn't his concern anymore. Then he remembered that health wasn't his concern either, and dropped the inspection altogether. Instead, he took time he didn't care for to rebuild the nest of trash, which he very much did care for.
Boxes and bottles had skidded and rolled across the room. Geiza collected and arranged them once more, lining them up near the bundle of blankets in a protective semi-circle hugging the wall. He could admit he was dirty, but never untidy.
Captain Toth sat opposite his nest, back pressed against the shut door of the navigation room—once heard one shouldn't go to sleep after head trauma. The ship's framework still echoed tremors from time to time, but intervals grew and utter stillness came back to rule the place after its brief exile. Geiza was the skipper, but this was not his ship. It belonged to the lull of space—had from the moment he'd laid foot inside. Eyes wandered, taking in the insignificant expanse of his miserable borrowed kingdom.
He tallied resources: eight small food containers, four water bottles, three cookie boxes, two blankets; one person. Seven million minus six million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. 1. He'd always been good with numbers, if nothing else.
So, tell me what do you think. All feedback is welcome, ofc, but I'd be specially interested in comments on the pace and the tone I'm giving (or not giving) the piece.
-----
Captain Geiza Toth stood naked before the blinking nav-panel, a slouched wobble in his stance. Unruly hair didn't cover shame much past his shoulders. But Geiza was alone in the small room, so he basked in the flashing red lights for another minute.
He couldn´t remember a time aboard the ship without that cursed glow raking at his face. There was less of it now though. Some of the LEDs had incurred his wrath and had fizzled out some time ago. Since then he'd been saving the rest for special occasions.
And such an occasion had come. He'd found something new to play with and celebration was in order. He contemplated the steely gadget in his hand with half-open eyes. It was solid and T-shaped, a curved lever coming out of its body. He hadn´t the slightest clue as to its purpose, but judging from the weight figured it would do a fine job at bashing LEDs—and there were so many of those pesky red ones, constantly yelling empty dangers... It would certainly be easier than going at them bare-handed, as he'd done in the past.
Sluggish gaze went back and forth between panel and tool. The lights seemed to twinkle a ruby-patterned smirk his way. Had that other sensor just winked at him?
After a short struggle with inert fingers, the gizmo fell out of his hand. The resulting clatter startled him out of his stupor, giving him time to do something about the saliva making its way out his drooping mouth. But nothing was done. Drool kept on its path down his bearded chin, undeterred.
The LEDs laughed at him once more. The captain slurped back some of the fugitive spit and decided he wasn´t in the mood for a bit of casual vandalism after all. He wasn´t in the mood for much of anything and so went back to lying in his own filth. Curling up under the nav-panel, he rested his head on cold metal floor, hands between legs.
Boxes of a material not unlike plastic made up most of the nest that surrounded him. Other construction materials included left-over scraps not unlike edible food, a few bottles nearly empty of something not unlike water, and dirty blankets not unlike cotton. Not unlike, but not quite the same.
Half a biscuit (but not quite a biscuit) lay near his head. He craned his neck and scooped it up with parched lips. His own breath assaulted him—acid and thick. The bottles were right in front of his face, but he made no attempt to reach them. Pseudo-water couldn´t wash that down.
The biscuit rolled around in his mouth, soggy and unchewed. A small vibration tickled his ear and he repositioned himself. So many new things today: first, the tool thingamajig; now this pleasant tingle. A pity things never stay pleasant for long.
The floor bobbed up and down. Geiza thought that was odd, what with being in the frictionless void of space and all. At one point in time he might've said something about shock absorbers and stabilizing frameworks. Today was not that point. He managed an underachieving "huh" instead.
Another quiver down the back of the neck. Then the hairs in his nose, tickling furiously. His whole body was humming despite himself. The floor shook. His head banged against it, then once more when he sat up, against the underside of the nav-panel. The biscuit lodged in his throat.
It took Geiza a single denied breath to make him move. He clawed at the floor in a darting crawl toward the pilot chair, stirring muscles unused for months. The ship convulsed and knocked him sideways. The veins in his temples thickened and stretched skin, nudging his eyes out. He pawed at the chair's back, feeling the edges as he rose to his knees. His eyes weren't being a cooperative pair. Murk poured from their corners.
Fist dug into abdomen, he threw himself against the chair's headrest, trying his best to come down on his belly; hitting chest instead. He stood taller for another attempt. His forehead hit the overhead panel with a loud thud and he staggered back, but wasn't dissuaded . Geiza's mane lashed wildly about as he threw himself again. Thud. And again. Thud. And again. Thud.
The murderous biscuit splotched on a screen and Geiza went to his knees. Warmth cascaded down his face. He swiped instinctively at his eyes. Blood.
He hit the ground before his hands assessed damage. Thud. Yet another knock on the head. That was the seventh, by his count. He'd always been good with numbers.
Someone tugged at his hair; flicked his forehead. Intense heat licked right under his greasy hairline. Someone tugged once more.
Someone... Someone! The urgency of that reality took a regained breath to reach Geiza. Eyes shot open. Still lying supine, he twisted his neck to look. Loosened brain smashed against skull in all conceivable angles. He let out a constricted whine. When the sparkling pain gave way to clear sight, he sat up. Bile flooded his mouth. He spit it out and lay down again.
Geiza's voice dripped down the corners of his mouth. Small drops. Barely any ripples in the air. "Anyone there?"
That wasn't his voice, was it? He tried again, louder, creaking like stressed wood about to split.
"Please. Anyone?" The question this time around had more to do with hearing his own voice than to probe for company. He waited. It had a familiar ring to it, the voice. Also the silence.
He sat up and steadied himself with palms pressed firmly on the floor. Bending waist, neck rigid, he looked around once more to stomp on the remaining curiosity, already dwindled to the status of a pesky mental flea. He saw nothing for his troubles. Splat.
The captain's fingers missed his forehead and poked his nose, where they lingered, momentarily distracted. He tried again and waved air by his ear. Third time his index finger caught a long strand of hair, followed it to the root, and made it to the swelling. He prodded carefully, wincing every second of the examination. Fingers came out dry—blood was caked.
How long had he been unconscious? He realized what a silly question that was when he remembered time wasn't his concern anymore. Then he remembered that health wasn't his concern either, and dropped the inspection altogether. Instead, he took time he didn't care for to rebuild the nest of trash, which he very much did care for.
Boxes and bottles had skidded and rolled across the room. Geiza collected and arranged them once more, lining them up near the bundle of blankets in a protective semi-circle hugging the wall. He could admit he was dirty, but never untidy.
Captain Toth sat opposite his nest, back pressed against the shut door of the navigation room—once heard one shouldn't go to sleep after head trauma. The ship's framework still echoed tremors from time to time, but intervals grew and utter stillness came back to rule the place after its brief exile. Geiza was the skipper, but this was not his ship. It belonged to the lull of space—had from the moment he'd laid foot inside. Eyes wandered, taking in the insignificant expanse of his miserable borrowed kingdom.
He tallied resources: eight small food containers, four water bottles, three cookie boxes, two blankets; one person. Seven million minus six million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. 1. He'd always been good with numbers, if nothing else.
. I don't get why it's so awful. It depicts in vivid image and in only two words what the guy looks like at the moment. He's slouched and wobbling, and I don't think there's any ambiguity there, as a "wobble" can't "slouch". If others agree it is indeed "yikes", I'll consider changing it, but for now, I'm on the fence on this one.
