Three a.m.

Someday I'll actually post valuable things. I promise.

Ancient Writings

I wrote this snippet as part of the beginning of one of the 134353 novels I tried to write. The plot is complicated, the characters are dumb, and the writing only gets worse, but I like this first part pretty well.
Also I really liked the font I wrote it in. So here it is. I had titled this little gem "Caroline."

Caroline sat in the darkened church and breathed, glad to be alive.  The barest light came from two candles which marked the foot of the altar.  The pew felt hard and lifeless beneath her thin dress, and the frigid wind found its way into every nick and crack and dent in the old building.  Caroline prayed that the candles would hold on to their flame as hard as she had tried to hold on to hers.  In her mind she bargained with the candles; she promised to keep the hope burning if only she could be spared from darkness.

  He was gone, that much was certain.  But Caroline couldn’t help but think perhaps there was something left in this world for her.  Heaven knows what it could be or how she would find it; at that moment Caroline was unsure of everything, including the origins of her next meal.  She had not thought she would be back where she started so soon after escaping.  She turned over, wishing for her pillow and a bit of whiskey, which always put her right to sleep.  Sleep, however, was elusive, and on the screen of her mind the scenes of the previous day played themselves over and over again with mind-numbing monotony.

“Phillip? Where are you?” Caroline touched the side of the hotel bed tenderly, her eyes groggy and her smile genuine.  She rolled over casually and listened for the shower.  No water running.  He was probably getting breakfast. Caroline hoped he wouldn’t splurge because he wanted to do something nice; the small amount of current money they had wouldn’t stretch far enough to include luxuries.  She sat up and looked around.  Tiny dust motes swirled in the frosty morning light.  Her eyes followed them around the room where she noted that none of Phillip’s clothing was strewn where it had so carelessly been flung the night before.  So he was gone to get breakfast.  The little monster hadn’t bothered to wake her up, even though he knew she would’ve liked to see the sights, especially in the light of morning. She pouted for a moment then sighed, picked up a towel from beside the bed and headed for the shower.  It was gloriously wet and hot and full of water.  Caroline thought her friends would die if they could see her taking a real shower with real water.

As she dressed the thoughts in her head swirled like cake batter under her mother’s old-fashioned electric beater, the memory of which made Caroline’s stomach grumble loudly. Phillip’s absence was not helping her mound of worries or her empty stomach; Caroline could feel an annoyance within her mounting, an annoyance she knew would grow to a flame of temper if given fuel, so she attempted to distract herself with the contemporary literature. 

Most of the magazines strewn artistically on the ornate coffee table were things Caroline had only seen pictures of; they were heavy and thick-looking, but each page was actually very thin, made of a colorful material that she thought might be called ‘paper’.  She made a note to ask Phillip when he returned.  With wonder, Caroline gazed at the images that displayed this century’s version of luxury.  She was sure now why no one liked to talk about these publications or any of the subject matter within them.  It was disgusting how much water was depicted being poured over some model’s prone body, or used to clean someone’s dishes, or flush a new-and-improved super absorbent tampon.  Suddenly Caroline was remorseful of the shower she’d just participated in.  She wished she could somehow put all that water back in the gadget it came out of. 

The contraption that Phillip had called a ‘telephone’ seemed as if it was looking at her with black and white plastic eyes and a soulless grin.  Caroline picked up the receiver, and tried to remember which buttons Phillip had used to talk to the concierge. There was no screen, and no labels on the buttons except each had a number.  ‘Eighth grade history. Think Caroline. How did they use the numbered buttons? This is ridiculous.  I can’t believe I’m this helpless.’ Where in the world is Phillip? He should be back by now. I should be at home right now.’