If you were to read the following, would you be interested in paying $0.10 to read a much longer chapter 2? This is not an advertisement, I'm just wondering (there is no way to get chapter 2)... Any other comments very welcome.
17th Generation.
Chapter 1
William Stewart sat. He knew he would be warm standing, moving, forcing blood to circulate. The cheap cup of coffee hed purchased was doing a fantastic job of warming his hands as he caressed its smooth sides. He was unsure though whether the welcome heat it granted in abundance made up for the exclamation it made of how increasingly cold the rest of him was. He risked taking a sip of the dark liquid, knowing and proven correct that it would sear his tongue. It did not warm his mouth, merely numb it to any feeling; cold or other. As he watched his breath spiral out like heavy smoke, he let his mind wander.
William watched an either overly fat or overly pregnant woman pulling her child along behind her like an unwanted accessory. She was wearing a bright green tight fitting top from another age and leggings, stark protection from the bitter rasping wind that was enveloping them all. Somehow her sheer determination was blocking the temperature; she simply did not have the time to feel cold. William noticed she did not just drag the sandy haired boy. Rather, holding him by the wrist, each time the strain was felt by her indicating his lagging, her arm would taut and a jolt would run through his body, catapulting him along side her. The motion repeated numerous times as they passed him.
He let his mind wander into theirs, drifting into their reasons, their motivations and needs. He often did this, waiting for no particular reason, for nothing in particular. Creating stories and lives for people that entered into his field of vision, like ships drifting in and out of a patch of turbulent water. Somehow he knew though, that these lives he dreamt of, found like a lost memory sought after, that they fit precisely. As he watched now, invading and creating, conjuring the couples existence he formed the picture. The pregnant mother was late for something, or rather was going to be late for something, the bus she needed to catch was leaving, its destination her hope. Some sole individual that would accept her and her children, a rare entity that she just could not be late for, even with the child deliberately slowly her. The child in turn had been set a riddle, a puzzle to occupy his time and keep him quiet by the very same individual, where are the baby pigeons?. All he needed was a little time to study the roof tops dotted with his quarry, to let his eye seek out the nests, if his mother would just let him stop a moment. Their lives, their pre-occupations, worlds apart and un-touching, both colliding to make such a simple dynamic that William watched as they passed.
Next into his waters entered another couple from different directions and polar extreme: one a suited businessman, the woman a rejected flower child. Both were as false as one another: that he could tell immediately, both almost with their foreheads to the ground, laden with the props of their personas. William drifted, invading and sensing, creating and painting. The business man, with a crisp, perfectly fitted suit exuding power and position, in one hand a briefcase containing nothing but paper and a pen. His other hand wedged a mobile phone onto the side of his face, contorting his mouth too widely, accompanied with gestures his whole body followed. He was talking to a colleague, attempting to elongate the conversation, trying to hit upon new threads of converse that would entice the listener to stay with him, to make the connection and keep it.
He continued walking, seeing the woman in the corner of his eye, knowing that their paths were currently destined to meet. In a few moments of recognition he turned his head slightly, making certain that any observer (especially the approaching female) would know he was too busy to notice that he was walking directly toward her. He was having too important a conversation, and was going to a meeting too critical to notice everyday people in his way.
The lady in turn wore clothes of various colours, though no one colour could be picked out. Her dress almost reached the pinnacle of green only to be waylaid by the assault of a dark shade of purple. Her shoes appeared not even shoes, merely a wrapping of sorts around her feet lest they in some way appear to be of fashion or symbolic. They were purely functional. Finishing off her props was heavily populated body armour of trinkets, rings, bracelets and necklaces. All made from the same almost colours as her clothes, the only true shade achieved being black. The only pieces glinting were the bracelets on one arm, a bronze like metallic making sure it was neither to stray into gold or silver tones.
She also continued in her intercepting path, letting her eyes haze over with dreaminess, letting them stroll around anywhere except directly in front of her. She knew the man would not deviate from his path, but when he didnt she would martyr herself in a small way, a tiny sigh escaping from within, reassuring her of the falseness and crassness of the world.
Before the couple met, Williams attention and anticipation was distracted by a new group entering. A bald man striding swiftly flanked either side by two women; the trio followed by a group of five children of varying ages. William knew at once the picture was not right in some way, too unusual the mix of populace. He felt a rash of goose bumps run down his arms and legs, sensing something his mind had not yet registered. The next second a sudden explosion of adrenaline cascaded through his blood stream, time slowing instantly, his field of vision thinning. He felt the next heart beat as if it were a bass drum, its pump slowed and intensified and to his surprise a second wave of adrenaline reinforcing the firsts presence in his system. His vision had become a small telescope, he no longer saw anything but a small patch of the world. His mind no longer knowing what it was looking at nor caring where or who he was. Natural instincts bellowed at him to shut his eyes and turn away, clear his thoughts and escape. Choose flight from this unknown rather than fighting this new experience. As he resisted the calls to obey the wish and escape, the group stopped moving, mid stride. As one, their heads turned and looked upon him.
William Stewarts head slumped forward, no longer supported by his conscious mind, no longer in control of anything but the embrace of the void: his body receiving no commands, the un-conscious brain now silent. A small pool of blood formed on the table in front of him, a trickle of crimson escaping both nostrils. Joined then by a steaming patch of liquid, at its centre, a white polystyrene cup turning slightly on an axis goaded gently by the wind. Above it, a limp out stretched arm, still swinging slightly.
