Post by raindear on Jan 11, 2008 16:18:56 GMT -5
I began a short story project some time ago and at first it came together really easily but then it fizzled out. I cannot decide where to take the story or whether it is even worth continuing. Any thoughts?
The project was originally inspired by a line from Francis Thompson's Hound of Heaven:
"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."
I want to express the idea that nothing makes us happy outside of the proper context - that God is the source of all happiness and that every good thing can only be found and truly enjoyed by those who accept His love.
Somehow, my cynicism about corporate America crept in. I am not sure whether that helps the story or not.
I cannot figure out to to add an attachment, so here is some of the text:
The winter sun cast dull, heavy rays upon an open field fronting a well-kept, unassuming cottage. A morning hush cloaked the landscape, broken only by the soft call of a morning dove and the frequent rush of icy New England air. With summary indifference, this sharp wind carried a middle-aged man out of the house and onto the narrow path into town, swinging the door closed behind him with a resolute bang. Even the house wants me to leave, he grumbled under his breath. With a shudder, he set his face toward the distant cluster of houses and walked briskly away. Well, he thought, it’s an ill wind that blows no good. Hopefully, ill winds were rare. Hopefully, this was a fair wind which would clear the rancid scent of mildew and stale tobacco from his woolen jacket, or better yet, carry away unpleasant memories, for he had plenty of those.
This was not the first abrupt departure he’d made. In fact, there was a familiarity about it, about this breaking apart, this restlessness and uprooting. But it was not a comfortable familiarity, as that awakened by the face of one’s mailman or a worn volume, favored in childhood. No, it was merely a return to the endless, dreary cycle of shifting and searching. He was acquainted with it as one is acquainted with a recurring illness or a bad dream and its familiarity merely augmented his malcontent.
He was leaving behind a comfortable position as groundskeeper for a retired couple, spending their last years in the country. A curious pair they were, naïve and canny all at the same time. But they had not sent him away. At least, they had not told him to leave, which is quite a different thing. Several months he worked there, clipping hedges and tending the vegetable garden or flower beds, responsible for general maintenance of the buildings and property. It was not a demanding job; that is to say, it was not demanding on account of the work. They never critiqued his efforts or asked probing questions, yet he sometimes fancied a gleam of keen penetration behind the kindness of the old man or the affability of his bustling wife that was…unnerving. When he sauntered back from town after a few hours of fun with his set, he faced the reproachful glow of cheerful innocence emanating from their living room window. For they often sat there of an evening, childishly content with backgammon or books. It would take more than that to satisfy him! Other places prized ambition like his. The Harringtons certainly noticed his restless energy, but he felt it aroused their pity rather than their respect. He scoffed at their simple pleasures, but they chafed him daily.
He’d had enough of that. Early this morning, before dawn, he arose and quietly gathered his things into a worn, green valise. Now he was fast approaching the clamor and anonymity of town. That was what he wanted, to come and go as he pleased, without observation, among people minding their own affairs and impervious to his.
Reaching a busy intersection, he withdrew from his thoughts long enough to observe the reeling press of cars and people gathered there. Amid a crowd of slouching Ipod-bedecked youths alongside crisp professionals chattering at their phones, he discovered the bus stop. He found an empty bench and perched there to wait. The bus would take him to the city, to Bright Street and the offices of Sovereign Finances, where he might find a real job working for more conventional employers. He had learned of this golden opportunity a few months past from a town buddy who worked closely with one of their expert financial advisers and who gave the entire firm a glowing recommendation as he tilted back his third glass of Scotch.
..........................................
Six months later, the quaint and queer reality of his previous job faded before the glow of a flat screen computer and the hum of phones and printers. The application process had been more trying than he expected. Although the aforementioned friend promised to make his path smooth with phone calls and letters of recommendation, the impassive regard of the Human Resources Department soon belied the influence of those timely darts. Nonetheless, after weeks of interviewing with various departments, he finally penetrated into the professional inner sanctum, securing a meeting with the Director of Profit Management and the Vice President of Corporate Development. At the time, he viewed this final interview as a great success, for they offered him a job marketing their services to important prospects, conducting vital surveys and compiling invaluable statistics! True, it was an entry-level position, but, as they assured him, countless opportunities awaited those with this experience and satisfactory job performance ratings.
Now he sat surveying a list of phone numbers on his desk, making calls with weary discipline and increasing cynicism about the golden opportunities of Sovereign Finances’ employees. As it would turn out, job performance was only evaluated once a year and - because the data took a long time to collect and summarize - it was only analyzed for promotions once every five years. In the meantime, he missed the original glow of importance attached to his duties, increasingly elusive since he finished training and settled into this office, in the lower regions of the building, far removed from the emphatic enthusiasm of the Director of Profit Management and the Vice President of Corporate Development.
The project was originally inspired by a line from Francis Thompson's Hound of Heaven:
"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."
I want to express the idea that nothing makes us happy outside of the proper context - that God is the source of all happiness and that every good thing can only be found and truly enjoyed by those who accept His love.
Somehow, my cynicism about corporate America crept in. I am not sure whether that helps the story or not.
I cannot figure out to to add an attachment, so here is some of the text:
The winter sun cast dull, heavy rays upon an open field fronting a well-kept, unassuming cottage. A morning hush cloaked the landscape, broken only by the soft call of a morning dove and the frequent rush of icy New England air. With summary indifference, this sharp wind carried a middle-aged man out of the house and onto the narrow path into town, swinging the door closed behind him with a resolute bang. Even the house wants me to leave, he grumbled under his breath. With a shudder, he set his face toward the distant cluster of houses and walked briskly away. Well, he thought, it’s an ill wind that blows no good. Hopefully, ill winds were rare. Hopefully, this was a fair wind which would clear the rancid scent of mildew and stale tobacco from his woolen jacket, or better yet, carry away unpleasant memories, for he had plenty of those.
This was not the first abrupt departure he’d made. In fact, there was a familiarity about it, about this breaking apart, this restlessness and uprooting. But it was not a comfortable familiarity, as that awakened by the face of one’s mailman or a worn volume, favored in childhood. No, it was merely a return to the endless, dreary cycle of shifting and searching. He was acquainted with it as one is acquainted with a recurring illness or a bad dream and its familiarity merely augmented his malcontent.
He was leaving behind a comfortable position as groundskeeper for a retired couple, spending their last years in the country. A curious pair they were, naïve and canny all at the same time. But they had not sent him away. At least, they had not told him to leave, which is quite a different thing. Several months he worked there, clipping hedges and tending the vegetable garden or flower beds, responsible for general maintenance of the buildings and property. It was not a demanding job; that is to say, it was not demanding on account of the work. They never critiqued his efforts or asked probing questions, yet he sometimes fancied a gleam of keen penetration behind the kindness of the old man or the affability of his bustling wife that was…unnerving. When he sauntered back from town after a few hours of fun with his set, he faced the reproachful glow of cheerful innocence emanating from their living room window. For they often sat there of an evening, childishly content with backgammon or books. It would take more than that to satisfy him! Other places prized ambition like his. The Harringtons certainly noticed his restless energy, but he felt it aroused their pity rather than their respect. He scoffed at their simple pleasures, but they chafed him daily.
He’d had enough of that. Early this morning, before dawn, he arose and quietly gathered his things into a worn, green valise. Now he was fast approaching the clamor and anonymity of town. That was what he wanted, to come and go as he pleased, without observation, among people minding their own affairs and impervious to his.
Reaching a busy intersection, he withdrew from his thoughts long enough to observe the reeling press of cars and people gathered there. Amid a crowd of slouching Ipod-bedecked youths alongside crisp professionals chattering at their phones, he discovered the bus stop. He found an empty bench and perched there to wait. The bus would take him to the city, to Bright Street and the offices of Sovereign Finances, where he might find a real job working for more conventional employers. He had learned of this golden opportunity a few months past from a town buddy who worked closely with one of their expert financial advisers and who gave the entire firm a glowing recommendation as he tilted back his third glass of Scotch.
..........................................
Six months later, the quaint and queer reality of his previous job faded before the glow of a flat screen computer and the hum of phones and printers. The application process had been more trying than he expected. Although the aforementioned friend promised to make his path smooth with phone calls and letters of recommendation, the impassive regard of the Human Resources Department soon belied the influence of those timely darts. Nonetheless, after weeks of interviewing with various departments, he finally penetrated into the professional inner sanctum, securing a meeting with the Director of Profit Management and the Vice President of Corporate Development. At the time, he viewed this final interview as a great success, for they offered him a job marketing their services to important prospects, conducting vital surveys and compiling invaluable statistics! True, it was an entry-level position, but, as they assured him, countless opportunities awaited those with this experience and satisfactory job performance ratings.
Now he sat surveying a list of phone numbers on his desk, making calls with weary discipline and increasing cynicism about the golden opportunities of Sovereign Finances’ employees. As it would turn out, job performance was only evaluated once a year and - because the data took a long time to collect and summarize - it was only analyzed for promotions once every five years. In the meantime, he missed the original glow of importance attached to his duties, increasingly elusive since he finished training and settled into this office, in the lower regions of the building, far removed from the emphatic enthusiasm of the Director of Profit Management and the Vice President of Corporate Development.