A wee bit from chapter 1

Out of the kindness of my cold black heart (?) I’m going to share a wee bit of the first chapter of the novel that I’m working on. This is just the first draft and I’m pretty happy with the way things are going. I’m still not sure what the overall story is about, but I’m certain that it’ll all become clear as I go.

I’m really happy with what I’m writing for the first time in years. This exerpt isn’t much but I hope you like it. If you do then it’ll encourage me to post a bit more from the later chapters.

Oh, and if any criticism could be constructive that would be just peachy.

Ch 1 – a wee bit of

There is a slight shift in the cold breeze causing the old man to shiver. He holds his coat closer to his body and smiles. He knows that he is definitely too old for these early morning strolls.

He thinks that a walk will hold back the cold, so he walks the short distance to the bandstand. Within it he sees a young man lying, asleep and snoring gently. The old man slowly walks around the bandstand clockwise, never taking his eyes off the young man.

It is plain to see that the young man is not dressed for the cold weather. He wears sneakers, baggy jeans, which the old man can only assume is the current fashion, and a t-shirt several sizes too big with some band logo scrawled across it. Perhaps the kind of band which would never have played the bandstand in its glory days, thought the old man, a wry smile playing over his cold lips.

As the old man completes his second circuit of the bandstand he thought that it was about time that the young man was awake. He stands on the first wooden step, leaning towards the young man.

“Excuse me,” calls the old man. The other man does not respond. The old man looks around the park. The mist is beginning to lift. He doesn’t have as much time as he thought.

The old man walks back to the bench and retrieves the newspaper. He carefully rolls it up, returns to the bandstand and throws the newspaper in the general direction of the young man.

The old man is rewarded with a moan as the newspaper bounces off his young friend’s head.

“Excuse me,” repeats the old man, “I think it’s for the best that you get up now.”

Still struggling with sleep the young man manages to unfurl himself from the tight ball he was in and sits upright, steadily blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Are you okay?” asks the old man. The young man looks around, sleepy and confused. “This is only to be expected. Hold on a moment, son.” The old man begins to fish about his pockets and, after a while, produces a silver thermos flask from too small a pocket.

The young man mumbles something which could have sounded like “how did you do that?” if he were not still half asleep.

“Don’t try to talk just now. We will have to get you awake. Now, how do you feel about a nice hot cup of black coffee?”

The young man just shakes his head.

“How about some hot chocolate?” Another shake of the head. The mist is getting thinner.

“Chicken soup?” Nod. “Chicken soup it is then.” The old man removes the small plastic cup, taps the top of the cap twice, unscrews the lid and gently pours thick, hot chicken soup into the cup. He places the cup on the top stair and waits.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come and get it yourself,” says the old man. “I’m not allowed on the bandstand anymore.” Reluctantly the young man crawls to the edge of the bandstand and takes the cup from the stair with shaking hands.

BigAl