Post by quilleh on Jan 27, 2005 15:54:27 GMT -8
Okay; here's what in the works, COMMENTS ARE /MOST/ APPRECIATED:
It was an ill-omened autumn day, with overcast skies and heavy rain drenching the line of sluggish traffic in London. Lavishly clad businessmen hurried against the blustery winds, coats wound tightly around their middles as they hailed canary yellow taxicabs, and disappeared behind their doors.
Among these was a man of no particular consequence, hastening furtively through the glassy entrance of The Jefferson Mansions. The lobby smelt of antiseptic cleaners and cigar smoke, causing anyone who breathed the fumes to feel rigorously light-headed. Davis George made his way to the lift, eagerly clicking the ‘up’ button. The monotonous silver doors slid jauntily open, revealing a small, badly carpeted elevator playing the popular show tune, “Over There”.
Davis shook his head as he pressed button number six. Juddering away the last aromas of the malodorous foyer the lift began to rise, shuttering violently as it surpassed each floor. This gave Davis the dreaded feeling that the small rickety box might plummet some 100 feet down at any moment.
“Ding!” The shabby lift let out one quavering, yet contented note, alerting Davis that he had arrived at his floor, and his operation was successful without injury.
“G’evening Davis.” A proverbial female voice said merrily as he moved out of the elevator, and onto the sixth floor’s carpeted corridor. This young lady was Davis George’s adjoining occupant of the Jefferson. She was a petite brunette, and Davis assumed her to be of about twenty-five. Nary paying her mind, aside from the tip of his cap, Mr. George continued to his room, number six hundred and fifteen.
These days Davis George was a man of his occupation, and scarcely paid his neighbours the time of day, aside from the occasional tip up of his boater. The black top hat would then return to its quarters above his dark eyebrows, precisely covering Davis’ searching optics from other prying eyes.
His sinister gaze met the brass number of room six-fifteen; he then retrieved his key from the lining of his knee-length coat before clumsily jostling it into the keyhole, and nudging the door open with his shoulder.
Davis’ room was standard, with a single settee and bedside table- a small clock radio set atop it, and beside that, a thick manila envelope. A narrow writing desk sat adjacent to the window, with a feeble view of the street below.
Davis set his lone leather briefcase at the base of the bed before the curiosity of his next obligation took hold of him. He snatched up the bare envelope from beside the radio and dropped onto the bed. The mattress was rigid, and Davis knew he wouldn’t be comfortable that night.
Turning the quadrangle over in his hands, he ran his spindly fingers over a crimson wax seal. The seal was adorned in a coat of arms; with each a cannon and a dove on either side, and below that, an inscription of letters.
Davis took in a deep breath of oxygen, before running his forefinger through the seal of the envelope. A single leaf of sallow parchment fluttered to the floor, and Davis tossed the un-addressed envelope aside, quickly seizing the letter from the floor, as though an inexplicable hand might pinch it up from between his feet.
The letter was untidily scrawled in black ink, and what appeared to be the German tongue. In translation, it read..........
It was an ill-omened autumn day, with overcast skies and heavy rain drenching the line of sluggish traffic in London. Lavishly clad businessmen hurried against the blustery winds, coats wound tightly around their middles as they hailed canary yellow taxicabs, and disappeared behind their doors.
Among these was a man of no particular consequence, hastening furtively through the glassy entrance of The Jefferson Mansions. The lobby smelt of antiseptic cleaners and cigar smoke, causing anyone who breathed the fumes to feel rigorously light-headed. Davis George made his way to the lift, eagerly clicking the ‘up’ button. The monotonous silver doors slid jauntily open, revealing a small, badly carpeted elevator playing the popular show tune, “Over There”.
Davis shook his head as he pressed button number six. Juddering away the last aromas of the malodorous foyer the lift began to rise, shuttering violently as it surpassed each floor. This gave Davis the dreaded feeling that the small rickety box might plummet some 100 feet down at any moment.
“Ding!” The shabby lift let out one quavering, yet contented note, alerting Davis that he had arrived at his floor, and his operation was successful without injury.
“G’evening Davis.” A proverbial female voice said merrily as he moved out of the elevator, and onto the sixth floor’s carpeted corridor. This young lady was Davis George’s adjoining occupant of the Jefferson. She was a petite brunette, and Davis assumed her to be of about twenty-five. Nary paying her mind, aside from the tip of his cap, Mr. George continued to his room, number six hundred and fifteen.
These days Davis George was a man of his occupation, and scarcely paid his neighbours the time of day, aside from the occasional tip up of his boater. The black top hat would then return to its quarters above his dark eyebrows, precisely covering Davis’ searching optics from other prying eyes.
His sinister gaze met the brass number of room six-fifteen; he then retrieved his key from the lining of his knee-length coat before clumsily jostling it into the keyhole, and nudging the door open with his shoulder.
Davis’ room was standard, with a single settee and bedside table- a small clock radio set atop it, and beside that, a thick manila envelope. A narrow writing desk sat adjacent to the window, with a feeble view of the street below.
Davis set his lone leather briefcase at the base of the bed before the curiosity of his next obligation took hold of him. He snatched up the bare envelope from beside the radio and dropped onto the bed. The mattress was rigid, and Davis knew he wouldn’t be comfortable that night.
Turning the quadrangle over in his hands, he ran his spindly fingers over a crimson wax seal. The seal was adorned in a coat of arms; with each a cannon and a dove on either side, and below that, an inscription of letters.
Davis took in a deep breath of oxygen, before running his forefinger through the seal of the envelope. A single leaf of sallow parchment fluttered to the floor, and Davis tossed the un-addressed envelope aside, quickly seizing the letter from the floor, as though an inexplicable hand might pinch it up from between his feet.
The letter was untidily scrawled in black ink, and what appeared to be the German tongue. In translation, it read..........