A moment ago, he had not existed.
Rene Descartes sat up and looked around. What had he just been thinking? What had happened to his train of thought?
The room looked odd and he did not remember how he had come to it. It was small and perfectly white, floors, walls ceilings. There was a door, a wooden door with a brass door knob. A line of baseboards ran from the bottom of the door around the circumference of the room, pausing briefly to outline the frame of a window, and lead to a bed that lay along the wall. In the bed was a young girl, a child of about eight, who was obviously ill.
What had he been thinking a moment ago?
The girl, whose name, he knew, was Trudy, looked back at him with unsteady eyes.
What was she thinking?
“Are you going to take more blood?” the girl asked.
“No. I am not a doctor,” he replied. “And I do not believe in bleeding,” he added, since the girl looked worried.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
I'm writing a short story.
What do you think of my opening?
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1 comment:
I like it. There's something about the sentence "There was a door, a wooden door with a brass knob." I especially like. Most people I think would have just written "there was a wooden door with a brass knob". That bit of repetition seems to better capture the way a person's perception works. Or maybe the repetition adds a little poetry to your prose.
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