Copyright: Maria Wellman 2014

All rights reserved 

ISBN: 9781096358473

A tall, disagreeable sort of man towered over the table nestled parallel to the back of the couch. In one hand, he held the base of a phone, and in the other, the receiver. It was easy to tell by just looking at him that he had been very skinny and lanky decades ago. The years had since taken their toll. His hair had a similar worn disheveled air and was a bit coarse with out-of-place feathered ends. The color ranged from a medium gray to a light mousy brown. It was in the process of drastically straying from the latter. He was physically large and intrusive, but none of those qualities turned heads.

His voice was what attracted those who first approached him. It was loud and booming. It was the sort of voice you could hear clearly at a party from across the hall. Though the sound levels were not, it's only draw. The obnoxious bass was framed with a very worn in British accent that was very prominent. Each word he spoke into the phone, no matter how small, had power. He forged each word without thinking, a slurring of instinct and inhibition. He stood impatiently, listening to the voice on the other end.

His restlessness was shown in the haphazard and random way he jostled the phone base. 

The windows in front of him would have been letting in a beautiful bright, welcoming gesture, symbolizing the entrance into the afternoon, but he kept the thick drapes unmoved, sealing in the dark, dank colors that seemed to be decades old.   The room itself was a decent size, and the walls were covered in thick, decadent paper. Its style gestured to its age, not its condition. In fact, the only flaws seemed to cluster near the door frame. 

The walls were the only garish component in the house; every other constructed feature was subtle. The hardware was a demure silver. Not real silver, but realistic looking. This encompassed everything from the lamp base to the desk drawer handles.

The table rested its back against the back of the couch. The two very obviously fought for the center of the room. The sofa, always the clear winner, was draped in a stiff fabric made of a leafy pattern that danced across it mechanically. The only out-of-place feature was the man himself. He very obviously broke the aesthetic.

His brow furrowed, a subtle reaction to the news he was receiving. He was very obviously trying to hold back his ire—an easily tempted demon. "I don't care. Fix…" His demanding and somewhat terrifying words were swiftly started and finished. "Fine." He said begrudgingly as he accepted the news. With one swift motion, he slammed the receiver onto the base held in his left hand, then threw it against the wall. -Chapter one, page one.