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I would very much like some feedback on the following short work of fiction:
THE HUMILIATION OF NIGEL
A short story by Andrew Calo
CHAPTER 1
It was a miserable rainy day and Nigel was in no kind of mood for it. Piss fell from the skies and slid through his green sweater and down his arms and into his crack. He was disappointed, to say the least.
He couldn’t see the point of the rain. He appreciated its uncertainty, he understood its necessity, but all the same he didn’t see the point. It was just a big pain. He pulled his anorak hood tightly around his face and tried to wish the rain away.
Antonio didn’t feel the same. He liked the wet. It made him feel snug. He had his reasons. Being brought up on the commune had conditioned him against those feelings that would be perfectly natural to many others. He’d taught himself to treat the rain as a friend. Back in his childhood when he didn’t have a proper roof over his head, and when the wet would leak through the ceiling and dribble on him as he tried to get some shut-eye, it was vital to ignore it. Otherwise you’d never get to sleep.
Rain was, by default, and through no fault of Antinos own, his friend.
Through his slinky Combat-style binoculars Antonio witnessed Nigel entering his house. ‘Good’ Antonio thought. ‘Now I know where he lives’.
That night Antonio found himself topless and sitting by a wooden desk in a dimly lit room. The only illumination emanated from a small lamplight that hung from a piece of metal attached to the ceiling. Its direction was just as Antonio had intended, not bang-on the fifteen-inch solid plastic dildo he held in his hands, but close enough that he could see clearly the spots where his lighter was melting it soft.
Every time Antonio was certain that the spots had become pliable enough, he quickly dropped his lighter and picked up one of the thin razor blades. He carefully buried the sharp shards, not quite at ninety-degree angles, into the spots, causing only the most slight of ripples in the plastic either side. By the time he had finished, he had a fifteen-inch dildo in his grip with ten razor blades embedded all about it, each towering a mere tenth of an inch above the perfect shape. It looked almost harmless.
He put it back into its strap.
Antonio turned off the light.
In his garage, Antonio inspected the shackles on the wall. The concrete had set very nicely since its application the night before. The chains and handcuffs held firm, and Antonio was happy with the distance between the holdings. They would hold just fine, he figured.
Nigel was on his way home from the pub, alone. He’d had a really good night all in all and he was happy. The rain drenched coat he had on wasn’t even bothering him, and even though he knew it was the booze and the smoke floating about in his blood, he was none-the-less as happy as he would allow himself to be.
‘Mid-life crisis my arse’, he thought, ‘miserable, struggling, pretentious, artistic wanker my crotch’ he laughed out loud. ‘Oh glorious, glorious life’. Then a piece of fabric was pushed firmly underneath his nose and all went black.
As black as sleep.
He woke, bent slightly over a large wooden block. The first thing he noticed was the taste of dried blood, and the formidable deafening blackness around him.
Then the cold hit him, because he was naked. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself, but alas he couldn’t, as his hands and feet were held firm, each about five feet apart and contained within cold, merciless metal grips.
Then he heard the laughter, and he felt the wet burning sensation as his cheeks parted.
Were there any spelling mistakes that you could see? |
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