Thread: Uh, DOKI DOKI LATE NIGHT DRAFT CONTEST (read or die)

I sure hope that title catches the attention of somebody out there. Anyway, once upon a time i got bored and wrote a brief little "Chapter One", preface, whatever, for some vague book I'll never end up finishing. It's not very good but I'd like to see what people think of it, and how I could improve my writing style.

Critics with no mercy (unless you point out random spelling mistakes, in which case you are a sod). I can live with anything you throw at me. (One thing I do know - I need to work on my descriptive style/content. Needs more quantity there).

Take "Maird" to be a filler name, which sucks liberally. I didn't quite know what I wanted to write at the beginning. I just kind of...went with whatever I felt like.

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There was no hint in the morning sky that this day - June 24th, 2005, would be the most important day in the history of mankind. It would be the point, if scientists were to be there and observe it, that would shatter all logic and ravage all scientific ideals, effectively overturning the table of human knowledge in something that would defy every law ever drawn up and put into place by man, then smashing it into matchwood. Every law of physics, every law of time, everything.

A run down field in London. The wind was blowing gently, making the occasional leaf tumble across the downtrodden, abandoned grass. It would whistle past the equally desolate buildings surrounding it, creating a would be ominous feeling. If anybody had been there to see it.

The field was placed in such a way that it suggested it had been planted, then forgot about by its owner and built around. These buildings were, in turn, forgot about like many in London, making the place desolate for quite a span in any direction. Everything here, like the sky, betrayed no hint that this was an important day. That this very field was to be the stage for the event.

Suddenly, the wind stopped. It was curiously silent. A slight hum, then...

Pop.

An dishellved man tumbled out of nowhere, his arms waving in the air in a desperate attempt to stop himself from landing face down on the floor. As a result of his valiant efforts, he did not land on his face, but rather somersaulted and landed quite abruptly on his behind. He stood up, cursing and rubbing his rear, before composing himself and looking around.

The man was called Maird. He was dressed in a rather unfashionable blue robe, adorned with yellow stars. On his feet, he wore tattered, dark brown shoes that had quite clearly seen better days. He had brown eyes, a rather long, slightly crooked nose, and white hair. To a casual observer - if they were so lucky to of met this man tumbling out of thin air in such a dingy part of London - he would of looked exactly like a wizard. And a nutcase. Given the circumstances, however, with the man tumbling out of nowhere, which was not a common occurence, it was quite likely they would consider themselves to be the nutcase.

But there were no casual observers. There were no people. Just the way it should be.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Maird brushed himself down and began to walk out of the field, choosing quite firmly to go north. Then he decided better of it, and went south instead.