Grey World (unfinished, working title)

The grey man walked alongside the grey building with grey fences. The intimidating Spire looked as if it was reaching to grab Heaven and thrust it into the fallow ground. It was impossible to see it’s top with the ominous (grey) clouds hovering above, giving the grey man the impression that whatever was up there was forbidden to him. The Spire had no windows, only a rusted steel door, whose greyness was almost gone.

This disturbed the grey man.

The grey man’s hair was startlingly white for a man not yet thirty. His desolate grey eyes hopelessly scanned the impossible tower, realizing the futuility of his mission. Although he was very tall, he had inadequate weight to back it up. He might have been seen as attractive in some circles, if it wasn’t for his constant awkward slouch which shouted out, “Wipe your feet here, if that’s okay with you.” But for once he was resolute: he would try to complete his task, even though he knew it was not possible to complete.

He opened the door. The screeching noise irritated the grey man greatly; he grinded his yellowing teeth until the comforting silence resumed.

The receptionist’s desk was pure iron. It had pictures of the husband and children she once saw every day, until she got a permanent position here and was forced to put them a distant third in her life. There was a computer (out of date by ten years) and miscellaneous office supplies neatly separated into multicoloured compartments.

She was a blonde, generically sexy Barbie doll whom they put up front to prove that The Spire has women. Her face was permanently affixed with what The Spire considered a genial smile; her cheeks were pinned up with sharp steel rods. Her shapely legs were bolted to a steel chair, and they only came off when she needed to visit the Mr. Smith for oratory (and sometimes analtory).

“Good morning Mister Jones!” she ejaculated with a masterful fakeness, “How are you today?”

“Fine. Fine. I need to go up to see Mr. Smith.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Smith is in a meeting now,” she had obviously rehearsed this several times (she said it almost as much as “yes, Mr. Smith” and even “God yes, Mr. Smith!”). She paused for about a minute, expecting Mr. Jones to be satisfied with that answer. Irritated, she spoke, “Maybe I could pencil you in for lunch with him in say… a couple of months. I can’t guarantee anything, however, Mr. Smith is a very busy man.”

Mr Jone’s grey eyes stared down at his shoes. He should say okay. That’s what she wanted him to say, and that should be what he says because that’s the way things should be. If he didn’t, then things would be out of order. But then he remembered his task, and sighed. He nervously pulled out the grey pistol hidden in his suit coat, and pointed it at the receptionist.

“I need to go up to see Mr. Smith.”

I liked that little part about the receptionist.

Of course, I can’t really say much because this is such a short snippet. It’s still…eh, pretty nice. I’m sure the whole overbearing of the word grey is used for some symbolic purpose, so I’ll scratch that. Good spelling and grammar. Hope it goes somewhere; good luck.

I finished the story, but regrettebly the rest is not uh… appropriate… to post here.

hmmm. Not bad, interesting. Try checking with the mods if its borderline enough, and if maybe a (NSFW) in the thread title would help.