The Man Made of Glass

This was an exercise from my creative writing class.

The moonlight sends a harsh glare off the window pane and it’s an agonizing few seconds before the man’s eyes are able to adjust to the intense light.  When the glare fades the man sees a face staring back at him.  At first, the face is familiar and pleasant enough.  Pale face, dark eyes, thinish lips.  This is a man he thinks he recognizes.

 But then, with the twisting of the moonbeams, the face begins to warp.

First the lips peel back and stretch over the forehead, fold under the chin.  They kiss passionately at the back of the head leaving nothing but white teeth and throbbing dark flesh exposed.  The man can only watch and his mouth hangs slightly open letting his cold sweat roll in.  He tightens his grip on the brick in his hand.  His knuckles, beaded with sweat, are white as bone.

The flesh suddenly rips at the eyes and the man is horrified to see that those black orbs haven’t moved.  They stare unblinking at him.  “Stop looking at me.”  The man’s voice is a pained whisper.  “Stop looking at me.”  The mutilated face presses against the glass, gnashing its teeth, trying to break free, out, it wants out, taunting, daring the man to stop it.  “Don’t come closer!  Stop looking at me!  Stop looking goddamit!”  He hurls the brick at the window shattering the monstrous face into hundreds of pieces black and sparkling.  A cheery melody rings out into the still night air as the glass falls on the cement.

Panting the man glares through the jagged hole into the darkness of the building.  

“Don’t…look at me….”

 

Tynan is the kind of sleepy town you pass by without noticing.  The low buildings seem to have been erected in the dust without any sort of aesthetic in mind.  Haphazard, half-assed.  Perhaps, somewhere near the beginning, the houses were meant to keep the now rusting grain silos company, but one glance and then those are easily forgotten too. 

Same dull color, same rectangular shape, smothered porch-to-roof in dirt.  It’s these dreary, sun-baked buildings that lead the eye up the only paved street that cuts through town.  The colorless town is a worn envelope slashed open with a rusty knife, the letter left unread. 

But there is something that might hold your attention for a moment: a bright, clean building off the middle of Main Street.

The Tynan Post Office was built right after the old wooden one burned to the ground adding ash to dust.  The reigning postmaster takes great pride in it.  The blood red brick is power-washed once a month, the front steps and the floor are swept religiously.  And every morning before opening and every afternoon before closing, Gloria Haun cleans the large window at the front of the building.  A tedious job, no doubt, but the old woman steps back almost into the street just to grin at the pristine glass.  

This, she says, will set an example. 

Who the example is for is anybody’s guess.

 

When Gloria pulls in front of her post office she lets her hands slide slowly to the bottom of the steering wheel.  She stares at what is left of the window glittering with the sunlight on the ground like jewels.  The shards throw a playful pattern of light on the clean brick.  Gloria shakes her head and turns off the ignition with a jerk.  “Not again.”

 

It’s light out which makes the walk to the post office much easier.  Now the man can see where he’s going without tripping over caliche rocks, no danger of scuffing his shoes on buried pieces of metal.  As he passes houses, the man admires how dirty and opaque the windows are with grime.  Indifferent, unresponsive.  Just like they should be because it’s safer that way, after all.

The flag hanging limply against the bluing sky comes into view before the post office peeks shyly out from behind an abandoned garage.  The little brick building inches closer and his strides slow to a shuffle.  By the time he reaches the front steps of the post office the man is dragging his feet through the dirt.  Tiny hills of dust on either side of his shoes trail behind him.   

He stops and inhales deeply before stepping into the doorway.  Inside the postmaster is sweeping the floor. Chinks of glass stuck in the tattered straw make the broom twinkle with the morning light.

“Good morning,” Gloria says gruffly.

“Hello….”  The tinkling sound of glass stops and the man can feel the woman’s eyes on him.  Weighing down on him, judging him, burning him�"she suspects!  He shifts his eyes to the neat rows of mail boxes lined up against the opposite wall.

“If you want yer mail you’ll have to wait so Ah can clean up the glass.  It’s dangerous now so don’t walk in yet.”  The tinkling picks up again and the man heaves an inward sigh.  She keeps talking about how she has already called the deputy, and that she will call the newspaper too so “ev’rybody” can read about how the “damned kids” keep vandalizing the post office.  And don’t they know it’s a “fed’ral offense” those kids?  Must know.  Cause they don’t go in.

The man listens quietly nodding now and again waiting patiently for the woman to make everything safe before carefully stepping up to his box to collect his mail.

Author's Note

I'm actually still working on this piece, but I'm a little stumped as to where to go with it.

Update: I made some changes before I had to turn this in along as a part of my fiction portfolio. There's a bit of extra dialogue that I'm playing around with between the man and his inner self. Trying to decide whether it will mess up the flow or be a nice addition.

Comments and suggestions are always appreciated :)

Reviews

[Celeste]

I enjoyed both the dialogue and the imagery in this short piece. There is a great deal of suspense here, which I think is trying to break out, but is begging for a little more help from you (e.g. it needs a tiny bit more drama and dynamics in the sentence structure of the beginning sentences). Naturally, I don't mean Purple Prose, but perhaps changing the beginning sentences to more compound sentences and other verb choices. You might like to try replacing some verbs with others from this list: http://www.cvisual.com/film-techniques/writer-action-verb-list.pdf

[Vicki L.]

Thanks for taking the time to read :) I really appreciate the list, Celeste.

[Alex Antony Anderson]

a great beginning to a story.....please keep on adding to it....the beginning and the end are very catchy