Young Writers Society

Just another pilot. I call it a pilot because every time I write something it normally doesn't last past the first session. Hopefully this one will. I have a direction for it and everything, trust me! Hint: The end isn't what you think. Open for as many suggestions as you can think of. Enjoy.

Zero, he named himself, as he sat in the bubble of light from the lamp, separating him from the darkness of the apartment. The never-ending tick tock of the clock on the table next to him, along with the arrogant glow of the knife in his hand, was scratching at his resolve with the short stabs of the second hand.
Tick.
Every tick is a defeat.
Tock.
Every tock asks for a rematch.
Tick.
Tock.
Indecision never killed anyone. It didn't do much for life either.
The apartment was filled with a new kind of darkness. It was hollow; emotionless. Normally the dark has feelings flowing through its ethereal body, but not tonight. It didn't care if there would be a suicide tonight, but then again, no one did. Maybe it was just jaded from all those long nights. The man on the couch would kill for that kind of apathy.
Tick.
I am Zero. No value. No worth. Nil.
Tock.
No one ever made it to 10 without a Zero.
Tick.
Either way, I'll never find a 1.
Tock.
Then someone out there will never find their Zero.
He ran the blade softly across the skin on his wrist, following one of the blue lines that led to his hand. Its down the street, not across the road. The knife was indeed arrogant. It could take life away and not be blamed or retaliated against. The perfect murder only exists for the weapons involved. Zero put it on the table in front of him, to see if things looked the same without it in his hand. They didn't.
The clock kept talking.
Tick.
I'm still alone and worthless. Twenty three years and nothing to show for it. No one to love. No one to love me. A dead end job and my only friends are made of glass and wear labels that say 'Smirnoff', but even they aren't with me tonight. I need to do this last thing without their help.
Tock.
So it ends here? Alone in your apartment with a knife in your hand and your last words are a line in your arm? You deserve better than that. You deserve one last shot at making life something decent. Yes, decent. Aim for decent if nothing else. Hell, if nothing else, do it to spite these voices in your head. Spite the indecision by showing that you only need one voice in your head, but take the pessimist along for the ride, and spite him too! There is something out there for you!
Tick.
Prove it.
Tock.
I don't have to.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock. The ultimate rematch.
Then this ends here.
He picked up the knife from the table, and reached over to turn off the lamp. With one sharp motion he put an end to the indecision, and fell back into the chair he was sitting on. Then there was silence, and the last time darkness ever saw the man on the couch it knew so well.

I didn't read it, at least not yet, but I love the title. Period.

That was...well, I don't say great only because it sounds too bright. But I very much enjoyed reading it. Inner debate and curt sentences kept my attention throughout; and not only that, but in such a short piece I became uncommonly fond of "Zero". He seemed real.

...I can only regret he didn't keep going... But then, it was his defining moment to despair.

I don't have aught else useful to say. Except I can see why you thought the title was awkward (it got my attention though). Honestly, the back-and-forth banter there with the clock intermingled was perfect for the tone.

read it now. Hey, I liked it. Continue it, definitely. Love clocks in stories. I used them in one of mine, and now I want to use them in everything. They just make for such awesome timing.

Sounds like a pretty short story to me. I'm worried because I didn't see anything to make the story different from any of the 89 million suicide stories out there.

Grif, didn't you even read his intro? It said the end isn't what you think. I read that as the man didn't kill himself.

Anyway, Inertia, I first looked at this because the title made me laugh. I rarely have time to look over pieces anymore, and when I do I tend to look at ones by authors I've previously critiqued.

However, your title caught my attention. And once I started the story, I was hooked.

Normally I hate suicidal stories - they hit a little too close to home at times. But this, this was... wow. The ticking of the clock was absolutely brilliant, with every tick a defeat and every tock a rematch. Wonderful wonderful wonderful.

This story definitely has potential! I'd love to read more to see where the story goes from here. I'm intrigued!

I really like this piece even though a few things confused me a bit. What actually happened at the end? Either I'm being blonde or your being a bit vague. (probably the former)
Also the 'ticks' and the 'tocks' are ordered oddly so you can't tell whether what he is thinking is relating to the 'tick' or the 'tock'.
If you disagree with this feel free to ignore it as my brain appears to be shutting down for the night and this is just me blabbering on...

P.S I like your style of writing. It's unusual.

If anyone can name where the title came from and complete the rest of the line, I'll officially be their biggest fan.
Anyway, thanks for all the comments. I guess I should post the next part, seeing as it isn't clear yet about what happened at the end. Well, here it is. Enjoy.

I'm sorry I'm writing in such small imstallments, but I'm rather short for time these days and this one is mainly just to make a few things clear regarding the first part.

The sun had risen into the dull grey sky long before anything in the apartment moved. The place was exactly as it had been the night before; scarcely furnished and rather empty, except for the faded green armchair with bandaids of duct tape covering its wounds, the coffee table in front of it and a few empty vodka bottles scattered about the floor. There was also the motionless figure on the chair, awkwardly propped between one of the large arms and the back. There had been a death here last night.
Sunrise and silence greeted Zero as he found his way from a monotonous dream into the last place in the universe he wanted to be. His prison cell that cost $150 a month in rent. Not for much longer; escape was now a clear goal.
Leaning forward in the chair, he put his head in his hands for what felt like hours. "What is the time anyway?" he said as he removed his weary head from his hands and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the clock and then remembered the events of the night before in full.
The clock was his enemy for many reasons. A record of wasted time, a two-note song of tick-tock-tick-tock that Zero profected his indecision into, and it was simply just annoying. Now it was easier to live with.
It lay on its back, facing upwards on the coffee table, like casualty in a living room war. In Zero's frustration the night before, he had plunged the knife that was to be his end into the face of his inanimate enemy. It had taken only one swift stab and the clock was silent.
No ticking.
No tocking.
No defeats.
No rematches.
He tried pulling the knife out, but his misdirected anger had been so great last night that the knife had gone through to the table below and out beneath it. "Fuck it then." Time wasn't any part of Zero's new plan.

...I'm still involved - I like it. But it seemed...maybe a little rushed? It might just be the format. Double-space between paragraphs would help.

Oh well. All I have to say.

i only read the title. Hahaha. Good work