Elevator

I know my writing's a bit off and I wanted some crits so I could maybe start submitting work for competitions and things? This is a short story I just finished going through, if you notice ANYTHING that needs worked over I really appreciate it! (Although it would be awesome if you were specific - rather than just saying I need to show, don't tell, could you maybe glance through and see where I've gone wrong the most?

I hope I don't sound pushy - if you have any time to leave any comments though it's MUCH appreciated! Thank you all so much!

EDIT (7/10/12): Looked at the reviews again and edited once more, but I'm sure there's still some mistakes or sentences that can be worded better, which, if you have the time, I'm sure you can find and I'd be extremely grateful if you could point them out to me in a review or comment! Also I may remove this if I'm lucky enough to get the chance to submit it to anything, depending on rules, etc. But thank you for reading/reviewing/commenting anyway!



All was a murmur within carpeted halls bathed in the comforting glow of electric lights. Not that there was a soul to be seen loitering under them; although the undertones of lavish lives seeped from beneath doors and intruded upon the muffled length of waiting objects. Bells waiting to be ringed, doors waiting to be opened, floors waiting to be tread on. And of them all, the grilled doors and mirrored walls waited most patiently. For whom, they could not say; and if they could speak, they would not know. It was the one in the corner’s job to know, not theirs.

So they waited, and the two they were waiting for fell out of Apartment Twenty-Three’s door. They dawdled past doorbells and doors, and passed over cream carpeted floors and cream papered walls; a young man, all slicked back hair in a dark navy three piece with female counterpart clinging to his arm. Her golden hair, cropped and flicked to the side at the front, rested on his shoulder and her smiles were free and easy. Pale fabric swirled and sighed around her, falling just above her knees, as matching white shoes daintily kept pace with her escort. Sweet laughter sang in the gaps of his quiet, drawled speech directed into her ear; his cheek brushed her faked curls.

“Ground floor, if you will,” the gentlemen commented casually, throwing a sideward glance at the corner as an after-thought. Grilled doors scraped shut and Apartment Twenty-Three was soon lurching further and further away.

“Oh, Orson, what a dull affair,” the woman sighed, unlinking her arm and whirling around to face him. “James never has any good champagne nowadays.” Her hands reached forward to brush his own hanging by his side.

“And why’s that, sweetie?” Orson leant into her, nose brushing her hair and hand floating upwards to stroke the dainty white ribbon wrapped around her temples. A smile blossomed at his touch.

“Why ask me? Am I such a gossip?” she laughed again.

“Of course not, hon’.” Orson chuckled, pressing his lips to her crown. “Everyone knows Maria’s the gossip.”

A snort . “Well, James is a little Declaration of Independence, ain’t he?” Suddenly the floor juddered to a halt and the grilled doors slid open. “Wife was a bit of a gold digger, so she up and left with half of his bank and the soles of his shoes.”

“Dry up!” Orson’s eyes twitched across her face from above.

“It’s true! Maria was telling me all about it. Didn’t you notice how quiet he was?” Polished fingernails moved to fiddle with a waistcoat button.

“Well, I guess…” Orson’s thumb absently stroked sunkissed hair. “But why on earth would he throw a party after getting divorced?”

“Oh, it happened months ago, he’s well over it. By hosting a few, I suppose he thinks he can snap up another wife. They’re practically a form of currency round abouts this neighbourhood.” Two fingers paused, mid-way through examining an enamel button. And she looked up at him again, a sly smile rounding her cheeks; different from the ones she threw around over champagne and cocktails. “But his cash wasn’t the only reason she left.” The doors snapped shut.

“Oh?” Orson shifted, eyes only half holding her gaze as they lurched downwards again.

“He had a little something going on the side.” The smile widened, relishing the gossip as she relived it. “He was always a little loner, Joanne always turned up to parties without him. Maria always asked after James but it was always the same – he’s sick, he’s visiting family, work called. Baloney, all baloney, every word! Who goes to that many parties without your own husband?”

Orson’s throat tightened as he swallowed. His hand fell as he chuckled out an agreement.

“So Maria only thought it was strange at the time – her and Joanne were like sisters once – but James even had the nerve to bring the little loo-loo to Jason’s anniversary celebration!” She tittered. “Jason is my second cousin, it was a few weeks before we met. Real bug eyed Betty, too – looked like she had a bag of flour rubbed onto her face. I thought she was his sister but Maria walked in on them when she went exploring.” Her words caught suddenly, as if unsure if they wanted to be spoken. Her eyes fell once again to his chest, his stomach, undoing and redoing the same button over and over for a moment. However, a hint of the wicked smile still played on her lips. “I bet you anything that as soon as Joanne cleared him she flew the coop.” she concluded, voice soft and husky.

Orson’s eyes studied her hair again. “Pathetic,” he commented quietly, then cleared his throat again as if just remembering an important detail or date and fiddled in a pocket, shifting his weight away from her.

His company hesitated, searching his face before reaching up to cup his cheek to her lips. He paused, hand still stuck in his pocket, faltering for a moment before holding it there and circling his thumb over her soft skin. The world jerked to a halt, swaying them together for half a second.

Doors opened, fully expecting light but receiving none. A vast outline was the blockade, standing with middle thrust out and piggy hands still clutching feverishly to a half empty cherry bottle. Pinstripes curved around a massive middle and a cigar dangled from blown out cheeks. As he waddled in, telling the corner rather too loudly, “Fifth floor, and don’t stop, son,”, his piggy eyes observed the pair before him. A bare, wrinkled brow folded in on itself and his eyes all but disappeared as reddened cheeks raised into a huge grin.

“Orson, old boy!” he roared, as if calling from the other side of a hallway, and clapped a massive hand onto the offender’s shoulder. “My goodness, it’s been months!”

The room began to descend again.

It took Orson a few moments to finish staring at him. “Charles.” He cleared his throat. “So… good to see you.”

“Oh, and this must be your sister…” Charles turned, seeming to wobble as he looked the rather alarmed girl up and down. “You dog,” he commented, eyes not moving, “You always promised to show her to me.”

Blue eyes stared back blankly at the intruder, remaining silent. Wine lips hung slightly ajar, as if forming a response before pursing shut and turning towards Orson again.

The old man chuckled, mouth open and wheezing as he looked between the two helplessly. “You hung up yet, then?” he asked, trying to pull his face into a winning smile at Orson’s partner.

“She’s not my sister,” Orson finally offered, almost snapping out of a trance.

Charles brought his hand up to rub at his receding hairline, cheeks puffed out and brow creased. He remained that way for a while, throat wheezing out the beginning of a few already dead questions and chest heaving to try and formulate them. “Christine?” he finally asked incredulously, eyes squinting at her. “Good grief, is that really you?” And suddenly he was roaring with laughter, his already uncomfortably tight suit threatening to burst around the middle. “Lord bless us all, I really must have drunk too much this time!” He subsided into strained wheezes, placing the hand clutching the cherry over his bouncing stomach. The screech of iron bars being pulled back brought him to his senses and he raised a hand to his eyes, wiping away tears. Completely oblivious to the look of horror blue eyes were throwing at him.

“Christine,” he chuckled again and sighed. “Well, Orson; ma’am.” His balding head bobbed as stumped legs teetered towards the light to block it out again. “I’ll try and call up soon, eh? Find that ruddy sister of yours! Ha!” Lurching out into the rows of doors with one final exclamation of “Christine!”. The doors shut and silence reigned like a usurper.

Orson looked at his shoes. “Alice…”

“How long?”

The words were ice, knives, an armoury of cold that halted him dead. Nothing he could offer would suffice so he remained as silent as the boy in the corner.

“How long?” Her voice raised, panicked, desperate.

His eyes lifted, meeting hers and fell again in hopelessness. “Alice,” he repeated, raising a hand to her shoulder but it was slapped away instantly. She turned, fingers pressing into the hollows of her eyes.

“Stop,” she whispered, raising her head to the corner. The world ceased sinking, faltering to a pause.

Alice turned to Orson, and for a moment seemed just as frozen as her eyes. Her dress was snow, the tiny beads clinging to it ice and her eyes as cold and sharp as either. And she stormed away, a flurry of flashing beads and fabric before iron bars closed to separate the pair.

Orson stood, dumbstruck and alone. He looked ahead, although he did not see. All he had was the memory of her perfume on his sleeve.

A hand slid into his black pocket. Slowly, he pulled out a small, plain, golden ring; brightly polished inside and out. It slipped onto his left ring finger easily.

The world stopped for the last time, and the doors opened into another world of black tiles, of polished glass, of golden light. Orson started forward and paused, then let his hand drift to his pocket again. From his wallet he passed a dollar note into the boy’s palm, did not hear his thanks and stepped out of the prison.

He sifted through the leather again without reason, searching among notes and slips. He did not notice passing through the last drain of people out into the cold darkness and the stench of the city; what he did notice what that his fingers brushed something alien. Solid, not coins or cash, wrapped in heavy paper.

As he lifted it, a key dropped into his palm. Unscrumpling the paper made his heart shatter.

“I know. Goodbye. -C.”