Something serial this way comes

I've always enjoyed writing, and on numerous occasions, have attempted to write either short stories or books. Needless to say, those kinds of projects have failed miserably, usually because I lose interest in a story after 1500 words or so. Because of this, and due to the fact that I really want to start and finish either a short story or a small book, I am going to try something interesting. Every Tuesday, instead of posting some strange thought here, I am going to post an installment in a sort of serial novel.

Now, this could work out wonderfully or fail miserably, but I really want to try it. I have no idea where the story is going to go, nor what it is going to be about, and I am most definitely not going to sit around and think about what to write for the next week. (Oh, and it won't have a title yet either.) Instead, I am just going to sit down for about thirty minutes every Tuesday (or Wednesday, depending on the week) and write a portion of a story. So, without any more procrastinating on my part, here is the first installment in my serial novel.

Serial Novel, Part I, 1/30/07

The room in which he found himself was not normal by any standard of measurement. Of first note, the ceiling looked similar to the waves of corrugated cardboard, and seemed as if, at any moment, it would allow the pounding rain outside to come crashing through. The walls, painted an awful shade of mustard, didn't come together in any pattern at all. Corners could be found every few feet and, instead of the customary four, this room consisted of at least fifteen or twenty of these intersections. Tables and chairs were scattered around the floor with no apparent regularity, and judging by the amount of dust making its home on their flatter surfaces, no one had set foot inside the room for years.

Having expected a much more lively scene than the one he now found himself a part of, Tom took a moment to collect his thoughts. Looking around the oddly designed room, he trained his eyes on a small end table cluttered with various dust-covered photographs, and began to slowly make his way towards it. With every step, a newly formed dust cloud grew larger until, half-way to the table, Tom had to pause and take a deep breath from his inhaler. His newly diagnosed asthma was minor, but proved a nuisance on several occasions.

After regaining his normal breathing pattern, Tom continued to the table and began to brush off the photographs. Careful not to inhale too much, he waited for the dust to again settle before taking a closer look at the, now he counted, eleven pictures. The first two didn't tell him anything, but the third was astounding enough to produce a sudden gasp in the man.

In the picture Tom now held in his slightly trembling hands, there was a little girl of no more than ten years old smiling. She sat on a tire swing while a man stood behind her in the shadow of an enormous oak tree. There were piles of leaves in the background, and the visible branch of the oak tree was completely bare. The very beginning of winter.

A tear formed in Tom's eye as he folded up, and placed into his overcoat pocket, the picture of his daughter.