I compulsively wrote a short story. This is a play on imagination and the power conveyed by not using words that describe feelings, only playing on what the normal eye sees and the physical environment. Tell me what you think of the story (: Its my first proper short story.

The popcorn had a strange taste in his mouth. Metallic. It reminded him of a visit to the dentist. Rising slightly from his seat to pull his pants around so the warmer side where he sat on could warm his thighs for a while, before he would have to turn them around again when the lights blinked. Another 1 minute, he muttered under his breath. 59 seconds. 58 seconds. 57… 56 … 54… 51…


He brought his knees to his chest, folding himself into half, then a third, a quarter, until only his eyes peeked out from the shell, and it was a borrowed one. He made a note to himself, in case he soiled it.


Rita was asleep when Tom came in, at least she was convincingly so, Jim thought, for why did Tom go over to her and placed his mouth over her mouth, then pulled out a note and said, “I’m sorry Rita, I have to go.”? But Jim was sure Rita wouldn’t stir, not until the last moment when the door made a screeching sound under Tom’s grip, Rita was a shrewd woman, he thought. But meanwhile, he frustrated over the small paint blot on the wall behind Rita, bright red. It easily stood out from the white background.


He looked around him, he was annoyed that no one saw it, he was sure the fat woman beside him didn’t, her eyes were all on Tom, as he peeled the tight white shirt off his body.


The lights blinked, for the 52nd time for 52 minutes, Jim wiped his hands on his pants, as he did his routine…


Tom staggered across the room and the lights flickered before it went off. A matchstick was lit and smoke was everywhere. Jim saw the note Tom had meant to give to Rita burn, slowly being consumed under the fire. Tom had nice eyes, Jim thought, nice, dreamy eyes… it reminded him of sleep.


A streak of fire flew across the room, and landed on the carpet, Jim thought he could smell smoke, when Tom said, “Easy there.” Rita shrieked and Tom pressed a pillow over her. The room was on fire, Rita had no clothes on, she must be cold, Jim thought. He was.


Tom eased his pants off, his eyes looked dangerous with the fire in it, just contained within the liquid black pupils. The lights blinked for the 53rd time, Jim passed his hands over his eyes and eased his pants around, it was wet.


Rita was struggling, Jim couldn’t see her face, he wondered how she looked like, without the pillow over her head. She had nice legs, Jim thought, though they moved around too much for him to see clearly. It was the only Rita he could see though, Tom was all over her. He wanted Tom to go away.


Tom stood up, the fire was burning nicely, and in the background, the all too familiar red spot, he wanted it to go away, go away, he wanted to lift up the pillow, and see Rita’s face, to place his mouth over hers and pull out a note while he burnt it away.


The lights blinked for the 54th time, Jim pulled his pants over to the dry side, he was hot, from the fire, from the smoke, he was dying from the heat, the necktie was hurting, 1 more minute. 59 seconds. 58 seconds. 57… 56 … 54 … 51 …


Tom went over to his pants and took out a penknife. He lifted the pillow over Rita and what nice eyes those would be if she had opened them, Jim thought. Tom climbed over her lifeless body and placed his mouth over hers.


Soon, more red paint blots would join in.

 Jim reached into the tub, the popcorn had a strange taste in his mouth. Metallic.